His Trainer’s Touch

Jordan

The moment he stepped through the door of Elevation Fitness, my trainer radar pinged.

New client—slightly hunched shoulders, death grip on his intake form, scanning the room with the wide-eyed hyperawareness of someone calculating how many seconds it would take to sprint back to the exit. But something about this particular newcomer made me linger longer than usual.

“Eight more reps, Monica. And keep those elbows tucked,” I said, my attention split between my current client and the intriguing stranger by the entrance.

Monica’s form wobbled on the rowing machine. “My arms feel like overcooked spaghetti, Jordan.”

“That means we’re right on schedule.” I grinned, giving her shoulder a supportive squeeze while watching the newcomer from my peripheral vision.

He was leaner than his oversized t-shirt suggested. I saw the remnants of athletic muscle beneath the hesitant posture. Light brown hair fell into eyes that kept darting between the equipment stations like he was debugging a particularly complex system. When those eyes—startlingly blue even from across the gym—locked with mine, my pulse kicked up in a way that had nothing to do with the morning’s pre-work HIIT session.

And there was the gaydar ping.

The newcomer immediately stumbled over a misplaced dumbbell, his green protein shake erupting from his tumbler in a spectacular arc. The liquid splashed across his intake paperwork and the front of his shirt. He muttered something that was definitely not appropriate for Elevation’s “positive language environment.”

“Finish your set,” I told Monica, already moving toward the human disaster unfolding by the entrance. “I’ll check your form when I get back.”

I grabbed a stack of gym towels from behind the front desk as I approached. The newcomer was dabbing at his shirt with a tissue the size of a postage stamp, his face flushed with embarrassment.

“That shake would’ve been more effective if you’d managed to get it in your mouth.” I offered him a towel.

His head snapped up, blue eyes widening when he registered who was speaking to him. “I was saving it for later,” he replied. “Before, you know, wearing it as a stylish accessory.”

I laughed, charmed by his quick recovery. “Bold fashion choice. Though I’m not sure green is your color.”

“Noted for future wardrobe malfunctions.” He accepted the towel, his fingers brushing mine. “I’m Alex. I have an appointment with Jordan at eleven? Though I’m reconsidering my life choices at the moment.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I’m Jordan.” I extended my hand, noticing the slight widening of his eyes and the bob of his Adam’s apple before he shook it. His palm was warm, his grip firmer than I expected. “And trust me, I’ve seen worse first impressions. Last week, someone tried to fill their water bottle at the hand sanitizer station.”

Alex’s laugh was sudden and genuine, relaxing his posture in a way that immediately improved his thoracic alignment. The physical therapist part of my brain filed that observation away while the rest of me just enjoyed his adorable smile.

“I feel marginally less pathetic now, thanks.” He glanced down at his soaked form. “Though I should probably...”

“Don’t worry about that.” I waved dismissively at the ruined paperwork. “We’ll get you a fresh one. Your shirt will dry.”

I tracked a droplet of green liquid sliding down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.

“In the meantime,” I said as I grabbed an Elevation Fitness t-shirt from the nearby merchandise display, handing it to him. “You can get changed into this. The locker room is right over there. I’m wrapping up with another client. Give me a few minutes?”

“Sure, of course.” Alex nodded, shifting his weight in a way that suggested both nervousness and what I suspected was an old knee injury.

Interesting.

I returned to Monica, who had abandoned her rowing for Instagram. After guiding her through her cooldown and scheduling her next session, I collected a new intake form and rejoined Alex. He stood there, in the clean tee, studying the motivational posters on the wall with an expression that hovered between amusement and skepticism.

“Pain is just weakness leaving the body.” He read aloud as I approached. “That seems medically questionable.”

“Corporate sends those,” I admitted. “Most trainers here prefer discomfort is temporary, but so are results if you stop.”

“Marginally less concerning.” Alex’s smile was crooked. “Though it lacks the catchy martyrdom of the original.”

