Song for chapter: About Damn Time ~ Lizzo
JOANNA
Dear God, WHY am I here?
The answer is a startled snore. My cousin, Olivia is curled in a ball on a small bench meant for some kind of exercise, not a snooze. Grimacing, I can only imagine how many sweaty asses have sat in the same spot her face is lying on.
Eyes half-closed, she lifts her head, but resumes her nap. There's still time before we start this hellish regime I've somehow agreed to.
For a moment, the image of shoving her off the bench plays out in my mind. But I love her too much to do it, even if she's the reason why I'm here at the butt-crack of dawn.
Well, one of them. But misery loves company, right?
If you ask me, it's unreasonable to hold anyone accountable to what they agree to after nine shots of tequila and four fireballs. My eyelids grate against my throbbing eyes like sandpaper every time I blink, under the bright fluorescent lighting. Shifting my feet to not lose my balance when I sway, a loud, body-bending yawn rips out of me.
My nose twitches as my gaze roams around the facility, pleasantly surprised by the clean, subtle citrus scent that permeates the air. Having four older brothers, I expected the stereotypical odor of dirty, sweat soaked socks to saturate the gym.
A small smile pulls at my lips as I watch my sister-in-law, Nati, taking selfies in front of the wall of mirrors that surround us. Her hand slides over her small belly, self conscious of the change in her body from giving birth to my nephew less than two months ago. Her eyes meet mine and she smiles with a giggle.
Unlike me, she agreed to do this sober. My obscenely drunk self threatened to kick my brother's ass if he was behind her motivation to willingly wake up at the abhorrent hour of five thirty, in negative seven temperatures just to sweat, especially after having a baby.
But she assured me he wasn't. I knew it was true; he worships the ground she walks on and always encourages her to do things that make her happy.
Exercise is one of those things, apparently.
Lifting my glasses, I stifle another yawn and attempt to rub the tiredness and the lingering hangover remnants from my eyes.
"Damn, you all beat me here!" Olivia's stand-in B.F.F—only when she's mad at me—Enrique calls out, breathless and jogging over. "I'm glad you actually made it." He greets me with a kiss on the cheek, then Nati.
I fold my arms, readying myself to resume our ongoing argument. "I still don't think you can hold me to an agreement when I was not in the right state of mind, Quique."
"This again?" Enrique's perfect, sculpted, thick eyebrow lifts. With one movement, he pulls off his beanie and chucks it at me. Soft cashmere hits me in the face. Enrique has expensive tastes.
"You're here, aren't you?"
I throw it back, but he ducks, laughing. "I'm here out of support, pendejo. And because I don't want to hear you and Oli giving me shit for who knows how long if I didn't show up." (idiot)
"You never know, you could end up really liking it, JoJo." Nati smiles encouragingly, gathering her dark long hair into a low ponytail.
"Don't hold your breath, girl."
"Should we wake her?" Enrique nods at Oli's still form. I chuckle when she jerks.
"She looks so peaceful; let's not poke the bear yet," Nati advises. "I'm going to use the bathroom before we start." She walks to where the locker rooms and bathrooms are located.
My foot taps to the Lizzo song playing. The urge to believe it's a sign that I should be here is strong. My personal anthem—that, by no coincidence, has been on repeat from my Bad Bitch playlist for three weeks straight now—blares out of the speakers at this exact moment. However, the familiarity of Lizzo's blunt support —and why I've been leaning on her so much—isn't as overwhelming as my distaste of getting sweaty in front of a bunch of strangers.
Normally, I consider myself a positive person, yet I can't stop feeling scornful at the other participants and patrons milling around, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed; some even have the audacity to be laughing at this hour!
There is an obvious difference between the regular gym rats versus those of us participating in this challenge... but even the regular Joes seem to have an understanding of the outfit requirements. Most are in shorts or leggings paired with fitted T-shirts or tanks, regardless of their age.
Snickering from a couple of girls nearby reaches my ears. Their critical eyes travel over my outfit.
Jokes on them. I don't even own workout clothes. My oversized hoodie and camo sweats also serve as pajamas.
