I’m standing outside the gym, decked out in what I optimistically call my ‘beast mode’ attire.
Honestly, though, it’s more like ‘slightly disgruntled house cat mode,’ but who’s checking?
It’s not my favorite workout outfit, but it’s the backup in case I ever raced out of the house like my hair was on fire and forgot where I was going. It seemed likely earlier in the week.
The door seems heavier now as I push it open.
Had I known things were about to go monumentally sideways, I would have made more of an effort to make it to my workout sessions with Adam the past two days.
The surprise of him getting fired over me—over those stupid posts—it isn’t sitting well.
As I enter the space, I half expect to see him with his trademark grin (no seriously, there are posts online about it) and a dumbbell in hand, waiting for me.
Which is stupid, because I just saw him leave the building with a box in his arms.
Instead, it’s just the regular gym buzz—treadmills humming, weights clanking, and no Adam in sight.
I head to the main desk, nearly tripping along the way.
“Hey, um, weird question, but I need to find out who my trainer is today? I was working with Adam, but I just heard …” I let my voice drift off, trying to sound casual but probably failing spectacularly.
They must all know at this point that I’m the problem child.
The receptionist, a girl with a ponytail so tight it could double as a facelift, gives me a once-over.
“Just a sec,” she says, tapping away at her computer like it owes her money.
I stand there, shifting weight from one foot to the other, mentally preparing myself for a workout session with some newbie who will want to break me because they have something to prove.
“And you are ...?” Ponytail asks, squinting at the screen.
“Carlie. Carlie with a ‘C’ and an ‘ie.’ Not a ‘y.’ It’s a whole thing,” I ramble, immediately regretting it.
“Right, Carlie with a ‘C’. Your trainer today will be Jillian.”
“Jillian?” The name seems familiar, but my scrambled brain can’t figure out why.
I try to hide my disappointment.
It’s so weird to think back to the beginning of the week—the week!—when I sincerely hoped my trainer would be a woman.
I was pleasantly surprised to find out that Adam was pretty awesome. He could handle my clumsiness like a pro and even enjoyed some flirty banter.
However, no Adam means no more banter and no more pretending that I know what I’m doing with those scary-looking machines.
“Yep, Jillian’s great. You’ll like her,” Ponytail assures me, but she might as well be telling me I’ll enjoy a waterboarding session.
“Great, looking forward to it,” I lie, plastering on my best fake smile.
I turn away from the desk, bracing myself for an hour of awkward introductions and overly enthusiastic ‘You can do it.’
As I wait, I can’t help but feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff, about to dive into the unknown. I shake my head, trying to clear it.
Come on, Carlie, it’s just a workout, not a space mission or brain surgery.
But as I spot a figure approaching me, clipboard in hand and a professional smile on her face, I can’t shake the feeling that my world’s about to get a whole lot more complicated.
Jillian is the super-fit woman I originally pegged as Ada.
Great.
Jillian extends a hand, her grip firmer than I expected.
“Carlie, right? I’m Jillian. Looks like I’ll be taking over your training sessions.” Her voice is crisp, but there’s a frigid edge to it that I can’t quite place.
“Nice to meet you,” I reply, trying to match her professionalism. But inside, my stomach is doing some serious butterfly flutters—and not in the way Adam invoked in me, either. This is more the ‘escape and flee’ kind.
Jillian’s eyes are sharp, like she’s sizing me up for a boxing match rather than a training session.
“So, it looks like you haven’t really done much.” She looks over the clipboard in her hand, then directs me into the gym.
We head over to an open mat section, and Jillian starts outlining the day’s workout. From the little glimpses I catch, it’s more intense than anything Adam had me do so far.
“We’re stepping up your routine,” she announces. “Time to see what you’re really made of. We’ll start with a comprehensive fitness test.”
I nod, though I’m fairly sure my ‘slightly disgruntled house cat’ mode attire is ready for whatever fresh hell she has planned.
“You know, most clients find they get better results when they stick to a regular schedule. Consistency really is key,” she says, a pointed look in her eyes as she points to the mat. “Even if your muscles are sore.”
I feel a flush creeping up my neck.
Is she referring to the workouts I missed with Adam?
I bite back a retort, and instead, drop to the mat and wait for her instruction.
“Okay, let’s start with two minutes of sit-ups. Let’s see how many you can do,” she says, pulling out her phone and bringing up a timer app.
“Uh, okay.” I nod, trying to remember the form Adam showed me because I’m getting the distinct impression nothing short of perfect will do for this woman.
Jillian taps her phone, and the timer starts.
“Go,” she says, her tone clinical.
I do as she proclaims, acutely aware of the fact that I have way more padding in my midsection than she has on her entire body. Without Adam’s encouraging presence, each sit-up feels twice as hard.
I can tell I’m crunching more than sitting up, and it’s not up to Jillian’s standards by the way she tsks under her breath.
“That’s not a sit-up, Carlie. Adam should have taught you better. You need to sit all the way up, and your lower back should be lifting off the ground,” Jillian says, her words sharp like darts. I can feel her eyes on me, cold and evaluating. “Come on, push through it. You can do better than that.”
I push harder, trying to ignore the burn in my abs and the growing embarrassment.
“I’m ... trying,” I gasp out between attempts, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
If sit-ups are this hard, I’m convinced they’re a form of medieval torture.
“No, you’re still not lifting your back off the ground. Go slower if you need to, but make the full sit-up,” she says, continuing to flit her gaze from me to the phone.
Swallowing hard, I make another attempt, but only make it halfway before my abs give out.
Jillian checks her phone.
“Time,” she announces, and I collapse back onto the mat, panting. “Well, that was ... a start.”
