"Welcome to the Oakdale Y, Mr. Gordon," said the smiling blonde at the counter who had just swiped my brand new ID card. "Your personal trainer should be here momentarily. Are you familiar with our facilities?"

I nodded. "Checked them out the other day when I joined. You've everything but a steam room and a whirlpool."

"Oh, but we do have a sauna and hot showers you can stand in all day."

I laughed. "I just might--"

"You are Mr. Gordon, my ten o'clock?" a voice asked behind me.

I turned to gawk at the speaker, a dark-haired, pony-tailed P.T. poster girl. She had a gorgeous face and a sculptured body clad in a sleeveless black halter top, matching hip-huggers, and white cross-training shoes. But no smile. Miss Stone Face.

"If we're going to work together, call me Rick." I stuck out a hand.

She ignored it, probably because both of hers held a clipboard.

"I'm Danielle. Come," she said, and marched off.

I followed, admiring her confident stride and firm posterior. She led me to a cubicle on the second floor which had a couple fancy machines and a large red mat. The back wall was all windows overlooking the major workout center below.

"Sit," she ordered, pointing to a bench beside a variety of barbells and huge balls.

I obeyed.

She tapped her clipboard with a pen.

"You're how tall?"

"Six even."

"Weight?"

I sighed. "About two-twenty, maybe more."

She scanned me quickly from head-to-toe, then said, "Stand."

I did.

Approaching, she pinched a love handle spilling over my right hip. Then she appraised me again, ultimately lifting her brown eyes to mine.

"Your body fat's way too high and there's little muscle tone," she said gravely. "You are not an athlete, are you, Mr. Gordon?"

I hesitated as her brown eyes were mesmerizing.

"Once upon a time, but . . . not now. No."

A glint of interest appeared in those eyes.

"What sport?" she asked.

"Swimming. The two hundred free-style mostly."

"Were you good?"

"I won a few races."

"Hmmm . . ." she muttered. "What happened?" She waved a hand flippantly. "You are so . . . so flabby."

I scowled.

"I tell my clients the truth, not what they wish to hear, Mr. Gordon."

I took in a large breath, then let it out quickly.

Her eyes returned to the clipboard. "Why did you join the Y?"

"Doctor's orders. He's not happy with me either."

Danielle smirked. "There's hope for you . . . if you work hard. Can you do that?"

"If you supervise, Danielle." I grinned, but her hard mask had returned.

"I shall design a program for you and show you how to use the machines," was her blunt reply. "I am a personal trainer and my services are . . . expensive."

"How much?" I asked. She told me. "Ouch That steep, huh?"

"I am a certified professional with a degree in kinesiology. If you desire supervision, Mr. Gordon, take one of our classes. I'd be happy to suggest which would address your needs best."

I nodded, then listened indifferently as she suggested a list of objectives and goals and how best to achieve them. After that, she took me downstairs to show me how to correctly use six or seven weight machines.

"I recommend you do a strength workout at least twice a week in the sequence I showed you. Every other day would be even better."

"Yes, ma'am."

Danielle ignored my sarcasm and marched me into the aerobics area. She explained precisely the benefits of the stairmaster, the treadmill, the elliptical, and the stationary bicycle. Then she led me to a desk with a computer and printed out a copy of her check-list.

She handed it to me. "Any questions, Mr. Gordon?"

"One," I replied. "If I do everything on this list here at the Y, will you acknowledge my existence when you see me, Danielle?"

Danielle tilted her lovely head, and for the first time I caught a glimpse of something real behind the mask.

"Perhaps . . . if I see you working hard."

I nodded.

"Goodbye, Mr. Gordon."

Disappointed, I just watched her go.

* * *

I worked hard every day for nearly a month, arriving at the Y soon after daybreak and staying at least two hours. I always brought the check-list and recorded exactly what I did each workout in a notebook. I seldom exercised alone after meeting some of the regulars. Their presence each morning motivated me to keep coming.

But Danielle inspired me the most. I came each day, hoping to see her. I don't know if she ever spotted me, but I often saw her when I gazed upwards at the windows of her cubicle. She'd be gesturing to a client, illustrating a technique, or striking a pose.

One Saturday I finished a sweaty two-hour workout by sanitizing the handles of the elliptical I'd been using.

