Page 68 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
I continue to stare at him, unwilling to give in to the temptation of relief.
“The dizziness you described was probably because you didn’t prep for your lift the right way. You gotta—” He pauses, sucks in an exaggerated breath, and braces, contracting his abdominals enough that he curls forward slightly. So,somuch shifting among the muscles. “When you initiate a lift that heavy, you have to set yourself up. Which I did make a point of saying when I modeled it.”
I frown, thinking back; nope. Nothing buton-nom-noms. “I guess you did?” The larger meaning behind what he’s telling me sinks in, and my fear is replaced by a flicker of hope. “So, you think that was it? Just my breathing?”
“As an actual expert, that is my expert opinion.” He tips his head toward the gym. “Let’s find out.”
I frown. “What—now?”
“Your bar is still out there. C’mon.” He reaches out a hand, the pink calluses stark against the lines of chalk still dusting his palm.
I stare at his offered hand. I’m afraid of trying and having the dizziness overtake me again. Of having it happen in front of Ian, when I can’t deny the severity of the situation, and inevitably break down and tell him what’s actually going on.
But… what if itdoesn’thappen?
“Humor me,” he says.
I roll my eyes, but the out is a kindness. I take his hand, letting him pull me into the hallway, and he surprises me by releasing my hand to place his on my shoulder as we walk to the gym floor.
My bar sits alone in the corner of the room, near the plyo boxes. Everyone else has cleared out. I wonder if he shooed away any stragglers for my benefit.
“You switched the plates,” I say, registering that the nubbly rubber plates with the weight in pounds have been replaced with the smooth kilogram plates I only ever see the more hardcore athletes use. I don’t even know how many kilos are on the bar, not that I’d able to convert it anyway. It’s what, 2.3 pounds to a kilo? Or… something?
“I don’t want you thinking about the weight right now. It’ll get you too in your head.” He brushes his thumb over my shoulder, which does more to wave away my thoughts about metric conversions than logic ever could.
“You said I’m supposed to stay aware of the weight at all times.”
“UnlessI’veset up the bar. Obviously.”
“Obviously,”I snark, but my heart’s not in it. His hand’s still on me.
“Just follow the motions.”
I hesitate, and Ian gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll talk you through it. We’ve got this.” He slides his hand to the center of my back, encouraging me toward the bar, and I step forward. “Get in close, bar over your shoelaces,” he says, using the same instruction as he had in class, and I follow along. “Bend your knees, butt back like you’re trying to find a chair. Good—down more,” he amends, and I adjust. “Look about eighteen inches ahead of your toes. Now, brace, but only lift enough to take the slack out of the bar. You’ll hear it.”
I do, and the barbell clings against the metal ring at the center of each weight plate.
“Nice. Relax,” he says, and I stand. “Shake it out a little.” When I don’t move, he eyes me. “Shake it out,” he repeats, with the lilting reprimand of someone telling a dog to “drop it.”
I screw up my face and shimmy, letting my arms flop.
“Brat.Back to the bar.”
Smirking, I resume my earlier stance, feet shoulder-distance apart, and peer over to make sure the bows of my shoelaces aren’t visible. “All right, I’m good.”
“Now, really brace. Engage your lats. There should be more tension here.” He places a hand at my side, just below the band of my sports bra. I tense at the contact. “Good.” He removes his hand from me, then there’s a touch on my spine. “Try to pinch my finger with your shoulder blades,” he directs. I pull my shoulders back as far as I can, and I feel them graze his finger before he withdraws it.
“Now roll them down—imagine you’re tucking your shoulder blades into your pockets.”
“Weird,” I say, just to feel like I’ve contributed, but I make the adjustment, feeling more muscles engage.
“Breathe”—I do—“brace”—I do—“take out the slack”—that, too—“andgo!”
I feel every muscle engage, pressing the ground away as much as lifting myself to stand. I’m at the top of the lift before I even realize it.
“Good. Bring the bar back to the floor.”
I reverse the steps, and the plates hit the floor with a dull thud.