Focusing on the lyrics of the song still playing, I square my shoulders and face them. They turn away, whispering and giggling as a third valley girl joins them. I know I don't belong here, but I'll be damned if they think they can mean-girl me.
"At least the music's decent. I thought they played rage music in gyms." I glance at Quique bent over at the waist, stretching.
"I think you're going to really like the atmosphere of this gym and the staff. My buddy, Zeke, loves working here. Everyone is chill, well, except the owner... es un poco malhumorado," he says, standing upright warning me of temperamental bigwig. "I hardly see him when I come in, but my advice is to stay on his good side if he's part of this boot camp." I roll my eyes when he shudders for effect.
More people are here now, and begin stretching. Warming up is a good idea. I nod to myself and step onto the nearest treadmill. The machine buzzes under my feet when I turn it on, the belt begins to move, and I begin to walk.
Not so bad. Although, I can't say I'm a fan of the unnecessary bouncing of my chest or jiggling of my thighs. The large hoodie and camo sweats were not a terrible idea after all.
I sweep up the black strands brushing my shoulders —I love this new cut— and assemble them into a haphazard bun. My fingers push my glasses up my nose then slide my oversized sleeves up my arms. A pinching and tightening sensation begins to radiate from my shins and a slight burn builds in my calves. My breathing starts to pick up.
I never said I was in shape. More like well-padded and durable. A late bloomer, I was happy with my curves, until a few weeks ago—three to be exact.
"How fast can you run?" Quique asks, standing off to the side and crosses his arms with a smirk.
An unlady-like snort escapes me and I roll my eyes. "Please! If my life depended on running, then that would be the end of me."
He chuckles. "You play soccer or shoot hoops at your family gatherings, so I assumed you were like a high school athlete or something."
"Just because I like playing a sport doesn't mean I'm athletic."
His eyes light up as he steps closer. "Let's see how fast you can run."
Screw that.
I shake my head, laughing. "If you want to take me out before this stupid thing even begins, sure."
He presses a button. With an ominous tone, the treadmill accelerates, forcing my legs to move faster. The jiggles increase, but the pace is not too bad. I can handle this for a minute or two.
Then the idiot hits the button again.
I'm not sure what speed he set me at, but only four-legged animals can reach it. The abnormally loud sound of my shoes pounding the belt attracts unwanted attention, or maybe it's my ragged breaths. If people weren't watching, then I'm sure they'd mistake me for a dying animal.
Feeling everyone's eyes on me, I drape my arm over my chest to keep my boobs down or at least from popping out of my bra. In hindsight, I look so much more ridiculous.
A rush charges through me. It's not the thrill of adrenaline or pride in meeting Enrique's challenge, but an edge of panic that traces a sense of control slipping out faster than the belt looping under my feet.
"Quique!" I swat at his hand as the belt blurs under me. My legs pump faster while he stands, broad shoulders bouncing as he laughs. I reach to hit him again, but the front of my shoe hits the side of the base, pitching me forward. On instinct, I latch on to the handrails, while my useless legs thrash behind me. They flail over the zooming belt, on their own agenda, as I try to pull myself up.
Lack of arm strength meets a lost cause.
And then it gets worse. Pain meets embarrassment.
Helpless, I'm the front row spectator as the speed and traction of the belt pulls my sweats down to my ankles. Short, sharp breaths pitch my chest. My poor thighs, which are clapping their support at this point, tingle with air exposure. With a scream, I let go of the bar. My chest and face smack hard onto the belt before it expels me and the gym walls shoot backwards until I come to a rolling stop.
I can't see.
My glasses aren't on my face anymore, and my dignity isn't coming back for sure. But that doesn't stop a laugh from bubbling up inside me. Once one escapes, I burst into a fit of loud, belly-shaking laughter.
Did that really just happen?!
A large shadow blocks out the ceiling lights. Blinking, a giant, blurry figure looms over me.
Blurry Oli shoots up from her bench and reprimands our friend before rushing over. "Quique! What the hell, güey? Don't just stand there!" (dude)
"Holy shit, JoJo. Lo siento!" Quique apologizes, somewhere nearby.