I led him to my consultation station—a small desk and two chairs tucked away from the main floor, where new clients could speak freely without feeling on display. Alex settled into the chair opposite me.

“So,” I began, scanning his partially completed new form, “it says here your goals are increased energy, better posture, and counteracting programmer’s body, which I’m guessing means—”

“The physical issues of years spent hunched over keyboards,” Alex supplied. “My chiropractor says if I don’t strengthen my core and upper back muscles, I’ll resemble a question mark by thirty-five.”

“Occupational hazard for desk workers.” I noted the classic signs—forward head posture, internally rotated shoulders, the beginning of the dreaded tech-neck. Nothing we couldn’t fix with consistent training. “You’ve got some muscle memory working in your favor, though. Your form says you were active in college.”

“Intramural soccer and swimming.” Alex nodded. “Then real life and deadlines happened, and now my apartment has become this work-sleep-caffeine bubble that I rarely leave. It’s kind of sad.”

“Not sad. Just modern life.” I made a few notes, curious about this guy who combines self-deprecating humor with flashes of confidence. “Let’s talk scheduling. How many days a week can you commit to training?”

We hammered out the details—three sessions weekly to start, mornings before work. As we talked, I cataloged more than just his fitness baseline. The way his hands gestured when discussing his programming job, the slight dimple that appeared in his left cheek when he smiled, how he pushed back hair that immediately flopped forward again.

“Great.” I closed my notebook and tried to remain professional despite the increasingly unprofessional direction of my thoughts. “Ready to hit the floor? I’d like to do a basic movement assessment—nothing intense, just to see where we’re starting from.”

Panic flashed across Alex’s face. “Right now? I thought this was the getting to know you paperwork day.”

“The sooner we start, the sooner you’ll be proving that chiropractor wrong.” I stood and offered what I hoped was an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry. Day one is about establishing baselines. No one’s expecting a transformation overnight.”

Alex followed me to a quieter section of the gym.

“We’ll start with some basic movement patterns.” I kept my voice steady and reassuring. “First, a simple squat. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart...”

I demonstrated the movement, then watched as Alex attempted to copy it. His form wasn’t terrible, but his knees caved inward slightly, and his heels lifted prematurely—telltale signs of ankle mobility restrictions and weak gluteal activation.

“Not bad, but let me make a slight change,” I said, moving behind him. “Is it okay if I position your stance?”

He nodded, and I placed my hands lightly on his hips, feeling him tense at the contact. My thumbs found the posterior iliac spines—the dimples at the base of the lower back—and applied gentle pressure. “Relax. Shift your weight back, like you’re sitting in a chair.”

As I guided him through the movement, I noticed the warmth radiating through his thin shirt, the subtle scent of citrus shampoo. This was part of my job—adjusting clients’ forms, making physical contact—but something about touching Alex was different. Like a current running beneath my professional demeanor.

“That’s it,” I said, my voice emerging rougher than intended. I cleared my throat. “Try it again.”

Alex performed another squat. This time his form was better, though a flush had crept up his neck, staining his cheeks an interesting shade of pink.

“This is the most action I’ve had in months,” he joked, then immediately looked mortified. “I meant—physical activity. Exercise. Not... I’m just going to stop talking now.”

I laughed, charmed by his awkwardness. “I know what you meant. Though you should know, I typically wait until the third session before getting handsy with my clients.”

His eyebrows shot up, and for a second I worried I’d crossed a line, but then he grinned. “So, this is special treatment?”

“Let’s say your form needed some extra help,” I countered, enjoying our banter more than I should have with a client.

We moved through several more exercises, each requiring minor corrections that gave me legitimate reasons to guide his movements. Push-ups, where I had to tap his lower back to prevent it from sagging. Planks, where I crouched beside him close enough to catch the citrus scent that was becoming increasingly distracting.

“Last one—let’s check your hamstring flexibility,” I said, guiding him to a mat in the corner. The morning rush had subsided, leaving this section of the gym quiet except for the occasional clang of weights and the low beat of the gym’s playlist. “Lie on your back, one leg extended, one knee bent.”