"That's nice of you to do that," said a voice. "Few do."

I turned and saw Danielle. She wore a summer frock and looked more attractive than ever with her hair down.

"Do unto others . . ." I managed to stammer.

"You look much better," she said. "You've lost weight and that ugly flab."

Her blunt flattery left me speechless. My cheeks burned.

She took a step toward me. "Are you finished with your workout?"

When I nodded, sweat flew off my forehead to dampen the floor between us.

"Good," she said with a hint of a smile. "I have no clients till eleven. Would you like to take me to breakfast . . . Rick?"

"You serious?" I grunted.

She nodded.

"Can you wait a bit? I need a shower . . . badly."

The smile blossomed fully. "Yes."

Eight minutes later we left the Y together.

* * *

We were sitting in a booth at Sundance Diner, my favorite breakfast place. I'd just ordered a meat-lover's skillet, buttered Greek toast, and a large orange juice, whereas she requested a special salad with grilled chicken strips, avocado, and much fruit on the side.

When the food arrived, I dug right in. She nibbled.

"All that weight you lost will reappear tomorrow," Danielle said in her P. T. voice.

"Nope. When I take you back, I'll exercise some more. I haven't hit the pool yet, but should."

"You've been swimming . . . a lot. And you look sexy now in your trunks." Her smile was full-wattage, but I was the one who was glowing.

"You--you've been watching?" I asked.

"Sometimes . . . if I'm not too busy," she replied. "I like seeing you glide like a fish. I'm envious."

I touched the napkin to my lips so she wouldn't see me grinning. "Why? You must swim, too."

She shook her head. "I can barely stay afloat. I never learned how to breathe like real swimmers do."

"I learned as a kid. Came naturally for me. During summers I swam on the age-group team at the Oakdale Pool. I got called Frog because of how I kicked."

When Danielle laughed, my heart did a few dipsy-doodles.

"What about you?" I asked. "That lovely figure didn't come from just workouts. What sport?"

"No sport. Dance. I've been dancing since I was four. Mostly ballet, but also jazz, tap, and anything modern." She finished nibbling a chunk of cantaloupe, then propped her chin on steepled hands to peer at me. "I'll pay for breakfast if you say you love ballet, but . . . don't lie, Rick."

I shook my head slowly. "Ballet . . . opera . . . classical music . . . even jazz, I . . . uh--"

"Hate."

I nodded.

"And I detest watching most sports, especially football," she said.

"You'll go to Wrigley to see the Cubs though, right? Everyone does!"

"Not me."

"Jesus! I live for summer and baseball. Either team, Sox or Cubbies. When I'm not writing, I'm headin' for a ballpark. Love those day games."

"You--you write?"

"Free-lance articles mostly, a couple blogs, and occasionally a column for the Oakdale HAPPENINGS." I saw Danielle's interest waning rapidly. "And . . . I've written a best-seller mystery series that's kept me afloat financially. Under a pseudonym, though, not Rick Gordon."

"Well," she said slowly. "I don't read fiction or magazines. Just articles in my field to keep abreast. I'm hoping to start work on my dissertation soon."

"Pretty and smart," I said. "What school?"

"UIC."

"Hey!" I yelped. "My alma-mater. Common ground at last!"

Danielle's smile had faded. All her attention was focused on a lettuce leaf. I knew what this meant only too well. Rick Gordon had struck out again.

I had no interest in finishing my skillet, but picked at some of the hash browns, wondering what I could say to rekindle Danielle's interest in me.

The waitress arrived with the check and placed it near my plate.

"Back to the Y, huh?" I muttered.

She nodded, but her gaze didn't leave that leaf.

"Do pretty PhD candidates ever take a break to see a movie?" I asked, raising my voice a bit to regain her attention. "I love 'em. Any kind. 'Dirty Dancing' is one of my favorites, and I watch 'Saturday Night Fever' at least once a year."

Her head popped up, and her eyes glittered.

"Really? I love those films." She reached toward the check, but found my hand instead. "Do you think . . . there might be a movie about opposites like us . . . we could each enjoy?"

"Oh, yeah," I grinned. "This weekend perhaps?"

She smiled and squeezed my hand.

"Yes. I'd like that."

That evening I introduced her to that odd ball duo Bogie and Bacall in their first film together "To Have and Have Not." She loved it!