Love Has The Best Intentions (3 page)

If Becca hadn’t acquired a perfect body yet,
it wasn’t for lack of trying. One of her recent ventures into the
realms of fitness was the purchase of an exercise bike. After a
week of nightly workouts, however, she came to the conclusion that
her own seat was completely incompatible with that of the
bicycle’s.

Next, Becca bought several fitness DVDs. The
shapely women on the covers were frozen in mid-movement and the
clincher for Becca was their happy smiles. She spent the next month
sweating, bumping into furniture and “going for the ‘burn’. The day
she found herself sneaking out of the room when the instructor’s
back was turned to brew a cup of herbal tea was the day the fitness
DVDs were banished to a cupboard.

As she perched in her cubbyhole at the
studio, sketching designs for a toilet paper campaign and nibbling
M&M’s, Becca dreamed of possessing a body where dimples peeped
coyly near her mouth instead of her knees. So she signed up for a
YMCA rebounder class, hoping to obtain the benefits of jogging
without the dangers posed by dogs, cars and pedestrians.

Memories of that rebounder class fiasco still
gave Becca a guilty twinge. Bouncing in unison with ten other
women, she began to feel almost weightless, no longer trapped
within the folds of cellulite.

After a few minutes of gentle jogging, the
instructor encouraged them to step up their heart rate. “Jump,
girls, jump! Take it higher and higher. Pretend you’re a ballerina
floating gracefully into the air.”

Even though she had a wonderful imagination,
she couldn’t see herself floating in a tutu. Becca had always felt
more in tune with animals, so she pictured herself instead as a
jack rabbit. Bounding along a dusty path and keeping a sharp rabbit
eye out for coyotes, she sprang into the air but, unfortunately,
her trajectory must have been slightly askew.

Like a rocket gone off course, Becca soared
up and across the neighboring rebounder, taking its occupant with
her on a path of errant flight.

Mrs. McCarthy suffered multiple bruises,
especially on her ample rear portions, while Becca ended up with a
badly sprained ankle. When the next brochure from the YMCA arrived
in the mail, someone had used a red marker to slash through the
rebounder class. She suspected the change had been made exclusively
on her copy.

Over orange blossom tea on a Sunday
afternoon, Lana suggested a solution to Becca’s quest for that
perfect body. “Join my health club, The Fitness Studio. You can
lift weights, work out on state of the art machines, swim ... all
with the aid of a personal instructor. The men are real foxes!”
Lana leaned back on the kitchen chair, drew a deep breath and
crossed elegantly sculpted legs. “I get all the personal attention
I need.”

“I’ll bet you do,” Becca muttered, tearing an
envious gaze from her friend’s shapely limbs. Her own legs would
never reach that length, but if the rest of her body would
cooperate, she might possibly aspire to become a pocket Venus.

“Come with me to The Fitness Studio tomorrow
night,” Lana urged. “You’ll love the new you that you become.”

Becca picked up a calico ball of fluff named
Lady BoJangles, and scratched her cat companion behind the ears.
She had to face facts: exercising her creativity each day hadn’t
taken an inch off her hips. Her lack of commitment might stem from
not investing enough money in a program. Perhaps if she splurged an
entire year’s food budget on leotards and walked to work because
her car had been sold to pay The Fitness Studio dues ...

Lana, dramatically attired in a scarlet
leotard, mini wrap skirt and matching leg warmers, led the way into
The Fitness Studio. Two men in the process of picking up their
cards to leave immediately surrendered them again and one dropped
his shoes on the floor with a thud. A third man squeezed the can of
racquet balls he was holding so tightly that the lid flew off.

During her interview, Becca was asked about
her goals in joining the club. She swallowed the wish of gaining a
traffic-stopping body and murmured a few words about needing to get
back into shape, thus implying at one time she had been a pocket
Venus.

The woman conducting the interview kindly
concealed her disbelief under a warm smile and summoned a
statuesque blond to take Becca on a tour of the facilities. As a
confirmed pizza-for-breakfast person, Becca had trouble warming up
to a guide with the radiant complexion of one who considers yogurt
and alfalfa sprouts junk food.

