"Hi, I'd like to speak with the manager if possible."

The woman eyed me, brown irises studying me with a frankness that screamed of a lifetime of doing just that.

"You don't look like a Karen," She finally replied, a smirk emerging.

Playing along, I answered "My hair appointment to get the bob cut is actually right after this."

Her laughter was slightly raspy, eyes shining as if studying me in a new light. "Are you looking to speak with the Sales Manager or the Fitness Manager?"

"The latter, please."

Leaning against the counter, I watched as her attention shifted towards a monitor beside her. With deft movements, the sound of a mouse clicking, she looked over what appeared to be a daily planner.

"He should just be finishing up with a client right now," She said, her gaze swinging back to me once more. "Do you mind waiting until then?"

"Of course not," I was quick to answer, patting the counter once before moving towards where they had an array of leather seating.

I didn't have to wait long, maybe all of five minutes, before I saw a man emerge from the end of the corridor and make his way towards the front desk. He moved with a noticeable limp, favouring his left leg.

His hair was no longer than a buzz cut, a five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw line. Slate gray eyes shifted towards me, a slight narrowing as he sized me up in an instant. It alone made me aware that this man was just as much as a predator that I was.

I watched with newfound interest as the woman behind the desk leaned towards the man, whispering in his ear before pointing towards me. The man's words were indistinguishable, his lips moving slightly even as he offered the woman a brisk nod.

Once more the man was moving, his limp less noticeable as he approached me. Idly I wondered if he was masking it, an attempt to look uninjured in front of me. It would have been what I'd have done, I thought.

I got to my feet as he neared me, his eyes shifting towards my resume clutched in my hand.

His voice was like that of gravel as he spoke, "I'd ask if you are here about wanting some training but I'm thinking you are more interested in the personal training position."

I nodded once as I took his hand in my own, giving it a quick shake. His hand gave the briefest of squeezes, a subtle communication from man to man - I met his force equally before a smile slid across his face.

"Drake Wilson,"

"Grayson Shaw," I was quick to answer, a smile curving my lips upwards.

"Do you mind?" He asked, gesturing towards the paper in my hand.

Without a word I handed the paper to the man, standing somewhat awkwardly as I watched as he quickly scanned over it.

"I would thank you for your service, but you were clearly more of a desk guy." He said as he glanced back at me, a smirk curving his lips slightly.

"What gave it away?" I drawled, knowing instantly that I already liked this man.

"It must have been the slight hunch to your back."

"Did you serve?" I asked, motioning towards his leg.

"This?" Drake asked, waving my words away with a flick of his wrist. "Nah. I never served. I got this beauty from a nasty car wreck a few years back - still aches like something fierce though."

"That's because you're supposed to use your cane!" The woman from behind the desk called out, having clearly been eavesdropping.

Drake turned to offer her a withering glare, his words a growl, "I am not an old man, Chantel!"

Not offering the woman, Chantel, a chance to respond, he turned back towards me. "Women, am I right?" He sighed, beckoning me to follow him as he made his way towards an office room perched off to the side.

"I heard that." Chantel muttered, though her smile gave away that she took no offense to his words.

"Please sit." He motioned towards a chair across from the desk, sinking into his own chair as he did.

The relief that taking the weight off his leg was all too apparent in an instant - his features softening slightly as the grimace fell away.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Gray. We need a personal trainer like something awful."

I merely nodded, feeling as if he wasn't finished.

My thoughts proved correct as he continued, "Long story short; one of our trainers, Kurt, got offered a job as a firefighter out in Calgary so he was quick to jump ship... Currently I, along with the other trainers, have been juggling his clientele, but it's been somewhat of a shit show."

"I understand,"

"Me, personally? I don't mind the extra hours. I got a kid at home that shits like she's a tube of toothpaste. You think it's finally empty, but lo and behold, she's squeezing out a little more."

I chuckled softly, "Appreciate the visual."

"You're welcome," He replied, his tone genuine and sounding as if my comment hadn't been sarcastic. "But I have a few basic questions for you."

"Lay it on me."

"Do you workout?" He asked seriously. Holding up his hands, he halted my response. "Now, you're probably thinking 'What?', but you would be surprised at some of the people who have applied for this job."

I glanced down, noting the corded muscles of my forearms - my vascularity all too evident in the way my thick veins ran like railroad tracks to and fro.

"Only once or twice," I finally answered as I looked back up. "I didn't enjoy it very much."

Drake's laughter was like that of a landslide. "I hate to ask, but just gotta cover my bases."

I watched with interest as he pulled out a drawer, the sounds of papers scraping against each other as he rifled through it.

Setting a stack of papers in front of him, he continued, "So I'll give you a little run-down since I believe more in a trial by fire.

"The hourly rate per session is $65 an hour. You get $40, while the gym takes the rest." He paused to make sure I had no arguments, when I didn't, he began to speak once more, "If you sell sessions, you get ten percent commission on the total cost as well as the $40 an hour. Our sales team is pretty consistent at selling three, six, and twelve session packages for new members - which get dolled out at random to any trainer who doesn't have a full schedule booked. The trainers on the other hand sell nothing less than thirty-six session packages."

"Why the difference?" I asked.

"Think of it like this, if you will. The sales team are trying to generate more income for the club, and the lower sessions are a great way to do so as well as turn people on to the prospect of training. It allows them to dip their toes in as opposed to dropping thousands of dollars without even knowing who their trainer is.

"On the other hand, for what I do - as well as you, if you work out - anything under thirty-six sessions, or three months, is just simply not enough time for the majority of clients to reach their goals."

"I understand." I offered, my words earning a nod from Drake.

"All I care about is that you are open and upfront with any of the clients you may have. Don't promise them anything you can't deliver. I've had trainers come in here and tell people they can get them to their goals in a few months, regardless of how silly they are. Gain forty pounds of muscle within six months? Easy. Lose twenty pounds in two weeks before my cruise? Done.

"Because when these trainers don't deliver them to those ridiculous goals they were promised, I'm the one that has to deal with the screaming clients who want a refund."

"I'm sure that always goes over well," I muttered. I didn't think for one second that this man would tolerate being yelled at, in any situation.

My suspicions were proven true as a grim smile spread across Drake's face, his eyes glinting as he re-lived some distant memory.

He finally spoke, a jubilant tone emerging once more, "The only person I allow to yell at me is my wife. And that's only because that woman terrifies me."

I chuckled in response to his confession, sympathizing with his plight. It reminded me of Hayden yelling at me in the middle of Sport Chek only a week ago, her eyes ablaze while she jabbed a finger towards me.

It only reinforced the knowledge that women truly were the stronger sex. Far more scarier, too.

"Hey Drake?"

The man didn't even bother to glance over his shoulder, instead answering "Yeah, Chantel?"

"Your wife is here to see you."

'Speak of the Devil and she will appear.'

I was amused as a frown emerged, eyebrows knit together as he turned to offer the woman a withering glare. "And you let her in?" He asked, the accusation plain to hear within his voice.

Chantel didn't appear fazed in the slightest, simply tilting her head to the side in amusement as she answered, "Well duh. I like her more than you."

"Women,"

"What was that I heard?"

A woman emerged from behind Chantel, strutting into the office with an easy grace.