In His Good Hands. Joan Kilby

loose. “Please, Dad?”

      Four-year-old Charlotte, her light brown curls bouncing, ran up and pressed her hands together. “Pweeze, Unca Brett?”

      Brett laughed. “Okay. But I’ll have to eat and run. Renita and her father joined the gym. She’s coming in tonight for her first training session.”

      RENITA WARILY EYED THE racks of variously sized dumbbells lining the walls of the exercise room like instruments of torture. Loud music pumped from speakers in the corners of the ceiling. All by herself, she stood awkwardly, waiting for Brett. She felt like the first person to arrive at a party.

      Through the glass wall she could see a girl in the local high school uniform of green gingham dress and white kneesocks doing her homework in the refreshment area. In the adjoining room, a faux blonde gym bunny with a spray-on tan pulled the handles of an exercise machine, flaunting her taut abs and sculpted body.

      Renita hated her.

      She wanted to be her.

      Mirrored walls on three sides reflected Renita’s lumpy body, mostly hidden beneath an oversize T-shirt and baggy gym shorts. She hadn’t even lifted a dumbbell and already she was perspiring, just thinking about the embarrassment of working out in front of Brett. Her vow to Lexie seemed ludicrous now. What had she been thinking?

      She was going through this for her father’s sake, Renita reminded herself. Steve was counting on her. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply and slowly, trying for some of the inner peace her mother found through meditation.

      It didn’t matter how weak Renita was on the inside, as long as she appeared to be strong on the outside. Brett could be as sexy and charming as he liked. It would be like water off a duck’s back.

      Renita breathed deeply one more time. Ready, she opened her eyes. Brett was nowhere in sight.

      She might as well do something while she waited, so she rolled an exercise ball off its stand, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. No one was paying attention. She sat on it, crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back to do a crunch the way she’d seen on TV. Back, back…

      “Hey, Renita.” Brett came through the door, clipboard in hand.

      She lost her balance, sliding sideways as the ball rolled out from under her. Arms and legs flailing, she hit the floor.

      “You okay?” Brett asked, offering her a helping hand.

      Cheeks burning, Renita ignored it and scrambled to her feet. She promptly tripped over the wide soles of her new running shoes. “I’m f-fine.”

      “We’ll get to the Swiss balls later,” he said. “First, we’ll test your fitness level—cardiovascular, strength and flexibility.”

      Renita brushed off her shorts, pushed up her glasses and tightened her ponytail. “Right.”

      She happened to glance in the mirror. And barely stifled a groan. Brett was a Greek god—blond hair, strong jaw, broad shoulders, tanned muscular arms and legs. Confronted by their reflections side by side, she found the facts inescapable.

      He was hot. She was not.

      Brett O’Connor ever begging her for a date? Not likely. She couldn’t believe she’d thought for a second she could make him want her.

      “Can you give me ten push-ups?”

      “Knees or toes?” she asked, as she lowered herself to the mat. Toes—ha! As if.

      “Knees will be fine.”

      She positioned her hands, took a breath and started to lower her torso to the floor.

      “Keep your butt down, back straight,” Brett ordered.

      A strand of hair fell in front of her glasses. Her arms wobbled. She got within a few inches of the floor and began to push herself back up, shoulder muscles straining.

      One down, nine to go.

      Five—her biceps started to burn. Six—her arms were shaking. Seven—her butt was high in the air—to hell with proper form. Eight—as she lowered herself, her arms gave out.

      “Oof.” She fell flat on her chest and face, glasses knocked awry.

      She glanced around, mortified in case anyone had seen her collapse. The only person watching was the teenage girl doing her homework in the coffee area—probably waiting for her mother or father to finish working out.

      “I’ll have to work up to ten,” Renita muttered, dragging herself to her knees. Brett offered her a hand again, and she once more ignored it, using a bench to pull herself to her feet. “How am I doing? Be honest.”

      “You’re not the most out-of-shape person I’ve trained—”

      “Thank God for that.”

      “But close.” There was a twinkle in his eye.

      “What’s next?” she growled, hating him.

      “Sit-ups. Do as many as you can in sixty seconds.”

      Back down she went, clumsily dropping onto her butt, then stretching out on her back. Ah, this was nice. Restful.

      “Whenever you’re ready,” Brett said.

      “Oh. Right.” She linked her fingers behind her head and used her stomach muscles to pull herself up. Again and again. As the seconds ticked by she got slower and slower. Never had a minute seemed so long.

      Finally Brett said, “Stop.”

      She collapsed on her back and shut her eyes. “Enough.” Maybe if she played dead he would go away.

      Brett crouched in front of her. “Renita? Time for the treadmill.”

      She opened one eye and peered at him through fogged glasses. “It’s no use. I can’t do this. Dad’ll just have to train for the Fun Run on his own.”

      “I never figured you for the type that gives up,” he said. “But if you’re that much of a wuss you’d probably stop running after a couple of blocks. That wouldn’t be much help to your father. Just as well you pack it in now, before you get Steve’s hopes up.”

      She struggled to a seated position and took off her glasses, furiously polishing away the fog with her shirt hem. “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to get me angry so it’ll stiffen my resolve. Well, even if the spirit is willing, the flesh—” she grabbed a double handful of her belly through her T-shirt “—is too damn weak.”

      “Okay, I admit I was trying to use reverse psychology to motivate you,” he said. “But I learned that from you.”

      “Me?” she said. “What are you talking about?”

      “Trigonometry. Calculus. I wanted to throw in the towel more than once during our tutorials. You told me, sure, I could give up studying. It wouldn’t make any difference if I failed the exam, because everyone knew you didn’t need brains to play football.”

      “Oh, yeah, I remember.” Amazing that she’d had the nerve to be tough with someone she worshipped.

      “I want you to know that your technique worked. I could tell that you believed in me.” He laughed. “Probably the only one who did.”

      “But…” She cast her mind back. “I thought you failed math.”

      “I did. But I had an offer from the Collingwood football team at the end of grade eleven. My parents were going to let me sign up. I decided to finish high school instead.”

      She hadn’t thought he could surprise her. He wasn’t just a footy-obsessed jock. Apparently he possessed an ounce or two of academic discipline. “I wasn’t aware of the football offer. That was gutsy of you to turn it down.”

      “I may have failed math, but you did teach me something.” His gaze lifted to hers, his eyes unshuttered.