In His Good Hands. Joan Kilby
Читать онлайн книгу.
a navy polo shirt sporting the gym’s logo, emerged from the office. “Hey, Renita. G’day, Mr. Thatcher. Steve, isn’t it? Nice to see you again.”
“Brett O’Connor?” Steve turned to Renita with a frown. “You didn’t tell me this was Brett’s gym.”
“Didn’t I?” She deliberately hadn’t mentioned Brett by name, worried that it would deter Steve, even though he was a rabid footy fan and a supporter of Brett’s old team, the Collingwood Magpies.
“Welcome to the gym.” Brett extended a hand to Steve, nodding to Renita. “I’m pleased you’re taking me up on the two-for-one gym membership.”
“Dad’s interested, not me.” She stepped back and nudged her father forward.
He threw her a startled glance. “But you said—”
“I said I might.” Okay, so she’d fibbed a little to get him to come. It was for his own good. While she was happy to persuade her dad to sign up, it didn’t mean she was going to join. Sure, she needed to lose weight, but she had no desire to sweat and puff, especially around Brett.
“I’m not joining unless you do,” he protested.
“Do you follow football, Steve?” Brett said casually, leaning against the counter.
“Of course.” Almost grudgingly, he asked, “How do you like Collingwood’s chances for the cup this year?”
Brett rattled off a bunch of football statistics and tossed around names, drawing Steve deeper into conversation. Renita’s dad bought it hook, line and sinker, even reciting Brett’s own stats to him. As if the conceited ass didn’t recall every goal he’d kicked. If her father still harbored a grudge for the sporting hero, he wasn’t showing it.
“Which was your high point?” Steve asked. “The year your team won the Grand Final or when you were awarded the Brownlow Medal?”
“I ought to say the Grand Final, but if I’m honest, it was winning the Brownlow.”
“I don’t blame you. Top honor,” Steve said gruffly. “How’s that knee of yours?”
“I had surgery on it last year. It’s fine unless I work it too hard.” Brett took a clipboard from the counter and passed it to him, along with a pen. “If you’d like to write down your name and contact details we can send you more information. No obligation, of course. What type of membership would suit you best—yearly, monthly or a ten-visit pass?”
Steve scribbled his name and phone number. “What’s the best deal?”
“Yearly,” Brett said. “But if you take out a trial three-month membership, and later want to convert to annual, we’ll do a pro rata.”
“The three-month trial sounds good.” Steve handed back the clipboard.
Brett tried to pass it on to Renita. “We have a two-for-one special, remember?”
“I told you, working out isn’t my thing.”
“Come on, Renita,” Steve urged. “We could split the cost.”
“Yeah, come on, Renita,” Brett echoed, a twinkle in his eyes.
How dare he tease her? Those days are over, pal.
“How about a tour of the facilities?” she replied. “I’d like to see what the bank is investing its money in.”
He gazed at her for a beat. “All right.”
He led them across to the cardio room, where stepping and rowing machines, elliptical trainers, reclining bicycles and treadmills stood empty. Brett flicked one of the Out of Order signs. “I plan on replacing all these machines as soon as I can get the financing.”
“That sounds good, doesn’t it, Renita?” Steve said.
“Sounds expensive.”
Next to cardio were glass-fronted squash courts, also not in use. Across the way was the multipurpose room. “That’s Janet, one of our fitness instructors, giving a personal training session.”
Brett moved into the weight-training room. Two men were working with free weights while a woman sweated it out on a machine. “All these will be replaced, too. Tea and coffee over there,” he went on, indicating three small tables with seating for about twelve. “I plan to put in a cappuccino machine.”
“It does appeal,” Renita murmured.
“Plus fresh carrot juice for a healthy alternative,” Brett added. He started up the central flight of stairs, toward the source of loud music and thumping feet. “Here on the second floor we have the aerobics room. We’ll add to the range of classes as demand grows, so there’ll be something to suit everyone.”
Renita followed, leaving Steve breathing hard, to bring up the rear. The door to the aerobics room was shut, so she looked over a half wall into the far squash court, which had been turned into a spin class room.
“I’ll be replacing all those bikes, too. And putting a new office in over here,” he added, drawing her attention to an unused space beneath a window at the front of the building.
He had confidence to burn, she’d give him that.
Steve made it to the top of the stairs and slumped onto a padded exercise bench.
“You okay, Dad?” Renita asked. He nodded, blotting his forehead with the back of his hand. She turned to Brett. “He would have to take it easy to start.”
“We tailor training to the individual. There’s also a low impact seniors class.” Brett glanced back at her. “There’s plenty for the younger crowd, too. Sure you don’t want to join?”
“She’ll join.” Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“No, Dad, I…” Renita stopped, not wanting to argue with her father in public.
“I’ll be downstairs if you two want a moment.” Brett ran down the steps, leaving them alone.
She sat beside her father on the bench.
“Renita, honey, you were right. I’ve been fooling myself that walking is enough. Climbing up those stairs just now…” Steve wiped more beads of perspiration from his forehead. “I need more exercise. But I don’t want to do it alone.”
“The last time I worked out was in high school, and that was under duress,” she argued. “A gym is my worst nightmare. Maybe I could do the Fun Run with you. We could walk if we had to.”
“Ten miles is a long way for us couch potatoes, even walking.” He peered at her from behind his half-fogged glasses.
Renita dropped her gaze. Her mum was busy with her yoga classes and meditation. Jack—her brother—had his hands full running the local Men’s Shed volunteer group and manufacturing the GPS he’d invented for small aircraft. Her sister—well, Lexie was an artist, so absorbed in her portrait painting that she could barely manage her own life. It would have to be up to Renita to help their father.
And what about her own health? If she didn’t start moving, she’d just get fatter and fatter, to the point where she’d have real problems like her dad. Was that the future this brainiac was creating for herself?
“Okay, we’ll do it together.” She gave him a hug, and his arms tightened around her, his jaw raspy against her cheek. “Let’s go tell Mr. Superstar.”
Downstairs, they found Brett putting away free weights in the exercise room.
“We’d both like to join,” Renita said. “And have the two-for-one deal with a personal trainer.”
“Excellent.” Brett hefted a pair of twenty-five-pound dumbbells as if they were feathers, and placed them in the rack. “I’ll take you both on myself, if you’re game.”
Lifting