Alex complied, and I kneeled beside him, my knee brushing against his side.

“I’m going to help you stretch your hamstring. Let me know if anything feels too intense.”

I took his extended right leg and slowly raised it, pressing it toward his chest. His flexibility wasn’t bad, but I could feel the resistance as the muscle lengthened.

“Breathe through it,” I instructed, supporting his leg with one hand while placing my other on his thigh for stabilization. The muscle tensed beneath my palm.

“Trying.” He gasped, but his body remained tight. “This is slightly embarrassing.”

“Everyone starts somewhere. You’re doing fine.” I adjusted my position to demonstrate. “Here, let me show you how to get deeper into this stretch.”

As I shifted my weight forward to apply more pressure to his hamstring, my hand slipped on the smooth surface of the mat. I lost my balance, my body pitching forward.

Alex’s leg dropped as I tried to catch myself, my arms landing on either side of his head. In an instant, I was sprawled on top of him, our chests pressed together, my face hovering just inches above his.

We froze in that position, our faces so close I could feel his startled breath against my lips. I should have immediately pushed myself up and apologized, but something kept me there. The contours of his body underneath mine triggered an immediate, shall we say, unprofessional response. I felt a definite stirring below my waist.

I caught the slight hitch in his breathing that suggested maybe I wasn’t alone in my reaction.

“Sorry about that,” Alex finally murmured, his voice lower than before, eyes still fixed on me. His hands had somehow found their way to my hips, not pushing me away but resting there with gentle pressure. “Told you I was uncoordinated.”

“Pretty sure that was my fault.” I pushed myself up to hover above him. Heat lingered on my skin where our bodies had pressed together. “Good thing we weren’t doing this near the free weights section. That could’ve been much worse.”

Alex laughed, “Yeah, I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day.”

I helped him to his feet, our hands lingering together a moment longer than necessary. The calluses on my palms caught against the smoother skin of his fingers—another point of friction that seemed to generate its own energy.

“So, how bad is it, coach? Am I a hopeless case?” He tried to sound casual, though I heard the concern beneath the question.

“Far from it. You’ve got good natural movement patterns, just need some conditioning and consistency.” I walked with him back toward the front desk, navigating through the gym floor that was now filling with the late-morning crowd. “Your next session will be Wednesday morning at seven.”

He nodded, grabbing his now-empty tumbler from the counter. “I’ll try not to wear anything that’ll show green juice stains.”

“I’ll try not to make you do anything that requires extreme coordination on day one,” I countered with a grin.

“It’s a deal.” He extended his hand for a formal handshake, which struck me as adorably unnecessary after I’d just had my hands all over him during the assessment.

I took his hand anyway, noting the firmer grip this time. “See you Wednesday, Alex.”

As I watched him leave, his posture already improved from our brief session, a familiar warning signal flashed in my mind. I recognized that sensation—the spark of interest, the heightened awareness.

I’d felt it before with a client who’d pursued me before our training relationship evolved into something personal. The same client who’d dumped me the week after hitting his goal weight, explaining that he wanted to “explore his new confidence with other options.”

After that disaster, I’d made a promise to myself. No dating clients. Period.

It was a solid rule that had served me well for the past two years, keeping my professional life moving in the right direction, and my personal life uncomplicated.

But as I remembered the feeling of Alex pressed firmly against my chest, the way his face flushed when I corrected his form, the genuine humor in his self-deprecating jokes—something in me rebelled against my own rule in a way that hadn’t happened since I’d established it.

One more session wouldn’t hurt, I reasoned, returning to my station to prepare for my next client. This was just physical attraction, the kind that would fade once we got to know each other better. Once the newness wore off, we’d settle into a normal trainer-client relationship, and these inconvenient feelings would disappear.

I opened my schedule book, tracing my finger over Alex’s name in the Wednesday morning slot. Still, I couldn’t help but look forward to our next meeting with more anticipation than usual.

After all, what harm could one more session do?