Dad Bod (Under Construction 1)

Bryn bristles it off and continues to walk as if she hasn’t said anything. “Pshhh, girl, you are too young and too damn hot to be “nun” status. You need to get laid.”

“I have battery-operated things at home that take care of me just fine.” Apparently, Bryn and I have reached the point in our friendship where there is no such thing as TMI.

There is a witty jab right on the tip of her tongue, I can tell it, but all of a sudden her eyes go wide, and I hear a chuckle behind me. I know that chuckle. Fuck my life. I should have skipped town. Bryn giggles and makes some kind of comment about showering as she darts away.

“So,” Madden draws, “let me get this straight, darlin’. You—my hard-ass trainer—can’t handle alcohol, and you like to pretend you’re a DJ. But”—he clasps his hand over his mouth to hide his laughter—“did I hear that correctly? You won’t be joining a covenant because you have toys at home?” His brow quirks, his hazel eyes intrigued.

That smug bastard is enjoying every minute of my mortification, too much. I can’t even defend myself, and that kind of pisses me off. So I’m going with denial. Yep, that is my coping mechanism for this.

“Let’s see how smug you are after we finish cardio,” I taunt, “on two different machines today.” Then I turn quickly and start toward the cardio room, knowing he’s right behind me. Not only by the grumbled, “shit” he exhales, but I can feel him behind me. His attention is all on my backside, and that makes me, what the hell—his attention is making me giddy. I am so screwed. I cannot be crushing on this man. I simply cannot. Bryn is so right, I need to get laid, and I need to get off with something real—not battery operated.

Madden has been at it for almost forty-five minutes now. Mondays we focus a lot on cardio simply because Sunday is his rest day, and it’s important we get his heart rate up and his body back in rhythm for the weight training and toning we’ll do later in the week.

“Hey, got good news for ya. Had a follow-up with my doctor this mornin’ and he’s pleased with my progress. He was impressed with your diet and workout plan and said I could likely get off the medicine if I lose at least fifty pounds, so work your magic, darlin’.”

“That is awesome news, Madden! Did you weigh-in?”

“Didn’t dare look. Ain’t ready for that yet, Jordan.”

“No worries. We’ll get to it soon.”

I can’t let this whole session go without apologizing for vomiting all over him Saturday night. I have to give it to him, he took it all in stride. I guess as a dad he may be used to that sort of thing. Once his treadmill has halted, we walk over to the cool down area to stretch before we conclude the session.

“Soooooo,” I chirp, eyes focused solely on the floor. Then I get friggin’ diarrhea of the mouth and spew it out. “Madden, I am so, so sorry for Saturday and my behavior.” But I don’t stop there. I keep on. “And your clothes. Oh my God, I vomited all over you.” Brilliant, Jordan, I’m sure he needed the reminder. It isn’t like he lived it or anything. Yep, and because I’m awkward and apparently a lunatic, I beat the hell out of that vomit-covered dead horse. “And for the conversation you overheard earlier. That is so unprofessional. I should never ever be discussing battery-operated objects to umm … service.” My words die when I feel his finger slide under my chin and slowly lift my head to look him in the eyes. Madden has really nice eyes, and I’m not talking about the mesmerizing hazel green that completely enraptures me. That’s nice too. There is something else about his eyes. They look genuine, wise beyond their years, warming—kind of like the feeling you get of home. His chuckle interrupts my thoughts, which brings my attention to his lips. Lips, that are full, round, and inviting. He slowly darts his tongue out to wet his lips and… What the fuck, Jordan, look away. Am I still drunk?

“Darlin’, that’s not the first time I’ve ever been puked on. Belle used to do that shit all the time.”

I can feel the blush all the way to my toes. “Yeah, but you’re not my daddy,” I tease, and his eyes hood and darken all at once. Totally not the appropriate thing to say; shit, I need a do-over for today. Clearing my throat, I step back and say, “Big day today! It’s weigh-in day.” I smile and dart toward the weigh-in room, and Madden follows closely behind.

“Alright,” I instruct Madden, “shoes off and step up on the scale. Let’s see if I’m kicking your ass hard enough.”

He’s apprehensive, I can tell. His eyes are nervous, almost fear-stricken. Madden and I are more alike than I realized. He, like me, lives in fear of failure. Madden is afraid of failing himself and his daughter while I’m afraid of failing to do my job and helping him improve his health. Reluctantly, he steps up on the scale and exhales

. The scales blink rapidly for what feels like minutes, when in reality it is only seconds. The number displays, both of us transfixed on the screen. We stare for a moment then make eye contact with each other, and both of us smile our biggest smiles.

“Hell yeah!” I high-five him, and he chuckles, looking relieved. Madden didn’t only meet his goal—he crushed it, surpassing his first milestone, which was twenty pounds, and is damn close to the second. He has lost a total of twenty-eight pounds. That number on the scale makes me smile my first real smile of the day, and I feel confident as a trainer.

“So you’ve earned it,” I tell him. “I think a cupcake, just one cupcake,” I put emphasis on one, “is on your menu now.” I chart his numbers in my app, which recalculates his macros, calories, and weight-loss goals. “I’m so proud of your progress, Madden. You’ll have that date before you know it!”

He seems lost in thought, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, and now he’s the one refusing to make eye contact. He mumbles under his breath, something like, “stupid fucker,” or maybe, “taint sucker.”

“Excuse me, what did you say?” I wasn’t expecting this reaction.

He chuckles again, and I worry he’s going to rub the skin off the back of his neck. “Fuckin’ Carter,” he mumbles. “I wasn’t ready, but like his usual nosey ass, he was persistent and pushed me.”

My laugh is restrained and uncomfortable, and I feel my stomach pit a little, like I know what’s coming.

“I was browsin’. Testin’ the waters. My profile wasn’t even complete until that fucker snatched my phone and… I don’t know shit about swipin’ left and bumble bees.”

I bust out in laughter because even though that pit is in my stomach, this shit is hilarious.

“What the fuck do bees have to do with dating?”

“Bumble, it’s a dating site.”

“Right…” He pauses, rubbing the light smattering of gruff framing his cheeks. Damn, I hadn’t noticed how sexy that five o’clock shadow is… “Well, I sort of have a date Friday Night.”

I blink rapidly, but gather myself pretty quickly. It should not, absolutely not, bother me that Madden is going out on a date. That was one of his milestones to reach. I have no right to be jealous, so why the fuck am I jealous?