If I Could - B. Celeste Page 0,31
mind can’t let it go even though there’s no other option but to.
When my leg starts bouncing, Reece stands up and says, “All right. Come on.” He offers me a hand, but all I do is stare at it, looking at the coarse hairs on each finger that are a shade darker than the blond hair on his head. He wiggles them. “Get up. We’re going somewhere.”
I stare at the food on the table, then the TV. “But it’s game night.”
He shrugs. “Not tonight. I think there’s somewhere more important to be. You got gym clothes to change into?” When I shake my head, he nods once. “You can borrow some of mine. They’ll probably be a little small, but they’ll work.”
I don’t have the mindset to make a quip about the small comment. Letting him pull me up, I ask, “Where are we going?”
All he says is, “To let off some steam.”
The facility I follow him into is nice. New equipment, clean, spacious. The air conditioning feels great when we walk into a receptionist area where an older woman instantly stands up and greets him with a hug. I hear him call her Claire as he accepts a kiss on the cheek.
They talk quietly amongst themselves while I study the various rooms, all broken up by glass walls. To the far side of the building looks like a room strictly for cardio—bikes, treadmills, ellipticals. When I turn to glance into another room, I see benches, dumbbell racks, and a few other weight training necessities. There are a few guys around my age or older in it bench-pressing a killer amount.
When Reece slaps my shoulder, he dips his chin toward a hallway. “Come on, we’re heading toward the back.” I don’t question him as I smile at the woman who’s beaming and telling us to have fun. When we get to the back end of the gym, we walk into a room with a few boxing bags hanging from the ceiling on one side and a small, square rope ring on the other. My brows go up when Reece goes straight to a set of gloves on the far wall and picks them up.
“You coming over or what?” he asks, not even looking at me. We’re both in black shorts and loose sleeveless workout tops. He’s right. I fill out the shirt more because I’m bulkier, and my shoulders are a hair wider than his.
Admittingly, since moving, I haven’t been as good about keeping up with my regular exercises. I’ve joined Reece a handful of times on his runs, and used my own weight set at home to do my typical rep rounds before breakfast and after work five days a week. Still, without my trainer being on my ass about food consumption and routines, it’s obvious that I’ve indulged in one too many Little Debbie snacks. It’s not all my fault. I usually find a Fudge Round on my desk at least twice a week, which is only fair since the person who gives them to me always has those nasty ass cinnamon buns on his. It’s our silent trade off that’s become tradition.
Joining him, he passes me a set of identical gloves and tells me to put them on. “I didn’t know you were into this sort of thing.”
His glances at me. “Yeah. The owner introduced me to it after I moved here. It helps you get out of your head for a while and work things out on the bag. Rocco, who’s a kickboxing instructor here, will let me into the ring sometimes with him. You actually met Iverson’s, the owner, wife Claire back at the desk. She doesn’t work here that often, only if their usual receptionist can’t come in.”
Once we’re prepped, he guides me over to the first bag and simply says, “Start hitting.”
I’m not sure why it makes me laugh, but it does. Reece doesn’t seem like the violent kind who needs to take out his aggressions, but maybe that’s why. He doesn’t blow up because he lets his shit out here. Smart.
Dad got me one of these way back when I started on my first baseball team. When I wasn’t training with everyone else at my high school, I was beating up the bag, using the treadmill to increase my cardio zone, and bulking up with the free weights he got me. I’m familiar with the stances, the hits, the way the gloves sound against the nylon lining on the bag and let