"Girl, what happened?" Nati slips my glasses on my face, brushing back my disheveled hair. Gasping, my chest burns with ragged breaths, but I can't stop laughing. Probably because it keeps me from sobbing.
Someone clears their throat. My eyes follow the sound to the mountain still standing over me. A stern and reproachful expression sits on his attractive tanned face. Muscular arms cross his wide chest. Jaw flexing, he draws his mouth in a tight line. Oli yanks at my pants, but they're all bunched up with my tangled legs.
"I assume you're here for the bootcamp." The frowning, stubble-clad Mountain Man speaks. His dark eyes, framed with even darker lashes, move over me and my friends. If I wasn't seeing tweety-birds, I might react more to his unsympathetic tone. "I would appreciate common sense and respect when using the equipment. This facility is not a jungle gym. Understood?"
Common sense? Jungle gym?
The impact during the fall pulses a dull ache on the side of my face. I focus on my blood running hot through my veins, trying unsuccessfully to drag my sweats over my legs and glare at the snickers rippling through the small crowd of on-lookers.
Forcing my jelly-like legs to cooperate, I manage to stand. All the while, I mutter to myself in Spanish, empty threats and insults about his obvious lack of chivalry, but most importantly the size of or better yet, his lack of cojones.
It's obvious his abnormally large size is compensating for something else. Hercules couldn't even bother to offer me a hand.
Using my middle finger, I shove my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I pin this condescending man with the angriest glare I can muster. "I'm fine by the way! How about common decency and asking if I'm okay versus standing there, looking down your perfect nose at me! A prime example of a man without manners, ladies and gentlemen!"
A collective gasp erupts from the snoopy onlookers.
"Ay, JoJo, callate! He's the owner..." Enrique mutters for me to shut up, offering an apologetic smile to the ill-mannered giant.
"JoJo, is it?" Shrek steps forward, offering a thin smile. Refusing to let his size or authoritative posture intimidate me, I lift my chin and meet his dark eyes in a challenge.
"Common sense told me you were fine when your arms and legs were flailing around as you failed spectacularly to cover your exposed, very..." He pauses as his eyes trail down. "Colorful, yet see through underwear. Not to mention, you laughed your ass off. I didn't see the point in asking the obvious."
I have no words. Heat creeps up my face, but out of pure stubbornness, I tilt my chin higher. My eyes move down when his shoes brush up against mine; taking yet another step closer, invading my personal bubble.
"Also," he begins, leaning in even further. My narrowed eyes follow the way he tucks in his bottom lip. "Since you're so interested in the size of my balls, I'm more than happy to inform you they're average—I'm not the bragging type." Shrugging his melon-sized shoulders, his lips curve into a cordial smile. "But they are intact, hanging quite proportionally, thank you."
My mouth parts, while my friends snicker behind me. He begins speaking again, before I can figure out how to string words into a sentence again.
"Here's some free advice. It's not polite to insult someone in another language, especially if you don't know them. They might happen to know and understand some Spanish, senorita."
He gives me a small wink before stepping back, his cold eyes staying on me until he addresses the others. "Alright, show's over!" His rich baritone voice carries, dispersing the group of people around us. "If you're here for the boot camp, meet over on the mats... and don't touch anything."
Under his blatant stare, I've never wanted to be Cyclops more in real life than I do at this moment, shooting laser beams at my target. Or, even better, beat him with that clipboard in his hand.
We gather in the mat area, where the staff hand out a small questionnaire with pens attached to clipboards.
"Good morning, everyone," Mr. I'm better than everyone announces. "My name is Sage Kingston, the owner and head trainer here at Rise Above Fit. You can call me Sage or Coach is fine, too. On behalf of the other trainers and myself, welcome and thanks to each of you for joining our first Boot Camp of the year..." He drones on with his spiel as I read through the questionnaire.
Lost in my own thoughts after I finish filling out the form, someone clears their throat, but I continue doodling. The pen scratches across the paper from a not-so-subtle nudge from Oli.
"What?" I glance at her, but her eyes are focused ahead. I realize two things: one, everyone is once again staring at me, and two, I'm becoming the grouchy owner's target.
He looks down at my clipboard before I try to hide my artwork. "Are we boring you?"
"No...?"
