Page 88 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
He nods, moving to the cubbies, inspecting the shelves.
“Everything is arranged by size and color, biggest on the bottom, working up to extra smalls.” I gesture to the rightmost column of shelves. “This design is the one we have the most of. Since you didn’t nix the suggestion to comp shirts to new members and visitors, I figured we’d use these. It’s a good strategy,” I say, hoping to reinforce the idea, in case he had simply overlooked the note. “People love free stuff.”
“Sure,” he says, attention traveling along the shelves of newly organized protein powders and supplements to the right-hand wall of the shop. I try to read his body language, but this vantage point gives me nothing but his splendid rear view. He pauses in front of the wall, now adorned with rows of glittering medals and trophies: Ian Hammond’s timeline of glory. “So this is where those photos and articles ended up.”
“Jacob’s a photographer,” I say. “He mounts and frames his own work, and he took on all the magazine and newspaper articles the ladies and I culled through.”
He moves to the corner, where the timeline kicks off with a plaque with a yellow duck mounted to it. “The Rubber Ducky Award from high school was worthy of inclusion?”
“It speaks to your lifelong commitment to fitness.” I point to the group photo above the plaque, where a teenaged Ian stands a full head above the others on his track team.
“That’s when I started lifting,” he says. “Coach Smitty taught shop, knewnothingabout track; had gotten stuck with it for some reason, probably budget cuts. But he committed. When he decided to incorporate a weight training element my junior year, I threw myself into it.” He lets out a dry laugh. “Anything to keep myself out of the house. Sick mom, pain-in-the-ass little brother…”
Panic grips my stomach, but he smiles, and the tension releases. “By the next fall, I was so big, the football coach tried to recruit me. I stuck with track and helped the underclassmen in the weight room.” He taps the bill of the duck. “At the end-of-season banquet, I received this as a thank-you.”
We continue to move to the right, tracking his college years and professional career, including a discreet five-by-seven ofThe Roar.He arches a brow, pausing in front of the infamous shot.
“You didn’t veto it,” I remind him. “That was major! An international publication.”
He chuckles, sliding his hand from my waist to give my tush a squeeze. “I like that you like it.”
About two-thirds down, it switches from his time as an athlete to his coaching, though we elected not to mention the accidentor the other gym. Instead, it starts with an article in a community paper about our grand opening. It’s an entertaining read, half informative, half grumbling about the continued “erosion” of the neighborhood’s historic properties, penned by Firehouse’s favorite espresso-pulling diabetic. Tom had been mortified, which only made Babs more insistent that it went up.
I tap a pair of laminated plaques. “Your Best of Austin awards.”
“When did the second one come in?”
“Last week. Surprise! I hid it.”
“Of course you did,” he says, but there’s a smile in it. He nods to the empty wall space a few feet shy of where the shop transitions into the lounge. “Blank?”
“Intentionally. The Coup hasthoughts. We could do a member of the month, write a special workout for them and a little Q&A to post here, or put up a calendar with member birthdays, mark any future community events you might plan…”
“You mean, eventsyoumight plan?”
“Events I’m already planning.” I sidestep to the last portion of the makeover. “And here are the testimonials.”
This is the project I left in the care of Babs and Helen. As I explain to Ian, I sent an email to members, asking if they were up for a survey, then passed their info along to the ladies, who handled the interviews and compiled the responses. I only intervened to forbid any glitter and to shoot down Babs’s original plan, which was to arrange them on hot-pink poster board. She probably buys it in bulk.
“This is alot,” he says.
I nod. The project received almost 100 percent member participation, and their responses were above and beyond what I’d anticipated. As hard as it had been to hand the project over, I’mglad I did; I had to stop reading after about five of them. It was too much. Too open, too vulnerable, too… compelling. In the eyes of this community, Ian is everything from drill sergeant to life coach to personal savior.
My heart twists. Someone who deserves more than what life with me could mean.
I tap the profile photo beside Helen’s submission. “That one almost made me cry.”
“She had a lot of shit to work through when she first came in. And would be the first to admit that she still does.” He steps closer to read. His brows twitch in surprise. “Wow.”
His eyes shift to a neighboring submission, moving side to side as he reads. He reads another. And another. I watch as the surprise shifts to wonder, then something more. Realization.
He blinks rapidly, taking a step back, as though suddenly appreciating the scope of what’s in front of him. “It’s funny,” he says, voice distant. “In this job, success is obvious. Clients set goals; you work together to plan a path to achieve them. In time, they’re faster, stronger, leaner.” His eyes are still on the display as he says, “But you don’t know what it means to them.”
I slide my hand up his back to his shoulder, resting my head against his arm. “People value what happens here. Whatyoudo here.”
His arm comes around me, and I turn toward him. When I look into his face, I have to grip him more tightly. He’s never been able to conceal anything, not with those exceptional eyes. And right now, the emotion shining through them is unwinding that twist in my heart, imploring me to give in to the greedy impulse to keep him, no matter what it might cost him.
“Thank you for caring,” he says. “Caring enough to do all of this.”
