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.