There’s no mistaking the disappointment in her voice.
I use my arms to sit up, feeling a mixture of frustration and defeat.
“I know I’m not exactly a fitness model,” I say, trying to inject a bit of my usual humor into the situation, but it falls flat.
Jillian just raises an eyebrow. “This isn’t about being a model. It’s about effort, Carlie. I need to see you’re committed.” Her tone is firm, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve just been scolded by a schoolteacher.
Jillian glances at her clipboard and then back at me.
“Next up, two minutes of push-ups. Let’s see your form,” she says, a challenging note in her voice.
With a sigh that’s half resignation, half theatrics, I move into position.
My hands are planted firmly on the mat, and I can’t help but think to myself how my relationship with gravity has always been a bit like a bad romance—intense and slightly unbalanced.
And now, here I am, about to prove it with push-ups.
Just as I’m about to drop to my knees, Jillian stops me.
“No, on your feet. Real push-ups,” she instructs, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I hesitate for a moment, then awkwardly shift to support myself on my toes. I have no clue when the last time was I attempted a full push-up, but I can already feel every muscle in my body protesting.
“Begin,” Jillian commands, starting the timer.
I lower myself down, my arms shaking like I’m in an earthquake. I barely make it halfway before I have to push back up, and even that feels like lifting a mountain.
“Your form needs work, but at least you’re trying,” she comments, her voice dripping with what feels like reluctant approval.
I manage a few more shaky push-ups, each one harder than the last. My arms are screaming, my breath is ragged, and I can feel sweat trickling down my back.
Jillian’s voice cuts through my concentration. “Remember, this is about pushing your limits. You’re stronger than you think,” she says, but it sounds more like a challenge than encouragement.
When the timer finally beeps, signaling the end of the eternity that was two minutes, I collapse onto the mat, chest heaving.
I’ve never been so grateful to hear a beep in my life.
Jillian makes a note on her clipboard, her lips pursed.
“We have a lot of work to do,” she says, her tone business-like. “But you’ve got potential. We just need to tap into it.”
I nod, too exhausted to speak. As I lie there, trying to catch my breath, I can’t help but wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. This new training regimen with Jillian is going to be nothing like my sessions with Adam.
It’s going to be tougher, more demanding, and, I suspect, a lot more impersonal.
Exhausted from the push-ups, I try to get up too quickly and end up tangling my feet in my own shoelaces. Stumbling forward, I catch myself on the mat with a grace of a hippo ballerina.
Smooth move, Carlie. If there were an Olympic event for clumsiness, I’d be a gold medalist.
Jillian raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. I quickly untangle my feet, pretending my face isn’t burning.
Note to self: add ‘learning to walk’ to the workout routine.
Regaining my composure, I stand up, ready for whatever fresh torture Jillian has planned next. She looks over at the pull-up bar, and then back at me with a skeptical expression.
“We’ll skip pull-ups for today. I doubt you’d manage even one,” she says, her words blunt and unapologetic. “Instead, we’re finishing with a three-mile run. Or walk, if that’s more your speed.”
Her tone is dismissive, but I can’t deny the relief washing over me.
No humiliating pull-ups?
Fine by me.
“Okay, three miles. Got it,” I say, following after her.
Every muscle in my body is screaming already, but I’m determined not to show any more weakness in front of Jillian.
Granted, I might need an ice bath and a vat of vodka after this.
We head over to the treadmills, and Jillian sets one up for me.
“I want you to alternate between running and walking. I have it set to start with a brisk walk, then jog. Try to maintain a steady pace,” she instructs.
She puts a heart-rate monitor on my arm without a word. Probably so she can make sure my heart doesn’t give out in the middle of the run.
I nod, stepping onto the treadmill with less enthusiasm than a kid on their way to the dentist.
I start with a walk as Jillian promised, the pace brisk but manageable. After a minute, the machine increases the speed to a jog. It’s been a while since I’ve run, and my lungs start to burn almost immediately.
Jillian stands nearby, her arms crossed, watching me with those discerning eyes of hers.
“Keep your back straight, and don’t slouch. Good posture is key,” she calls out.
I straighten up, focusing on my breathing and trying to find a rhythm. The treadmill hums beneath my feet, and I fall into a pattern of walking and jogging. It’s tough, but not impossible.
I can do this, I tell myself.
As long as I don’t trip …
The thought alone is enough to unleash a torrent of fear in me as I think back to my first session with Adam.
Please, please don’t be a klutz. Please please please.
As the miles tick by, I start to find my stride. My breathing evens out, and the initial burn in my legs fades to a dull ache.
I’m not breaking any records, but I’m doing it.
I’m actually doing it.
When the treadmill finally beeps to signal the end of the three miles, I’m sweating and out of breath, but there’s a sense of accomplishment that wasn’t there before. I’ve pushed through, and I’ve survived.
Jillian makes another note on her clipboard.
“Not bad, Carlie. Not great, but better than I expected,” she says, her tone slightly less frosty than before.
I step off the treadmill, trying to catch my breath and focusing on not falling over.
“Thanks, I guess,” I reply, unsure whether to be insulted or encouraged.
Jillian’s final words are a brisk, “I expect you to be here at our designated time on Monday. No excuses. Be here on time.”
Then, she’s off, leaving me there to gather my things.
I drag myself out of the gym, feeling both physically and emotionally drained.
The session was all business, no banter, and a whole lot of thinly veiled criticism.
I can’t shake the feeling that Jillian’s attitude is about more than just my fitness level. There’s something personal in her jabs, something that goes beyond a trainer-client relationship.
And I’m almost scared to find out what it is.