Page 47 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
She lets the statement hang for a moment, but before I can determine whether that was a threat, she continues. “Someone who can’t pass a crooked picture frame without straightening it isn’t going to take kindly to the sad little stash of T-shirts and protein powders that calls itself a pro shop.Youhave ideas for Firehouse.”
“I have a whole list of ideas,” I say. “And when I shared it with Ian, he shot down every item.Firmly.No touch-up paint, keep the lost and found in a crumbling cardboard box, hard pass on overhauling the pro shop. He made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested.”
“But you still went in with a replacement for the lost and found,” Helen reminds me.
“That was… different,” I say, not missing when Babs arches a brow at the brief pause. “I had an extra basket. When did you decide to ambush me, anyway?” I ask, hoping to sideline any further inquiry.
“We’ve been entertaining the idea since you arrived,” Babs replies.
“And after Helen mentioned yesterday that you replaced the box,” Tom says, “the timing felt right.”
“That the sort of thing that counts as news in the group chat?” I ask, aiming my annoyance at Helen. She shrugs.
“I knew that y’all would be up early,” Babs continues. “So I messaged Grant after five a.m. wrapped.”
“You woke me up,” Grant complains from his spot in the low-slung lawn chair.
“And I apologized for that.” Babs turns her attention to me, expression imploring, but serious. “This is our community, Ellie. Firehouse matters to us.”
“Probably saved my life,” Tom adds, and I recall what the guys said about his health when the gym first opened. It’s enough to soften me on their scheming. I cast another glance at Helen, thinking about what she’d had to say about what Firehouse meant to her. She offers a little smile, like she’s read my mind.
From the far end of the couch, Russ of the white tube socks hefts a sigh. “It’s hard to see something you care about hovering on the brink of greatness, when one nudge could level it up.”
The statement hooks me as if it were a physical thing. He perfectly articulated how I’ve been feeling. It’s like Babs’s earlier comment: The gym is a beautiful painting in a crooked frame in desperate need of straightening. And dusting. And some Windex.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, adding, “Purely out of curiosity,” as the energy in the room perks up. Best to temper expectations.
“Finances,” Tom blurts. “Ian got a settlement after his injury—you know about the injury, right? His knee at the competition?”He grimaces, and raises his hands, making the now-familiar gesture to mime the accident. “The settlement is how he got the building, paid for the buildout, remodeled upstairs. Now, he didn’t spendeverything—”
I shoot him a look, and he scowls.
“The amount of that settlement is public knowledge,” he says. “And it’s easy to find a sale listing. As for the remodel, he had to file design permits with the city—”
“Tom, you need a hobby,” I say.
“Foam art is not enough,” he says, glumly. “But Ian! He investednothing. And I don’t doubt that there are recurring payments for things he isn’t aware of. Lord, people never keep track of what they’re being auto-billed for.”
Tom’s sigh is so paternal, it’s endearing. “I was an accountant. I’ve offered my services, but no! Won’t let me touch it. Have you seen the billing system?” He shakes his head. “Total mess. Ian’s doing it all on his own, and it’s not good.”
“How and why have you seen what Ian uses for billing?” I ask.
“Professional curiosity!” he says, as though it would have been a betrayal of his vocation not to have pursued the information. “And I got Grant to give me the login to the computer up front a while back.” He shrugs, conveying at least some guilt at the invasion. “I told him I needed to check my email.”
Grant straightens. “Wait, what?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’m changing that password the moment I go in today.
“Ian jumped into gym ownership totally blind,” Tom continues. “He’d been coaching since his injury. Worked for his mentor, the fellow who trained him, for years. This guy, Denny,was close to retiring, and Ian figured he’d pass the business on to him—”
“Passed Ian over,” Babs interjects with scandalized relish. “Sold it to another trainer.”
I nod along, the information lining up with what the guys told me. “Do we know why?”
The room erupts in a collective “No!” but a number of eyes turn to Grant, who shrinks back into his cramped seat.
“We’ve been trying to figure it out since day one,” says Maggie. “I was a member there. It was a great facility. Not too different from Firehouse, but they did more community activities. In-house competitions and meets, and there was a bake-off at one point…” She shrugs. “Little things. But they added up.”
“All that wasn’t enough to keep you there after Ian left?” I ask.
