The Trainer

by Shey Stahl

  As I stood in front of the mirror I looked at my form. I had no form. My body was slightly hunched forward like a newborn baby afraid to sprawl out. Standing a little straighter I let my arms hang down with the weights and watched myself do the hammer curl Destry showed me.

  It wasn’t so bad, it was worse, and before I knew it I had done three sets like he said. And five minutes later he returned and had me do them all over again while he watched…and judged…and scrutinized…and never said a word. I want to scream at him, in frustration, say something, asshole, just don’t sit there and stare at me as I die a slow death.

  My pathetic excuse for arms and the non-existent muscles inside were screaming in anger at me. If my arms hurt this bad after doing ten minutes of only working out my arms, how in the hell was I going to be able to get through six weeks of this?

  “How much more of this do I have to do?” I asked with irritation, about ten seconds away from crying. I think he knew it too. But it did nothing to stop him from ordering more.

  “You’re not done.” He said, making me do another set.

  He was trying to kill me. I was sure of it.

  There I was glaring at him, wishing a slow, painful death for him and he was acting like I wasn’t even there as he stared at a magazine in front of him with his legs kicked up on a metal chair.

  “This is ridiculous!” I shouted after another set of those stupid hammer curls. I wanted to shove the weight up his ass at that point. Right on up there.

  My words earned me a glare, those bright green eyes didn’t look so bright with the scowl on that gorgeous face. “Did I mention that if you’re not serious, don’t waste my fucking time?”

  I grumbled to myself but continued.

  And the pain continued, in fact, another forty-five minutes of pain until the Muscle Warden released me from this muscle-filled prison of torture.

  When I left that night around nine, I could barely lift my arms and I knew one thing for certain. I hated Destry Stone.

  Holding an opponent's head down and hitting their face with uppercuts or ribs with hooks, rabbit punches, elbowing, forearm in the throat, armbar in a clinch, late punches, low blows, step on an opponent's foot and punch, continuous headbutting and making it look accidental.

  I’m dead. No, by the soreness in my upper body, I was most certainly alive. I wanted to be dead. Make. The. Pain. Stop.

  Thankfully, I could pretend I was dead all day because I had nothing to work on Friday morning. And it was clearly a good thing because there was no way I could type. No way my fingers were working. The pain even extended to my fingernails. How the hell does a person’s fingernails hurt?

  Breathing hurt. I tried to stop breathing. Didn’t work. Even no movement hurt.

  Eventually I tried to roll over. That was so much worse. I had to go pee. Or I could pee in the bed. Who would really judge me at this point? There comes a time in one’s life where peeing on yourself is acceptable. Sure, that was typically past the age of seventy that this was allowed but clearly the pain I was in warranted a few decades of forgiveness.

  After much consideration, I realized that I would have to wash my sheets and I didn’t have the stamina or the energy to go pee so washing urine filled laundry wasn’t happening either.

  “Jared!” I screamed trying to find someone to help me. Maybe he could bring me something to pee in or at least help me to the bathroom.

  Unfortunately for me, he didn’t answer. When I looked at the clock it was already ten that morning. He was at work.

  Fuck.

  I was on my own. Or I could call Catie.

  Yes, excellent plan.

  I texted her, the motion to actually retrieve my phone wasn’t easy and neither was using my fingers. When the text went through, I heard the beep coming from Jared’s room. Figures she stayed over. I hadn’t even noticed her being here last night. But I also didn’t notice much of anything. After the workout I went straight from the shower to my bed and never moved. Woke up in the same spot as I was when I hit the bed.

  What? Catie texted back.

  Come over here.

  I uh, it may take me a while.

  Why?

  To get there.

  Stop bullshitting. I heard your phone beep from the other room. If you’re trying to hide your affair from me, turn your phone on silent.

  She came over after that, all shameful and flushed that I caught her. I really didn’t care if she slept with Jared. Made absolutely no difference to me. Pain was my only friend right now, and fuck if Catie wasn’t going to meet my new bestie since she was screwing my roommate.

