Mike in love with me by Christmas, what nonsense. He would say anything to get out of going to the gym, like a twelve-year-old. More articulately, granted... 

What would it feel like, to have someone like Mike in love with me?  She nearly stomped her foot, as if it could squish the unbidden thought. They couldn't manage a grocery list without a battle of wills, let alone a relationship. But what would it feel like?

Daya had never taken the elevator in VITAL before, but she didn't have the heart to march her heartthrob down the ramp while he was still on crutches. So, she covered up her discomfort with a grin while waiting on the slowest elevator in the world. The sign on its doors enticed: Climb the ramp up, lower your blood pressure!

It moved at the thoughtful pace too, so Daya burst out ready for action. She might have pressed the button that kept the doors opened for Mike to limp out with a bit too much vigor. Thank you, Daya! sounded suspiciously enthusiastic.

But they were not there yet, oh no! A tall black woman turned around at the sound of Mike's voice, abandoned her previous direction and advanced on them.

The women wore a gym outfit that exploited the potency of neon to the max. There was a song that went with a shirt this pink/orange/lime. Daya could not quite put her finger on it, but she tried her best. 

'Focus on Me' by Grande?  The indomitable frizzle of hair ready to spring into an Afro nimbus went with that song too.

The wearer's enthusiasm at the sight of Mike matched the explosion of colors and hair. "Michael, look at you going to the gym, and still on crutches! You are my hero."

"He is serious about his rehab," Daya said diplomatically, itching to mention how hard it was to part him with his couch. She contemplated hiring a bulldozer out of Fort Mac. If it could move tons of rock, it could move Mike.

The vibrant lady beamed at her. "And you must be Daya. I wonder how you managed this miracle of motivation. My husband would not lift his butt from the TV if he has a hangnail."

"Good afternoon, Carol," Mike put in hastily. His shoulders looked stiffer to her than the immobilized leg. "You're correct: this my life coach, Daya. Daya, this is my supervisor, Carol." 

He said it all in one breath as if mimicking his boss, but where Carol's words run into one another because she was buoyant, Mike sounded listless. 

Come on, Mike, look at all the people here, listen to the beat. This is a happy place, a source of pulsating energy.

"I want a recipe for that green smoothie, too. Michael glows from it," Carol said. A faint accent lurked in the back lanes of Carol's voice, making Daya think she'd be called my dear at some point. She appreciated when she wasn't, otherwise it would be too much like her mom. 

"I don't think you have anything to worry about in this department," Daya said. "You have an amazing complexion, Carol."

Carol patted her plump cheeks—her black skin was so wonderfully smooth that she could moonlight by advertising cosmetics. "It is, it is, but it never hurts to give our Lord a bit of help, eh?"

Small talk was great, Carol was great, but she wanted to get on with it. She grew tired of watching the lumpy martyr out of the corner of her eye. Mike couldn't bolt away from her on his bum leg, but she would not put it past him to plop to the ground and refuse to go any further. 

"I'll print the recipe for you," Daya promised. 

Mike's expressive face grew more pained by the minute. Gosh, this slightly aquiline nose looks good when he is moody... She shouldn't derive pleasure from his discomfort, but by whatever reason—

"Well, Daya, it was wonderful to put a face to the name, but my Zumba is about to start," Carol said, darting glances at the other yoga-panted, bottle-toting, chatting ladies streaming past them. They all made a bee-line for the glass-walled space divided into three gyms by heavy leather curtains. Each partition was the size of a basketball court. 

The upbeat Latin rhythm for the popular dance workout was already blaring from the farthest of the gyms, covering up the dribble of basketballs at the closest one. The high school crowd playing the ball did not bat an eyelash at the music.

But it sent shivers through Daya. Parts of her body moved on their own accord, not yet dancing, but making everything else blurry. She wanted to let go, forget about herding Mike to an appropriate exercise machine,  ignore the atrocious quality of the audio, and dance.

Carol picked up on the dancing vibe in the air too and shimmied. "Best thing in the world, dancing. A fun workout too. You two should join us once Michael is better."

