“We’ll get back to you,” Brenda says, avoiding my eyes.
I bite back a smile. One of the few things I’ve seen these two agree on is not coming back to see me again.
It happens all the time with clients like these. The work they need to do for our sessions to be fruitful feels too scary or difficult, so they avoid it. As a result, our sessions are lackluster and ineffective. Unsurprisingly, these kinds of clients don’t keep a standing appointment with me for long.
“Sounds great,” I say smoothly. “Just let me know what you need.”
They rustle out the door. I close and lock it behind them. Settling back into my plush rocker, I let my eyelids slide shut, enjoying the quietness of the old building closing up for the evening.
I used to work in a psychiatric hospital, serving patients with the most severe mental health needs. And while it was rewarding, I couldn’t hold up to the stress of it for more than a year or so.
Now I rent a one-room office in a seventy-year-old building full of other one-room offices and offer counseling sessions out of it. Many of the building’s renters provide counseling like myself, although there are also a few realtors and massage therapists in the mix. It’s a wonderful professional community to serve in, especially as someone who is self-employed.
Lately, though, the work has started to drag at me. Normally I’m able to shake off stubborn clients like Brenda and Jim. I know that I’m not responsible for forcing clients to make the necessary changes that will heal and enrich their lives. And the clients that do want to do the work? It makes my heart sing to work with them.
But these days, it seems like I’m seeing so many estranged couples who come in here seeking a quick fix to make them happy, unwilling to recognize that successful relationships take dedicated, long-term effort.
Or maybe it’s just that these clients are getting to me more.
I know it’s not fair, but I blame my friends.
Rubbing my temples, I open my eyes back up, looking at the clock. Kickboxing class starts soon. I have just enough time to get to the gym and change for the class that keeps me sane.
Jumping to my feet, fingers tingling at the prospect of imminent bag punches, I reach for the gym duffel I keep stashed in the small closet behind my chair and head out.
Oliver
I get to kickboxing class early so I prep the gear I know I’ll need. I drag one of the free-standing punching bags over, then wind the wrap the gym provides around my hands.
As the other participants slowly filter into the group fitness studio, I stretch — not because I actually feel like I need to, but because I don’t know what else to do and I feel like a dumbass just standing there twiddling my thumbs.
I keep my eyes on the reflection of the door in the mirror. There’s this girl who comes to every evening kickboxing class the gym offers, and I know it’s creepy as fuck, but I’ve kind of got a thing for her.
Even though I’m a forty-seven-year-old tech millionaire who has no business being attracted to a young thing like this woman.
She’s the reason I started coming to kickboxing in the first place. A few months back, I’d been shooting the shit with the guy manning the front desk of Shotgun City Fitness when she floated by. It was her scent that got me first — spice and vanilla and something vaguely floral. I’d inhaled her aroma and without thinking had turned my head to follow it with my nose.
Which led me to the sight of thick dark curls cascading down a curvaceous torso and brushing the top of a pert ass.
“You here for kickboxing?” the front desk clerk had said to her knowingly.
She’d smiled back and nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Ever since, I haven’t missed a class either.
I know how this all sounds. Hell, I make myself cringe. Silver fox stalks dewy twenty-something? I’m well aware that it’s not a great look for me.
But in my defense, I’ve kept my distance. Like, a lot of it. The woman’s here to work out, and the last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable in a place where she should feel secure and safe as she tends to her body.
Have I mentioned that it’s a body to make gods weep and men crawl and women sigh with envy? All curves and smooth skin begging to be kissed. By me.
In my dreams, at least.
Because I’m not the kind of guy who pushes or gropes or, hell, even flirts. I have too much respect for women, and I loathe the guys who pride themselves on pushing every boundary they can find.
So I just watch.
Like a creepy fuck.
With a heart of gold?
Well, with a heart of minding my own damn business, at least.
The back of my neck prickles. I look up to see her walk into the group fitness studio, dark hair coiled on top of her head like a goddess. My heart pumps faster.
I’ve got it bad. I wonder if today will be the day I introduce myself and finally learn her name. It wouldn’t be completely unheard of — lots of the class regulars know each other. And I’ve definitely become a regular.
That’s part of the reason that I’ve been reluctant to meet this woman. I’ve come to enjoy the classes. And although they totally kicked my forty-something ass at first, I’ve seen big improvements in my strength and stamina. It’s been hard for me to find a workout that leaves me dripping sweat, heart racing, while going easy on my old man knees. Kickboxing is the perfect match for me.
I eye the brunette that makes my mouth water as she works through a few light stretches and wonder if we’d make the perfect match. More unlikely things have happened.
Like me not only coming to this class, but looking forward to it for reasons that go beyond the eye candy that always stands in the front right corner of the room.
I sweat it out in the back, enjoy the view, and silently curse myself for not taking the risk to say hello.
The instructor, Wendy, steps to the front of the class, adjusting her headset. “Welcome to class,” she says into the mic, smile warm and voice bright.
Wendy is another reason I appreciate this class — it’s not often I see people over the age of fifty teaching fitness, and it’s refreshing. Her close-cropped curls are wholly silver and she’s got wrinkles that run deep, but she’s also a badass who delivers a killer workout backed up by decades of experience. The muscles that flex beneath her age-marked skin inspire me every class.
She does her usual intro for the newbies, then gets us warmed up. Soon we’re punching and kicking our bags and I’m sweating so damn much it’s dripping in my eyes. Wiping it away, I grin and keep hitting my bag with hooks, jabs, roundhouses, sidekicks, and more.
Then, when I think I can’t get my leg up for another push kick, Wendy tells us to get on the floor for abs. It’s both relief and agony and I only get through it with the heavy use of expletives.
We end class with a much-needed stretch, and when it’s over I’m a sodden, limp noodle.
Just the way I like to feel at the end of a workout.
I’m moving through a series of extra hamstring stretches — my tightest part except for the stick that gets stuck up my detail-obsessed ass when I’m in full-on lawyer mode for work — when I hear one of my neighbors start chatting with a fellow participant.
“That was a crazy hard workout,” he says, shaking his head.