  “Why do you look like you’re hung over?” Catie sat down on my bed, assessing me as she put her long blonde hair up in a messy bun. She was dressed in one of Jared’s flannel shirts with the buttons mismatched. I could see her boobs but modesty was never a trait Catie possessed.

  I tried to sit up but then gave up and laid there longer, my heavy arms rested on my stomach. “I worked out last night.”

  “Have you ever worked out?”

  “Nope.” I yawned, even that hurt, and continued staring at the ceiling. “Which is why I look like this.”

  “I see.”

  I’ve known Catie for two years. We met in our journalism class and quickly became friends. She lived in Marysville, worked for the local paper but came into Seattle often to see Jared. I’m sure she came to see me too, but I couldn’t blame her for choosing dick over me. I would if I was her.

  “Wanna get breakfast?”

  “No.” I gave her a look of disgust. “I can’t move. And I can’t eat. I’m dieting.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m meeting an old high school friend in six weeks.” I motioned to myself, tried to at least. “I can’t look like this.”

  “Like what? All curvy and beautiful?”

  “No. Jelly like.”

  “Come on. Seriously. I’m hungry. Let’s go to Urbane Café.”

  I loved Urbane Café and she knew it. She was taunting me. Baiting me with a carrot. Only the carrot was their delicious carb and starch-filled potatoes.

  Just as I was considering going to the Urbane Café, I thought about Silas and my plan, then decided not to go. “I can’t. I’ll just eat eggs here.”

  “They have eggs there.”

  Of course she had to point that out. Catie was beginning to sell me on the idea and she knew it. Problem was, I couldn’t actually move.

  “If we go, you might have to actually carry me there. Do you have one of those strollers?”

  “I could borrow my sister’s. She just had a baby.”

  “They have weight limits on those things.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “Way to kick me when I’m down.”

  “What about a shopping cart?” Catie held back a smile. “That guy on the corner has one. Maybe he’d let us borrow it if we promise to bring him breakfast.”

  “Yeah, I could ask him. Food is always a big motivator for people who live out of shopping carts.”

  I held my arm up, well, as best as I could. “And before we go, I need you to carry me to the bathroom and help me to pee. I need to make room for those eggs and potatoes.”

  Catie had no idea what she was in for this morning.

  I was able to get out of bed but it wasn’t easy. Catie thought it was hilarious. Asshole.

  “So who’s responsible for this?” She asked when I sat down on the toilet. I didn’t care one bit that she was watching me pee.

  “Destry Stone.” I growled when I stood, hunched over and walking like I was, well, sore. We walked into the living room where I contemplated changing out of my sweatpants but then decided that was too much work.

  “Ohhhh… ” Catie raised her eyebrows as she reached for her bag on the kitchen counter. “Tell me more.”

  “Later. Let’s eat first. I don’t want to think about him right now.”

  Catie had a car but it was easier to take the bus around Seattle. On the way there she ask
ed about Silas. Everyone knew who Silas Cade was. But she probably didn’t know I used to date him. Most people you told never believed you anyways. I mean, why would they believe you dated a rock star?

  That’s like saying you once fucked Brad Pitt. Never happened once they’re famous unless you had a video to prove it.

  I had a feeling Jared had told Catie because for one, Jared believed me, and two, I had pictures of us in high school.

  When Catie asked about Silas, I went all giddy on her. “He’s coming to town in six weeks and called the other night to have me meet up with him.”

  “Do you think he wants to get back together?”

  I sighed, and it hurt to do so. “No, probably not but whatever happens, I’m going to make it a night he’s never going to forget. That much I can do.”

  Catie smiled. “Good for you, girl. Rock that boy’s night!”

  “At least someone’s happy for me. Jared’s being all weird about it.”

  “He’s just worried about you. It’s in his nature. He’s always been protective.”