"No. She is teaching me how to skate," Mike blurted out.

Distracted as she was by the music, his words took a moment to register with Daya.

For a second Mike seemed startled by his own abruptness too, by how rude, how final, how curt that no sounded. 

Then an unfamiliar stubborn expression took over his face; his jowls shifted under the skin, his cheekbones solidified. 

He no longer looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. His eyes gripped hers, challenging her to drop a no of her own like a brick on his injured foot in front of Carol. 

The weasel thought he had found a way to prove that she had an Achilles heel. Ha!

"We'll start with aquasize to prep him," Daya said. That would bring the wince back and he wouldn't get the admission he wanted. Win-win.

The image of plastic floats strapped across Mike's chest like bandoleer on a comic book hero, while he bobbed in the pool with the old ladies, was nearly enough of a payback for putting her on the spot.

Carol forgot about her class, whipping her head between them.

"Right." Mike inclined his head forward, a picture perfect of a stubborn toddler who would not yield an inch. "Aquasize first, to warm me up for my quad axel."

Did he think reading wiki articles was enough to know everything about the figure skating? Or that he knew everything about her? Quad axel, my ass.

She addressed herself to Carol, imitating elated tones of the Japanese sports commentators. "Even Daijiro Hasegawa, the Olympic Gold medalist, did not land a quad axel in competition yet."

"Neither did I, neither did I," Mike said. A master of self-deprecating smiles, this time he didn't intend it to diffuse the tension. "Hasegawa and I, we have so much in common."

Carol chuckled, and fled to the gym, jogging along the glass wall, out of the way of the rambunctious teens on the court. 

Out of our way too, Daya realized. She had good instincts, this Carol. Mike didn't.

"Let's go, Hasegawa." She would have dragged Mike by the ear if it was not for his crutches. "You can't even start imagining what he does to be where he is. The hours, the pain, the nonsense—so stop pretending you do. Never pretend to get it. Ever."

Her cheeks flushed so much, she wished she could splash the water from the drinking fountain into her face. She didn't mean to sound so pissed, but Mike dropped his eyes to the floor. It qualified as success.

"There." She pointed him to two machines. "These are designed for people with the low-body injuries. You could pedal with your arms or pull yourself up the climbing rope."

He sat down heavily at the closest one, red spots blooming in his cheeks. The birds of a feather flock together...

She exhaled in frustration. "You did not even try to choose, did you? Just took the path of least resistance. Like with everything else." 

This was a wrong thing to say, a personal thing, not professional. She was pissed with him, unreasonably, inexplicably, irrationally mad at him. Everything out of her mouth in the past few minutes was not something she could tell a client. "Ah. Sorry. I'm sorry."

Weak sauce. "Try to stretch out, and engage your core, right here, see?" She put her hand in the middle of his belly and he grimaced. She persisted: "Don't just pull with your hands and shoulders or you will hurt yourself."

I'm already hurt, his eyes said.

"Try it, and I will adjust the resistance."

"Daya?" He flexed his shoulders. "I chose this machine because I can turn it into something appealing in my mind, convince myself to see this exercise as cool. I imagine myself climbing Sogdian Rock on Alexander's orders, to defeat proud Arimazes. The night is growing short, and I have only till the first light to ascend it. If I lose my footing and fall to my death, I must do so in silence, to keep the thing secret."

Why did it make her angrier? She could stand being proven wrong. And he was engaged in the workout, something that she had wanted.  But a sneaking suspicion occurred to her. 

She looked into his eyes, saw nothing but an earnest gaze amplified by his glasses. "Mike, I know you mean well, but stop trying to sell me on your silly book."

His eyes flicked to her hand that found a way to his shoulder. She must have gripped it while trying to get a better eye-contact. 

Now that she noticed that he had noticed, the only thing she could do was not jerk her hand away. It was harder than keeping it on a hot pan's handle. But she had to grunt and bear, because if she didn't, he'd start imagining things, particularly after that stupid love-on-demand conversation that they had. In love with me by Christmas, will you! Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense...

