“From a marketing standpoint, it will be good to have a hook to keep people interested. As is, there’s no finish line.”
We fell into silence, the four of us looking in different directions, each lost in thought. I’d liked the project as it was—telling stories, sharing triumphs and failures—but I saw their point. The last thing we wanted to do was leave people bored. I repeated Natalie’s words in my head, seeking a good idea. Raise the stakes. Keep them interested. Finish line.
“What about a race?” The three other women turned their attention to me. “A 5K or something. It would fit with what we’ve been doing, we could each talk about training, and there’s a literal finish line.”
I expected a derisively arched brow from Claire, but her expression remained impassive.
“Do either of you run, now?” Maricela asked.
“I don’t,” Claire said.
“I don’t, either,” I said, sitting straighter. “Well, I just started.” I imagined Wes’s smile when I told him I was going to sign up for a race. He’d be proud of me, and that thought was motivating. “The narrative could evolve. We’d be moving past the apps toward something else.”
“I don’t want to make this about one of you winning or losing,” Maricela said thoughtfully.
Claire and I shot each other a meaningful look, knowing damn well we were competing, and probably one of us would win the position and the other would lose. We didn’t comment on that, though, turning back to Maricela.
“I don’t think one of us would have to win or lose. We could frame it as competing against our own doubts,” Claire said.
“Against our own roadblocks,” I added. “Plus, those races are usually big, with lots of runners. Maybe there’s a community aspect to it, too.”
Maricela smiled widely. “I like this.”
Natalie plucked at her keyboard, tapping and swiping furiously. “Me, too. Okay, you two are using FitMi and HottrYou. I’ll reach out to see if they’ll jointly sponsor a 10K to keep them connected. That way readers can follow your story, but maybe get involved themselves.”
Claire and I exchanged a look. “Or a 5K?” Natalie didn’t register my question and turned to Maricela, and I took the moment to address Claire. “You’re okay with this?”
“Yeah. It’s a good idea,” she whispered. I knew a little part of her was pained to give me the compliment. That’s what I would have felt. “We could involve other writers to talk about running fashion, technology in the races, strategies for motivation. I could see a lot of collaborative opportunities.”
“I don’t know if my coach will be proud or confused,” I joked, though I knew which was right.
“Honestly, I’ll be glad to have something else to focus on away from the platforms. HottrYou coaching isn’t all that impressive or interesting. Your guy is really good?”
My guy . . . if only. As a coach, he was resourceful and knowledgeable, and I’d really seen that since day one. When we first started hanging out, I had a hard time thinking about any of that without letting my mind wander to his intense eyes, easy smile, and broad chest. Now, though . . . I knew the way it felt when he teased me to make me laugh, or how he always offered to help with dishes when we ate at my place. The way he listened so intently was inexplicably linked with everything else. In hundreds of tiny ways, I kept seeing how good a guy he really was.
Claire eyed me strangely.
“He’s very attentive.”
“The app itself is great, and my coach responds with a few sentences once or twice a week when I check in. But it’s all stuff I could have googled.” Claire glanced back at her phone, her lips pursed, and I got the sense there was something else she wanted to say.
Maricela brought us all back to the project, so I didn’t have time to find out what else Claire was considering. “I like this plan. Natalie will work with you to iron out the details.”
“Guess you two need to get to work!” Natalie chirped.
34
“ONE MORE SPRINT. One minute as hard as you can. You got this, Britt.”
Her cheeks reddened as she approached the end of a high-intensity interval on the elliptical machine. She panted. “I can’t.”
“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?”