“Yeah, I do, actually,” Izzy says.
I may have given Kieran some background before booking this session. It cost more than I could afford, but I can already tell that it’ll be worth it.
“I’ll never beat him in the gym, though. Look at the man,” Izzy says, waving a hand in my direction.
“Oh-ho-ho,” Kieran says, rubbing his hands together. “Just you wait and see.”
Izzy
It’s undeniable: I feel amazing. Kieran insisted that I take at least fifteen minutes in the shower after our session, and now, dried off and dressed in my work uniform, I feel like I’m walking several inches off the ground. I can’t remember when I last exercised really hard—did it always leave me feeling like this? It’s as if someone’s just given me a massage, but like, inside my brain as well as every muscle of my body.
Obviously, when the exercise was happening, it was largely quite horrible. But Kieran assures me that it gets better as you do it more, and the aftereffects are delightful.
Beating Lucas was pretty great, too. Kieran wasn’t wrong—there were things I could do better than Lucas. I was better at the skipping rope skills, and I could sprint faster than him on the running machines. And even when we were doing things that were clearly more his ballpark than mine, Kieran never made it feel like losing. Nor did Lucas, to be fair.
It’s been interesting seeing him here. He’s a different man in this context. Everyone seems to know him—they all come over and hug him, and tell me things like “Couldn’t have moved house without this guy,” or “You know what, when my cat died, Lucas was a hero.” I’d like to say I’m shocked to know that there are people who rely on Lucas, but I’m not, actually—I can imagine he’d be a big help if your cat died, or if you needed to move house. If he wasn’t your arch-nemesis.
The main issue I’ve had this morning is Lucas’s unrelenting muscliness. It’s so unavoidable here. The exposed biceps, the impossibly broad shoulders, the sweat. （Why is it that when men sweat, it’s sexy, but when I sweat, I look like I’ve been crossbred with a tomato?） I’ve never been attracted to big, burly men, and actually, if I look at some of the others in here, it doesn’t do it for me at all. It is a Lucas-specific problem. The worst kind.
The only consolation is the fact that I caught Lucas checking me out, too. I looked up when we were doing the warm-down and found his eyes on me in the mirror, low lidded, appreciative. He turned his head away sharply when he saw me looking. No surprise there. After all, he’s rejected me three times now. Lucas may want me on some level, but he’s got cast-iron control, and his brain’s decided he’s not interested, so that’s that. I mean, my brain has decided the same thing.
But it is quite nice to see that it’s not just me who’s struggling to stick with that decision.
He told me to meet him in the gym lobby, and he’s already speaking to the receptionist when I arrive, buttoned up in his work clothes, looking as pristine as usual. Dangerous biceps safely sheathed.
“Let me pay for the session,” I say, coming to join him.
His face takes on the fixed look it gets when he’s embarrassed. “No need,” he says stiffly.
Hmm. This is clearly a lie. As the receptionist holds the card reader out to him, I lean across and tap my card before Lucas can get his wallet out.
“Izzy,” he snaps, exasperated.
I give him my sweetest smile. “Oops.”
I watch him struggle. He can’t stand the idea of me doing him a favour, but I can see that deep down, he knows he can’t really afford to pay. Something twinges in my chest.
“Thank you,” he says without meeting my eyes. “We are having breakfast next,” he tells me, already heading for the door. He forgets to hold it open for me, so I guess the whole chivalric opening-the-car-door thing isn’t going to be sticking around.
“No, sorry,” I say as I clock where we’re going for breakfast. “Juice? That is not food.”
“Smoothies,” he says, and puts a hand on my elbow to steer me firmly inside. I go hot where he’s touching me, then everywhere else, too. We’ve very rarely touched—the odd glance of a hand here or there, but that’s mostly it. Apart from when we danced. And when I kissed him, obviously.
Ugh. In pops the memory again. Will that ever stop feeling so awful?
“Smoothies are just juices you aren’t sure whether to chew or not.”
Lucas looks slightly horrified at this. “Well, it’s free, because Pedro is a friend. So it’s what you’re getting. He does excellent coffee, too,” he says, nodding to the man behind the bar and gesturing to a seat for me to take. It’s actually the exact spot I would have chosen—one of the shiny pink bar stools that looks out of the front window to the street outside.