Only nineteen and one year out of high school, Ginger Harper is already concerned about her weight. She isn't obese, not even pleasantly plump. In fact, she's a beautiful college girl, "unofficially" engaged to Victor Jordon ("VJ") Slagle, her high school sweetheart. But her forty-something mom is heavy, and Ginger doesn't want to look like her when she reaches middle-age. Because they're of similar body type, Ginger can see herself gaining weight later on if she doesn't do something about it while she's young. Her mom was once trim also. But she doesn't exercise, nor has she changed her eating habits from when she was younger, when her metabolism ran faster. The result: she's twenty-five pounds heavier than her youthful self. Her fifty-something, unemployed dad is even in worse shape. He lives off disability social security and money won from a civil suit brought against the railroad where he once worked. That was over ten years ago. These days, he's a professional couch potato with an ever expanding waistline. Her mom Yamaris, a native Spanish speaker, works as a translator.
"That's not happening to me," Ginger says, thinking about her parents. She's alone in her room, posing in front of her full-length mirror in bra and panties. She twirls and does half-turns. She pats her tummy and shakes her head, less than pleased with what her beautiful blue-green eyes see. Fat she isn't. However, her lower abdomen protrudes more than she likes and her butt could be firmer, her legs slimmer. Up until middle school, she played sports—soccer and softball mostly. In high school, the most exercise she got was beating the drums in her school band. Now? Not much, save for walking back and forth from her car to her part time job at Starbucks and short weekend hikes through state parks with her boyfriend. She's pursuing a college degree online, sitting behind her computer, adding to her sedentary existence. Exercise: ugh! She's tried it on her own, took out a trial membership at Brick Bodies, enrolled in spin classes using her family membership at the Y. But she couldn't stick with it, couldn't marshal the discipline required to make it a regular part of her life. Moreover, she isn't sure what sort of regimen would be best for her. What she needs is a personal trainer, someone to keep her going and motivated.
She plops on her bed, opens her laptop and googles in personal trainers in her region. Finding four pages worth, she spends the better part of an hour reading the reviews. She goes from page to page and finds herself returning to this handsome guy on page one, Brad Stover. He's got mostly five star reviews and a degree in kinesiology. Best of all, he curbs his fee to his clients' income. "No one who I feel I can help is turned away because of their finances," he proclaims. That's great news, because her parents aren't rich, nor does her part time work bring in enough income for her to support herself. She lives at home, hopes that she and VJ can one day look for engagement rings. Also nineteen, he's an electrician's apprentice who is expected to earn good money once he's licensed and established.
*****
Brad Stover sits behind his Dell desktop, reviewing inquiries from people interested in signing on to his program. He accepts only those he feels are sincere about improving their appearance and overall well being. His web page isn't just a bunch of hype—he really does curb his fees to fit his clients' income. He's turned wealthy would-be clients away because their goals weren't in sync with his philosophy of exercise. He's all about getting clients to make healthy eating and exercise a regular part of their life, like brushing their hair or teeth. Weight control is part of it. However, he's rejected more women than he can count whose goal is simply to shed inches and pounds so they can fit into a dress for some special event. "This is a lifetime commitment," he tells them, "a lifestyle choice that should help define the person you are."
Of course, he looks the part, a living, breathing billboard for his profession. He's twenty-nine, stands just under six-feet—muscular, needless to say, but not like those hulking, juiced-up monsters that strut about the stage of top bodybuilding events. He's run half marathons, competed in triathlons and even in power lifting meets. He can't bench press four-hundred like some of his power lifting friends. On the other hand, those friends can't run a mile in just over six minutes or maintain a speed of twenty miles an hour on a bicycle for over twenty miles. He's benched three-fifty and leg-pressed six-hundred for reps, not bad for a guy who weighs around one-seventy five and whose focus is more on cardio than brute strength.
In fact, he plans to hit the weights later this morning after reviewing these potential clients, including one that catches his eye right away, Ginger Harper. She's included a photo with her "resume." Wow! Look at that face, a picture of beautiful sweetness—that sexy mouth and warm smile and those beautifully formed cheek bones. She's in maroon cap and gown and standing next to a boy wearing the same thing. "Taken two years ago at my high school graduation," she writes. Her brown hair, wavy from the top and middle, curled at the ends, drops just below her shoulders and forms a lovely frame for her lovely face. "I need someone to motivate me," she writes, "because I'd like to exercise into old age if possible." A teen preparing for old age? He finds that cute. She goes on about her parents and limited finances. This Ginger, he realizes, is the youngest potential client that's ever contacted him. Most of them are at least in their thirties and older.
Brad resists becoming romantically involved with his female clients—no mean feat when, like him, you're conventionally good looking as well as fit. He's been hit on by a quite a few of "his" women. Thus far, he's been able to resist, thinking it best to keep a professional distance. Mixing business with pleasure, he reasons, would compromise his objectivity. So it will be with Ginger. He calls her listed cell number, leaving a message on her voice mail.
*****
Ginger's both nervous and excited. She's on her way to Walbrook Fitness, the place where Brad meets with clients by appointment only. She'd been there before, took a couple free workouts but never returned. He sounded nice on the phone, told her their first meeting will be to discuss her goals and expectations. "We'll see if you're a good fit for what I do," he had said. "Then, if you feel comfortable, we can talk finances."
Walbrook stands in a strip mall next to a deli, a health food store, 7 Eleven and Giant Food. She parks her aging Mazda hatch and enters wearing jeans and a sweat shirt. Brad did say there'd be no training today, just a meeting. A buffed, pony-tailed, twenty-something woman at the front desk takes her past the vast exercise room, noisy with the hum of cardio machines and weights clanging, and then directs her to a room in back. "Brad rents this room from us," she reveals.
Ginger peaks her head into the half-opened door. "Brad?"
He looks up from his desk, then stands and welcomes her with a warm smile. "You must be Ginger."
"Yes."
He extends his hand. "Right on time, that's half the battle." He invites her to take a seat beside his desk in this cubicle of a room.
She thinks he looks as hot as the photos on his web page. He's wearing the "uniform" of his trade, tight-fitting white T-shirt, blue sweat pants and running shoes. He's got a strong chin and jaw, and those dark eyes match his dark, close-cropped hair which he doesn't part. She thinks his beard, barely thicker than the proverbial five o'clock shadow, lends a distinguished accent to his image. Then there's his ripped muscularity. No surprise there. She crosses her legs and watches him bring up her email. "That guy in the photo," she says, referring to her high school graduation ceremony picture, "is my boyfriend VJ." He nods, then asks if VJ works out. "On occasion," she says, "though not like he did when he played football. He has been supportive of me doing this."