  She got me thinking about Silas again, and a little nervous about the meeting. I did wonder what he wanted, how he ’d react, all that. Would I be nervous? How much had he changed?

  From pictures and articles—and the life he was leading—he had most certainly changed.

  When we got to the restaurant, and seated at the bar with its white walls and clean glass surface, she asked about Destry again.

  “So what’s he like?” She asked while I drooled over her potatoes and bacon.

  “He’s a fucking asshole.”

  “Tell me how you really feel.” Catie laughed, barely keeping her food in her mouth.

  “Can’t sugarcoat it. The guy is a tool. I know what his deal is but he’s mean. Just plain mean.”

  “Hmmm,” she paused, “that sucks. Too bad he’s not nice. I mean, from what I’ve seen he’s a total hottie.”

  “He’s certainly hot. It’s the personality that sucks.”

  “Maybe he’s been fucked over too many times. I mean, he can’t be that bad. He had a steady girlfriend for two years. You know how he lost the title, right?”

  “Two years? That’s surprising. And no, I didn’t know that.” I wasn’t even sure I cared, but I asked anyways. “Why?” I’d been so busy Googling Silas these days I failed to do the proper research on the man I was paying $100 dollars a week to get me in shape. Not researching someone, or something, was rare for me. I did research on everything. Even bottled water.

  “Well, some say he lost it because he wasn’t trained enough and got into the ring unprepared. But then it’s rumored he lost the fight on purpose.”

  “You mean like it was fixed?”

  “Yeah… ”

  “Who said that?”

  Catie shrugged. “Reporters, I guess.”

  “Fixing a fight is illegal. He would have been suspended, wouldn’t he?”

  “Probably. But no one could prove he lost on purpose, from what I’ve heard. And Destry denied it.”

  When Catie and I got back from breakfast, she left and I took a nap. I had to. Just going to breakfast had exhausted me. This getting in shape was no bullshit.

  When I got up I went through my email and saw a few that needed attention.

  One was from Lauren, but the last thing I wanted to think about was that article right now and her editing notes. So I closed that one and clicked on the one from Marcus Hadley. He was a sports editor who I worked with in college when I covered the college football. We also went to high school together but didn’t know each other that well. More like passing acquaintances. He was also friends with Silas back then. Not great, because believe me when I say I begged him for information back then and he had none as to why Silas left.

  Marcus basically asked how I was doing and if I had any leads on sports articles I could write for his blog. I told him I would keep an eye out for potential leads. This wasn’t unusual for him. I usually heard from him every few months looking for stories he could feature.

  It was nearing five and I could already feel the anxiety of working out. It shouldn’t be dreaded, should it?

  I bet no one likes working out. Only crazy people. It’s like they’re brainwashed.

  Around four, Destry called and said he was running late and wouldn’t be able to meet me at the bar until seven thirty. Believe me when I say I was okay with that. In fact, I tried to get out of it even.

  “I’m really sore.” I said. “Maybe I should take a day’s break.”

  Destry was quiet for a moment, my heart thudded waiting for his response. And then it came and I wasn’t pleased.

  “Yeah, I figured you would quit.”

  The nerve of this asshole. That pissed me off. Who was he to fucking judge me on being sore?

  “See you at seven thirty.” I hung up and didn’t wait for a reply. Screw him.

  When I got there, Destry was in the basement sitting on the floor against the wall staring at his phone. I was ten minutes late and he wasn’t impressed.

  I tried to be enthusiastic when I walked in and not act like I was dying from muscle fatigue but I wasn’t very convincing.

  Destry saw right through my fake enthusiasm. “I hope you’re here to work out. Don’t be wasting my fucking time.”

  I was done with his shit. I wasn’t paying him to be treated like this. “Jesus, what’s your deal, man? Why are you so mean?”

  “You called me for help.” He gave a huff and started slamming weights around. “This isn’t something where you get to know me. So don’t bother.”

