Chapter Two: The Coach
MAYA
The universe has a twisted sense of humor. One minute you're fainting in a subway station, being insulted by a man who smells like billionaire cologne, and the next you're at home... questioning all your life choices while eating noodles straight from the pot.
Because that's what I did.
After my dramatic collapse and that unsolicited motivational slap from Captain Broody, I limped back to my apartment like a soggy burrito. My body was tired, my pride was bruised, and my soul was out of office.
But I couldn't stop thinking about him.
Who just says "You need help" and walks away? Who leans into your personal crisis like he's been waiting for it? Who has forearms like that? More importantly—why did I low-key agree with him?
I hated that I was intrigued.
By the time I walked into work the next morning, my knees still felt like boiled yam. I was greeted by the smell of burnt printer ink, fluorescent lighting, and a passive-aggressive sticky note on my desk that read:
"Maya, don't forget the Nixon brief. Deadline: TODAY. —Marsha"
Marsha: queen of whispers, deliverer of doom.
I ignored her note, her voice, and her existence in general. My law firm, Taylor & Wade, was the kind of place where ambition came with a side of backstabbing. No one cared that I was dying inside. As long as I billed hours.
As I rubbed my temples, my phone buzzed.
LOLA : I'm coming over after work. Wear something ugly. We're eating and judging men on TV.
ME: I always wear something ugly. But sure.
Later that night...
Lola burst into my apartment like a glitter bomb—hair in an afro puff bun, arms full of takeout, and eyes already scanning me like a disappointed mom.
"Girl, why do you look like the auntie who warns kids not to run near gutters?"
I blinked. "Hi to you too."
She dropped everything on the table and gave me a long, squishy hug. Lola always smelled like vanilla, danger, and freshly stirred tea.
"Now talk," she said. "And don't leave out the hot stranger who rescued you from the concrete."
"Rescued is a strong word. It was more like... judged and lifted."
She raised a brow. "Ooooh. So, what did he say?"
I hesitated. Then, mimicking his voice: "You need help. Not just someone to pick you up when you fall, but someone to stop you from falling in the first place."
Lola dropped her spring roll. "Oh my God, is this a rom-com? Was there eye contact? Was his jawline disrespectful?"
"Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know." I flopped onto the couch and groaned. "He was... intense. Like, trainer intense. Probably a personal trainer who moonlights as a Navy SEAL."
She gasped. "Did he give you a card? A name? A number? A child?"
"No. Just trauma."
We both laughed, but it faded quickly. Lola looked at me, serious now.
"You gonna do something about it?"
"Do what?" I shrugged. "Hire a stranger who called me a walking accident?"
"No," she said. "Do something about you."
Ouch.
She didn't mean it cruelly. But truth tends to sting, especially when it comes from someone who loves you enough to say it out loud.
The next day...
I sat in my car outside a boutique fitness studio called "Elevate Lab." Minimalist, glassy, and intimidating. The kind of place where people drank smoothies that cost more than rent in some countries.
Lola had found it online while stalking "intense trainers in black joggers" and somehow landed on this one. A wellness center with elite coaching, rehab, body transformation, and "discretion for high-profile clients."
That sounded shady... and expensive.
But then I saw him.
Walking out of the building with a towel around his neck, black shirt clinging to every blessed muscle, and a clipboard in one hand—Mr. Coach. My subway prophet.
It was him. Damian Freaking Cole.
And God... he looked even better in daylight.
I panicked.
I started my car like I was about to drive off, but of course—he noticed. Because of course he did.
Our eyes met across the sidewalk like some cliché drama scene. He stopped. So did my lungs.
Then, he walked up to my car window.
I rolled it down two painful inches.
"You're following me now?" he asked, voice flat but slightly amused.
"No!" I blurted. "Well—yes, but not in the serial killer way. In the... friend recommended this place and I didn't know you worked here way."
"Uh-huh."
There was a pause. A smirk threatened the corner of his mouth but never fully arrived.
"You wanna come inside?"
I blinked. "What?"
"Inside the studio. I assume you didn't come to flirt with the air outside."
I swallowed.
"Well. I mean... I guess. Just to look."
"Let's look, then."
Inside Elevate Lab
The place smelled like eucalyptus, ambition, and sweat. Everything was clean, high-end, and intimidating. Fit people floated around like they didn't know what carbs were. There were rooms for private sessions, body scans, even mental wellness coaching.
Damian led me to a smaller room with a desk and a whiteboard. No pressure. No mirrors. Just him, a chair, and a jug of lemon water.
He gestured for me to sit.
I sat.
He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.
"You have a name?" he asked. "Or should I keep calling you Subway Girl?"
"Maya," I said. "Maya Collins."
He nodded once. "Damian Cole."
There it was. The name. Simple, direct, annoyingly attractive. Damian. Of course it was.
"So, Maya," he continued, arms still crossed. "Why are you really here?"
I blinked. "Because I fainted. Because my life is falling apart. Because I haven't seen my abs since Beyoncé dropped Lemonade."
His lip twitched.
"You want a body transformation," he said. "But that's not enough. Everyone wants that. What do you want?"
I stared at him. Then at the floor. Then back at him.
"I want to feel like me again," I said softly. "The real me. Not the broken, tired, invisible version that I am now."
Silence stretched between us.
Then he nodded.
"Okay," he said. "We can work with that."