"Then you can tell me the names of the three participants at the end of the row?"
Heat rushes to my face, but I nod, tucking a few stray hairs behind my ear. "Sure, uh..." I glance at the girls at the end of the row, smirking at my current predicament.
My ears perk up when Oli mutters from the corner of her mouth, "Kelly, Deedee, and Kate."
"Kelly, Deedee, and Tate."
"Kate!" Oli says through her teeth.
"Kate," I amend quickly.
Coach crosses his arms and shifts on his feet, his round shoulders rising and falling with his deep breathing. "And what do they do for work and why did they decide to join the bootcamp?"
Survival mode activates the smartass in me. "Well, that seems a bit personal doesn't it? I'm not into prying into strangers' lives..."
Oli clicks her tongue. Normally, I wouldn't notice because she does it all the time, but I know it's not good.
Coach tilts his head to the side, his dark eyes narrowing and his full lips puckering. "Can someone please inform her what we have been doing and what questions everyone has been given?" He ignores my friends' raised hands and picks someone else.
"We share our names, what we do for work, and why we are here – or rather, what's motivated us to join – the boot camp, Coach." An older woman states with a warm smile sent my way. I return the gesture.
Coach's dark thick eyebrows rise, waiting for me to respond. "Well?"
Sheesh.
I clear my throat. "My name is Joanna Lozano. I'm a CPA. I'm here to support my cousin Oli and my sister-in-law Nati, even though I was tricked by Enrique, or Quique as we call him, to join."
Quique snorts next to Nati. "Ay, no manches, JoJo." He laughs, telling me to stop joking. "She's kidding. She wants to be here, just like the rest of us."
Coach draws in his lips, rubbing the stubble peppering his razor sharp jawline. "While supporting your friends is admirable, what is the reason you are willing to commit the next eight weeks of your life to be here five days a week, Ms. Lozano?"
I swallow the unexpected lump in my throat, blinking my eyes as hurtful words and even more painful memories come flooding to mind. Humiliation floods my cheeks with heat, and steals my voice.
Being vulnerable kind of sucks. Being insulted sucks, too. And having your self-confidence being shredded into dust definitely sucks. As much as I want to pretend I have nothing to lose here but some extra pounds, I can't.
But I'm not someone who backs down from a challenge, especially one in the shape of a towering, sex on legs, Greek God looking down at me from his perfect perch.
I don't have to admit the whole truth. Not here, and not to Coach.
Taking a calming breath in and out, I straighten my posture. It gets a bit better each day. It doesn't hurt as much now. From the corner of my eye, my friends share a glance.
Oli intervenes in the only way she knows how. By oversharing. "Nothing like wanting to get a revenge body, am I right?" she says, almost proudly.
Coach's eyes lose their hardness, but I turn to glare at Oli. "That's not why I'm here," I grit out.
She pulls her lips in, shrugging in an if you say so kind of way.
Focusing on the nosey-ass coach again, I flip my hair. It's still a mess from my earlier mishap; I must appear deranged. Ignoring the murmurs around me, I clear my throat, pushing through the uncomfortable boulder of dread sitting in the pit of my stomach.
"That's not why I'm here," I repeat. "I'm trying to...rediscover myself and I... I've made goals with the new year to set better boundaries for myself, both in my work life and personal life. Not just physically, but spiritually, intellectually, and even mentally."
The seconds tick by achingly slow in the silence that follows. My heart thuds with each one.
Coach nods. "Good."
Sitting back against the wall of mirrors, a sense of relief washes over me, yet I feel drained, too.
It's difficult to focus on the rest of the group's reasons and motivation when something shifts inside of me. I don't like the determined look filling Coach's eyes as he keeps observing me.
I'm startled by his sudden and sharp announcement, "Let's get started!"
As others stand, chatting and smiling, I stare at my shoes, sensing the weight of Coach's intense stare still on me. I steel myself enough to face him and one thing is for certain—being in the same vicinity with him every day for the next eight weeks, is going to make my recent heartache seem like an escape from my new nightmare reality.
Lifting my chin, I fix my eyes on him. The words of a song come to mind: "I never looked for trouble, but I never ran."
Game on, Coach.
***