The ball accepts her with a gentle give, and for a moment, it seems like she might master this precarious throne with perfection.
Her smile beams at me as she glances up and declares, “I am the queen of the—Whoa!”
In an instant, her victory crumbles as the ball skids away, sending her toppling sideways. Her arms windmill, but without much to grab onto, it’s the gym schedules and an advertisement for green juice she takes down with her. She lands with a soft thud, covered in a sea of fluttering paper.
“Are you okay?” I ask, rushing over to her.
Her face peeks out, sheepish and flushed.
Before I can reach a hand out to help her, she’s back on her feet, batting away the paper with a tight laugh.
“I always wanted to make a dramatic entrance. Consider that a rehearsal,” she quips, though her eyes have taken on a wild, maybe even crazy edge.
“That ball can be tricky,” I say, hoping to inject a bit of levity back into the session as I bend down and pick up the papers. “It gets the best of us. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve ended up on the mat.”
Carlie narrows her eyes as if she’s not buying it for one second.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m basically a walking infomercial forhow not to gym.” She offers a smile, thin and fragile. “You might want to think twice about training me. And if you are, I don’t blame you.”
“You’re not that bad.” I chuckle, shaking my head as I guide her over to the resistance bands. Somehow, they seem like a safer bet. Nothing heavy to drop on a toe or a foot.
Grabbing a band for myself and one for her, I go back into teacher mode.
“Here’s what I want you to do. Hold the band with one hand to the center of your chest, like this,” I demonstrate the movement I want her to test—clutching the band to my torso, then I slip my right hand into the other end of the loop. “Place your palm inside the loop and press down. Like this.”
“What’s the point of that?” she asks, watching me go through the motions, all curiosity and no snark.
I grin. “It’s a tricep extension.”
“Oh.” She squares her shoulders and mimics my stance. Then, she stretches the band as I showed her.
There’s a look of fierce concentration etched onto her features as she pressed down. A grin floats to her face, as she does it a couple more times.
“This is easier than I thought,” she admits with a bit of triumph laced in her words. But then, in a slip of focus, the band snaps from her palm. It zings through the air, smacking against my forearm with a sharp sting.
“Oh my god, Adam, I’m so sorry,” Carlie gasps, her hands flying to her lips.
“You know, they usually work better if you don’t weaponize them,” I tease, rubbing at my arm and picking the band up from the floor.
Her face is the color of ripe beets but she quips back, “Go me. Guess I’m just preparing for the gym apocalypse—one snapped band at a time.”
I huff a laugh. The things that come out of her mouth.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks as she steps closer with concern flooding her features.
“It’s fine, really.” I smile, hoping to ease her embarrassment, but as she reaches out, her fingers brush the reddening skin.
The touch is light, fleeting, yet it sears me more profoundly than the snap of the band.
Her eyes meet mine, wide and apologetic, and in that split second, I’m transported back to a feather-light touch just like that.
But it can’t be.
The woman from Nocté was confident, and coordinated, and so sure of herself.
“Really, I’m okay,” I reaffirm, trying to shake away my conflicting thoughts.
We move on, and I decide to steer clear of equipment for a while.