The Fastest Way to Fall(53)

“There’s no ‘can’t’ in my gym. You ready?”

She fixed me with a look that would melt ice, shaking her head, but ticked up her speed, her breath coming fast. “Hate you,” she panted.

How has “I hate you” become my favorite thing to hear? I had fantasies I wasn’t proud of that included her moaning that.

No one looks good if they’re putting in a lot of effort on an elliptical machine—it’s intense—but I couldn’t stop staring at Britta. I was so damn proud of her. She’d tell me she hated me again along the way but give me the biggest, most joyful smile when she finished. No one had ever smiled at me in that way, like I was the highest point in her day. We trained a few mornings a week and were now running four or five days a week. It had felt natural when we started hanging out in the evenings, too, sitting on the couch and watching TV with the citrus smell of her hair filling my nostrils. She still used the app and logged her progress, but I was kidding myself if I thought this time spent together, even in the gym, was just an extension of coaching. Every day I thought about bringing it up, of severing the FitMi connection with her, but then we’d end up at the gym or on the trail. She’d tell me she hated me and then hit a personal best, and I liked being part of her personal bests.

Around us, the whir of machines and the clank of weights was a symphony. “Great job. Thirty more seconds.” I always knew what needed to happen at the gym. Not so much with my mom and her mood swings, or in the office, or even with what was going on in my head and my heart about Britta. In the gym, though, I knew what to do.

Her breath came fast, her ponytail whipping behind her.

“Ten seconds. You got this. Push, Britt.” She didn’t tell me she hated me, but that was only because she didn’t have enough breath. I read it on her face, but she tapped a reserve of energy and dug in, her speed jumping a notch. Her chest heaved under her sports bra. Okay, a few things look good on an elliptical. “Three . . . two . . . one. Back down to fifty percent for thirty seconds, then we’ll cool down. That was awesome, Britt.”

She slowed, catching her breath while still moving at a good clip on the machine. She huffed, grabbing for her water.

“Nice work,” I said, adjusting the speed.

There it was. Her quick, breathless smile.

None of the distractions in the gym—the smells of sweat and cleanser, the techno music from the aerobics classes down the hall, or the macho jostling for dominance from the weight lifters—could pull my attention from her.

But the shared moment was interrupted by the machine beeping. I glanced anywhere but at her as I tried to regain my composure.

“Wes!” Four strong arms wrapped around me, and I stumbled backward at the impact of the group hug from Felicia and Naya.

“Whoa,” I said, stepping back. Felicia had enrolled in one of the first classes I led after graduating, and she’d bring Naya along sometimes. They were the friends I’d first thought of when Britta and I talked about coaching friends. This had been different for a long time, though. “What are you doing here? Don’t they have gyms in the suburbs?”

“My friend Jill started teaching a spin class, and I promised we’d come check it out.” Naya turned to Britta, who was finishing up on the elliptical. “Is he making you do interval training? I hated when he made us do that.”

Britta stepped off the machine. “It’s the worst.”

“You owe me an RSVP.” Naya raised her fists and playfully punched me the way I’d taught her and Felicia to box. Her engagement ring glinted under the light. The thing probably counted as weight lifting.

Felicia punched my arm. “Of course you’re coming, Wes.”

“Two against one. Not fair,” I said, deflecting their jabs. “I’ll be there. Sorry, I’ll mail it tomorrow.”

“And you’re—” Felicia tried to hit me again, but I blocked her. “Bringing a date?”

I ignored her question. “You’re rusty.”

“My teacher abandoned me to start a—”

I cut her off, realizing she was about to out me and I wasn’t sure how to manage the fallout. “Yeah, yeah. Excuses. I’ll let you know, Naya. We’re in the middle of working out, though. Catch you later?”

They took the hint and left after quick hugs and wishes of good luck to Britta.

“They seem cool,” Britta commented as she settled into the seat of the chest press machine and I adjusted the weight.

“They are. Naya’s getting married next month.”

“I pieced that together,” she said with a grin, resting her arms on the bars and pushing forward with measured speed. “Excited?”

“Sure, I guess.” I held up a hand and circumvented her question. “Pause when your arms get to about ninety degrees.” I reached forward, my hands falling on her shoulders to help her adjust her position. The touch was innocent and quick, something I’d done for clients—for her, even—hundreds of times, but as she looked up at me through her thick lashes, I had a flash of what it would be like to be on top of her and have her look at me like that, and I pulled back too quickly. “There you go. Start up again.”

Her cheeks colored, and she continued her reps. “So, who will you take to the wedding?”