She was subconsciously copying her domineering coach's gesture, that's all. She probably did it all the time with her other clients.

"Daya, did you meet Hasegawa when you trained back in Toronto?" Mike asked. The question took on a bizarre personal dimension because of the intimate proximity of his face.

"Different club," Daya replied, sliding her hand away and straightening. "I saw him in practice and in competitions a few times. He is incredible. Why?"

"Just curious."

In Daya's experience, nobody was just curious about Hasegawa. 

That the Japanese champion trained in Toronto was not exactly a piece of trivia she'd expected a random person to know. Mike definitely had been researching figure skating, and she couldn't decide how she felt about it.

So, she shrugged, pretending that she bought it. "Well, now you know. Let's focus on you walking, not on his skating or my skating... or any kind of skating. Okay?"

He nodded.

"Good luck reaching the top of your rock. I'll go hit the weights." 

She stuck the earbud in and bounded up the stairs to the kettlebells rack to the latest K-pop tunes. Keeping 45 pounds of cast iron from flying out of her grasp on the upswing or crashing down on her head on the downswing made her almost forget the dopey fall-in-love fitness plan.

It was harder to ignore the arena materializing in her mind. She'd start counting her reps, get in the zone with the music, and then a thought would intrude. Right there, after that pause, I could jump a triple flip-double axel combo...

Curse you, Mike!

She might have accidentally doubled the rep count on a set or two because she was so distracted. By the time she finished her workout, her arms were shaking, her bra clung wetly to her skin, soaked with sweat. 

In a sour mood, she advanced on the guy whose ears should have been smoking by now from her curses.

Mike's cheeks and neck turned nearly as bright as Carol's Zumba outfit had been. While his freckles became engulfed by these pink splotches, the runaway red curls still stood out plastered to his forehead. And his Starks of Winterfell tee shirt soaked in so much sweat, she itched to wring it out for him. 

He was a fish out of water in the gym.

"Who won?" she whispered into his ear as if they were two kids playing a secret game.

He tossed her an offended glance above his glasses, as in seriously, Miss? "Alexander. I don't do alternative history re-enactments."

And it put you on the winning side, Daya thought, but did not point it out loud. He'd just feed her hogwash, try to prove that he was not a regular human, someone who both wanted to win and cheered on the winners. "High five then, brave hero! Grats on your first workout."

Mike's brows floated up, and his hand floated up, presenting Daya with his palm for slapping, both gestures uncertain. 

Maybe he didn't get much praise in his life? He seemed too accomplished for that; too clean, too well-spoken. 

Some people shied away from the spotlight, that was his case, probably... and his hands were envy-worthy. She slammed the palm he offered her so hesitantly with gusto. A tangible energy shot through her when their hands connected—did she slap too hard? 

"Sorry, Mike, adrenaline rush."

He blinked, inspecting his hand. "No harm done."

Growing giddier by the minute, Daya let the laughter bubble up. It felt good to have him here. A client's success was an uplifting thing, but her excitement went beyond that. 

She hadn't felt happy for a while, so why fight instead of reveling in it? "It's good to see you away from the couch. I hope that after we're done with your rehab, you'll stick with the gym. It's just... just so good."

She cut herself off before saying the same thing for the third time. "Sorry if I sound like an over-caffeinated squirrel, but I want you to experience a sense of well-being that comes with regular exercise." 

There, this sounded half-way professional. Except for the irrepressible grin stretching her lips. 

"While we are on the subject, will you come with me for the next doctor's visit?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. "Even if we have to pay for parking?"

Her heart went out to him. I'm an idiot. It was Mike's first serious injury. Some people wore them as badges of honor, some got freaked out. It scared him; he didn't trust his body to do its job.

Before the professional Daya stepped in, the impulsive one draped her arm around Mike's shoulders and gave a little squeeze.

"I'll come, don't worry. It feels awkward for a while, but with physio and exercise, it's not that bad. You'll do fine, you'll see."

She came with him to the medical centre.

Twice.