The Coach – Part 1: Warm-Up

"Five minutes early," said Delia. "Good. You may stand."

Marcus stood. The private studio was a clean bright room with mirrors, a rack of steel and a clock with a loud second hand. Delia, thirty-eight, a former national-level rower, wore a black training top, a whistle and a clipboard. She had trained him for a year. He was thirty-four, an accountant, soft-spoken, and the best client she had ever had.

Three weeks ago, in the cooldown, he had said very quietly that he wished she would be stricter with him. Not in the usual sense.

She had asked a great many questions after that.

"Terms," said Delia, tapping the clipboard. "Read them aloud."

He read. No marks, no real pain, no humiliation outside the session, no photographs. Orders, positions, standing, kneeling, silence. Correction by her voice and her hand. The word was Whistle.

"What do you say if it is too much?"

"Whistle."

"What do you say if it is wonderful?"

"Thank you, Coach."

"Not yet," said Delia, and her face went still. She slipped the whistle round her neck. Her voice dropped into the same exact, level tone she used to call a race. "On the mat. Hands on the floor. Hold."

He held. She walked a slow circle around him, watching his form, speaking in short crisp commands. Lower. Hold. Breathe. Again. She corrected his spine with two fingers and his tone with a look. The clock ticked. Every half hour she crouched in front of him, tilted his face to hers and asked, "How are you?" and he said, "Content, Coach," and she gave a single nod.

"Good. We will go further."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Cool-Down.