  “Okay,” I nodded smiling, “so you’re always a dick?”

  “Pretty much. Get used to it.” He motioned toward the weights. “Grab a weight that feels comfortable and follow what I do.”

  We started out with some stretches, in which I stared at the wall and refused to look at him.

  “Now go grab a weight.”

  I did as he said and stood next to him. There was about a foot of space between us but I could feel his body heat that close, and smell him. So good. Like sweat and some kind of cologne. It made me want to dig through that gym bag and find it so I could buy some just to smell. Unconsciously, I smelled him.

  Of course he noticed, gave me a look, something between a glare and confusion, and then rolled his eyes.

  He rolled his fucking eyes at me.

  I felt like he insulted me—which he more than likely did—but I ignored him anyways.

  “You know what a lunge is, right?”

  I bet if I dropped this weight on his foot it could break his toe. I wouldn’t even feel bad. Go ahead Tallan, drop the weight.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, glowering at him. “Yes.” I replied, trying to sound annoyed. I didn’t exactly have to try too hard either. Fuck enthusiasm.

  “Alright, follow my lead then.” Destry made one step with his right leg, and squatted down until he was at a ninety degree angle. Then he rose, and did the same thing with his left leg, all the while walking toward the brick wall. He had good posture and his legs looked like solid muscles. I couldn’t help but stare. If he wasn’t such a dick, I’d be attracted to him.

  He turned to look back at me. “What are you waiting for?”

  I didn’t answer. Instead I put my head down and started walking toward the wall.

  We continued like that, alternating lunges and squats, and then he got out the jump rope.

  “Just start out basic here. But jumping rope is great for cardio.” He said, beginning a pace that seemed slow for him, but would have me panting in ten seconds.

  I looked up at him and watched the way it looked so effortless for him and the way his muscles looked in his arms as he moved the rope with a simple twist of his wrists.

  Stop staring at him.

  I did as he said but the problem was everything joggled so much I couldn’t focus on anything but my boobs bouncing around and the way I must have looked.

  It wasn’t like Destry was
even paying any attention to me though. He just stared at the wall. In reality, a girl like me wouldn’t even be on his radar.

  While I was visibly panting, he stopped and motioned for me to continue. “Do that for five minutes. Then do the lunges, squats, and jump rope again. Keep that up for thirty minutes.”

  And then he disappeared again.

  I could have stopped. He wouldn’t have known but I would. To motivate myself I put on some music. All Silas Cade songs, of course. I didn’t care for his last album but the one he released two years ago, the one that got him that number one spot on the Billboard 100, was my favorite. It kept me moving for sure. Imagining him singing it to me, I kinda got in the groove and before I knew it the next 30 minutes had passed me by.

  That’s when Destry appeared again. Without much grace, he ripped out my headphones. “Let’s go for a run.”

  “It’s like nine at night.” I grabbed my ear and glared. That hurt. “No one runs in Seattle at night.”

  He stopped and walked backwards scrunching his eyebrows at me. “Says who?”

  He didn’t wait for my answer before he was walking toward the door.

  Rubbing my ear where he ripped out the headphones, I gathered my phone up and set it by my bag. I touched my ear once more when I approached him. “Do you have to be so damn rough? That pulled my hair.”

  He turned, never making eye contact with me and rolled his eyes. He didn’t give a shit.

  He had no fucking manners at all.

  Like Catie said, how he actually kept a girlfriend was beyond me.

  I didn’t want to be left alone in that basement so I followed him up the stairs. “Leave the music.” He ordered when I reached for my phone again.

  So no manners and demanding. That’s what I was working with.

  I followed, not sure what this would be like. I wasn’t a runner. Unless you count running from the bus to my apartment because I was afraid of the dark. That’s how I run. A full on life or death sprint knowing I just had to be faster than the elderly to save myself. I’d watched The Walking Dead, those who ran just had to be faster than one other person. Some called it survival of the fittest, in my case it was survival of the fattest.