The machine room was crammed with bikes,
steppers, ski simulators, rowing machines, etc., all controlled by
electronic brains and equipped with more choices than a Surface or
Tablet.

Forcing a smile, she clung to high hopes for
the next stop, only to find the blue tiled pool awash with muscular
shoulders and arms cleaving the water as dedicated dolphins swam
laps with the concentration of hamsters in an exercise wheel. The
splashing reminded Becca of watching a shark attack in a horror
movie.

After touring the weight rooms, relaxation
center (sauna and massage) and aerobics areas, the women returned
to the office. Becca’s guide, barely concealing her desire to wash
her hands of this couch potato who had apparently wandered in off
the streets by mistake, shoved a sheet of paper across the
desk.

“By signing up now, you can take advantage of
our special. Six months of free classes.” Her patronizing tone of
voice implied that they were both aware Becca wouldn’t last six
months.

A muscle-bound man in nylon shorts and a
fishnet T-shirt wandered into the cubicle and attempted to wheedle
a midnight movie date from the blond. Becca stared at the
abbreviated class names on the page, too intimidated by the silent
contempt for her flabbiness to ask for clarification.

“V’Ball” caught her eye and she seized it
with the relief of a drowning victim spotting a life preserver
floating nearby. The entry sparked memories of family picnics,
friendly competition over a sagging net, grass tickling bare feet
and fireworks after dark. She was aware, however, that her skills
needed brushing up.

“Do you have a beginner’s class in
volleyball?”

The other woman didn’t bother to glance in
Becca’s direction. “There’s a sign-up sheet in the pink
folder.”

Becca located the folder in the pile stacked
precariously on the corner of the desk and scribbled her name on
the top sheet. The die was cast. She would breathe, eat and sleep
volleyball until she had that perfect body.

The first session was scheduled for a week
from Friday night. In an attempt to gain some confidence before
hand, Becca resurrected a fitness DVD and gyrated faithfully each
night while BoJangles purred in utter contentment on the couch. Ten
hours of shopping finally yielded a peach short set that she felt
made her thighs look miraculously thinner.

Inspired by memories of 4
^th
of
July family reunions, Becca also designed an advertising campaign
for a local car dealership featuring children roasting marshmallows
over a bonfire, families seated on blankets as dazzling fireworks
exploded overhead and barefoot players hitting the volleyball over
a net, their blissful expressions reflecting the twin joys of
companionship and competition. Her boss and the client expressed
delight with her concept with a bonus that would help pay for a
year at The Fitness Studio.

Friday finally arrived—and found Becca on the
expressway, struggling to fix a flat tire. Her elderly car
intuitively seemed to know any plans she’d made to arrive early and
somehow contrived to sabotage those good intentions. She was still
scrubbing grease marks off her hands with a rag as she walked into
The Fitness Studio.

Her blond guide perched on check-in duty at
the desk tonight, directing a scornful glance at the grease smears
on Becca’s peach shorts. Vowing she’d rather be lost in the desert
for three days without water than ask the other woman for
directions, Becca found a restroom and washed up before striking
off on her own to locate the volleyball courts.

After interrupting a bizarre looking session
that appeared as if it had something to do with either delivering
babies or tummy-tightening, she found herself in the hall of an
unexplored wing. Without warning, the double doors on the left
burst open and someone erupted. Becca’s first impression was of
absolute male gorgeousness. Chestnut hair curled low on an
intelligent forehead and the body beneath also appeared to be in
excellent shape.

He froze, seemingly transfixed by the sight
of the woman lurking in the hallway. Deciding an overlooked smear
of grease might be responsible for his dazed condition, Becca put
up her hand to cover her face and decided to clean up with more
care before venturing out in public again.

When she turned to go, however, he waved an
impatient hand. “You’re late. Volleyball? B team, new player?”

B? B for beginner, of course. Before her head
could finish the first nod, a sinewy arm shot out and caught Beeca
in a bruising grip as the stranger marched her into a
high-ceilinged room swarming with people clad in shorts and tennis
shoes. Four separate nets were set up and the noise level was
incredible.

Her captor shouted in her ear, “You’re late,
but it’s a good thing you showed up at all.”

“I had a flat tire—”

When he said “Wonderful!” in that hearty
voice, she had the feeling he’d have said that even if she’d just
announced she’d wiped out everyone in the building with an Uzi.

“What’s your name?”

“Becca—”

“Nice to meet you, Becky,” He continued,
“We’d have had to forfeit with only five players and every game
counts when we’re getting so close to the playoffs. You missed
warm-up so you’ll just have to jump in cold.” He hustled her across
the gym floor to a huddle of two other men and two women.

“Everyone, this is Becky.”

One of the guys grinned at her. “You’re way
too short to be on the front line. Zach, shall we run the 6-2
offense? Two setters? Hey, don’t tell me you’re a spiker.”

Gazing up at his towering height, Becca
didn’t plan on telling him anything, She’d wandered into a land of
giants. “I’m not exactly sure—”

“I’m Zach,” the first guy interrupted. “We’re
up. Listen, we don’t run a lot of quick sets, us guys prefer the
hut/go. Charlie likes the pipe set while I’m always up for back row
attacks. Watch out for those overpasses.”

“Sure,” she muttered, “if I knew what one
looked like.”

One of the other guys slapped her on the
shoulder, leaving her arm number. “I’m Alex. When you’re in the
front, don’t forget to call the numbers on the Spread O or X
Series.”

She nodded, but no one was paying attention
to her. Dazed by the flow of incomprehensible instructions, Becca
blinked at the volleyball in the hands of the man at her side. She
didn’t see any numbers.

There was a brief captains’ meeting at the
net. Things were moving too swiftly for a beginner’s lesson. She
crossed her fingers, hoping fervently that they’d split into
smaller groups for instruction.

Idly, she admired the trimly muscled thighs
visible beneath Zach’s navy blue shorts, remembering how his eyes
were almost a perfect match to the color of his outfit. As her gaze
roved over the others present, she felt a sinking feeling in the
pit of her stomach. Everyone else appeared to be bursting with
athleticism, the type of obnoxiously fit people who, whenever
conversation lags, might drop to the floor and do twenty
push-ups.

Where were the uncoordinated architects,
short-order cooks, dentists and art teachers seeking fun and
relaxation? A man nearby picked up a ball and began slamming it
against the wall, using his cupped hand to drive the volleyball
forward. These people looked as though they should be marching
behind their country’s flag in the Olympics, not beginners at The
Fitness Studio.

Zach’s return interrupted her agitated
thoughts.

“First serve!” he gloated. “Let’s cream these
guys and you,” the navy blue gaze pierced Becca’s soul, “relax and
let us feast on their feeble attempts at blocking. We’ll try to
cover until you’re into the flow.”

Which wouldn’t be for at least another ten
years at least, Becca realized, but gamely followed her teammates.
The girl in the server’s position tossed the ball into the air and
hammered it over the net, thus putting in motion the longest night
of Becca’s life.

Shocked, she heard a whistling sound as the
ball screamed back over the net. Charlie popped it up to a girl,
who, in turn, flicked the ball upwards for Zach’s smashing
spike.

Her teammates applauded the play
enthusiastically, with Alex saying, “That was nearly a Six-Pack,
Zach, he didn’t see it coming.”

Zach turned to her, those amazing eyes
sparking with excitement. “What did I say? We’ll cover for you and
let you work into the play. Get ready for a storm, cause we’re
gonna bring the thunder!”

He faced the net again while Becca gulped in
horror, struggling with the urge to run but judging from the
velocity of the ball and eight teams playing simultaneously, she
feared she’d never make it out alive.

She’d also never been much for storms.
Shaking her head, Becca realized she had barely been able to follow
the path of the volleyball, much less make a play on it. Once again
she’d jumped into failure with both feet.

Without a doubt, she was out of her league.
The inevitable moment of truth managed to be delayed, however,
until the third serve of the match when the ball roared at Becca.
She ducked.

“What’s the matter? Afraid of the ball?”
jeered one of the other girls, a brunette with a frosty eye and
sturdy calves, crouching as the other team prepared to serve.

“You got that right,” Becca muttered and
gasped as the aforementioned object came whizzing at her again.