“What kind of tests?”
“Things like the forty-yard dash, bench press, vertical jump. There’s a long list of evaluations and each will require me to be in top form. I can run the forty in seven-point-four-nine seconds, but I need to shave at least one-point-five seconds off that number if I want to have a chance.”
“That’s insane,” Taylor said.
He shrugged. “Welcome to the NFL.”
Taylor sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. She studied him, taking in the determined set to his strong jaw. He was serious about this.
“I’ll be honest,” she said. “I don’t get why you would hire someone you saw in a YouTube video. There are trainers out there who would kill for the opportunity to work with you.”
“Are you saying you’re not one of those trainers?”
“I’m not saying that at all. I’m just trying to understand your motives here. Why me?”
“I already told you. I like your training style. That hard-core, in-your-face approach is what I need to kick me into high gear.”
The more he explained, the more she was convinced that he really was legit.
Taylor decided to be up front about her lack of a degree. The one thing she did not need right now was to get excited about this job and then have him back out of the deal because she hadn’t graduated from some fancy university.
“Before we go any further, you need to know that I’m not a certified dietician,” she said. “Actually, I don’t even have a degree.”
He regarded her with a quizzical frown. “So you are trying to talk me out of hiring you?”
“No! No, I just don’t want there to be any confusion here.” She picked up a potato chip and tossed it back into the basket. “Not too long ago, I was promised a position—one that I am one hundred percent qualified for, I might add. But when the people who wanted to hire me learned that I didn’t go to college, they backed out of it.”
His perfectly shaped lips pressed into a thin line as he studied her.
Taylor braced herself for the blow she knew was coming. She was pissed she hadn’t gotten a second brownie out of him before the inevitable end of their nonexistent partnership.
“Is that you in those videos on YouTube?” Jamar finally asked.
“Yes,” she answered slowly.
“And are you the trainer all those Yelp reviewers were raving about?”
She nodded.
He shrugged. “Then why do I care if you have a college degree? Bill Gates didn’t have a college degree when he started Microsoft.”
She’d been so busy mentally preparing herself for disappointment that it took a moment for his words to register. He still wanted to hire her?
Taylor tried to contain the squeal threatening to explode from her mouth. Jamar Dixon would never understand the gift he’d given her with those words. Growing up surrounded by people who collected degrees the way some people collected baseball cards, her refusal to go to college had only added to her odd-duck status in the Powell household.
Having Jamar as a client could turn her entire business around. His endorsement could lead to legions of his fans clamoring to work with the fitness consultant who put their beloved favorite football player back in the game.
“I realize that what I’m asking you to do is pretty intense,” he continued. “I’ll pay you fifteen thousand dollars if you’ll work exclusively with me for the next two months.”
Thank God she hadn’t chosen that moment to take a sip of her carrot juice, because it would be all over the table right now.
“I looked up the average charge for personal trainers,” Jamar continued, as if he hadn’t just blown her freaking mind. “According to most of the websites I researched, trainers charge between forty and seventy dollars per hour session. I figure you average around five clients a day, so that would be three hundred fifty dollars per day. Am I right?”
“Umm . . .” was all she managed. Her brain was still stuck on fifteen thousand dollars.
“Do you see more than five clients a day?”
“I . . .” She shook her head. This was banana pants.
“I should mention my one caveat,” he said. “And, before you ask, it’s something I’m not willing to compromise on.”
Unease trickled down her spine as she took in his intent, resolute stare.
“What is it?” Taylor asked.
“No one can know we’re working together.”
CHAPTER SIX
As he sat across from her, Jamar tried to come up with the most accurate word to describe the look on Taylor Powell’s face. Horrified? Maybe some confusion. Possibly a bit of indignation.
“What do you mean no one can know I’m working with you?” she blurted.
Definitely indignation.
“If we’re going to work together, we have to keep it under wraps.”
“But . . . but why?”
As if on cue, an older woman in a Texas Longhorns sweatshirt walked up to their table and asked, “Excuse me, but aren’t you Diesel Dixon?”
Jamar nodded and pasted on a good-natured smile. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“I knew it! I told Barry, ‘That’s Diesel.’ ” She pointed to the man sitting a couple of tables over, and then she went on for a solid five minutes, regaling them with stories of legendary home games she’d witnessed and a list of Longhorns greats she’d watched play over her thirty years as a season ticket holder.
“I would put you in the same category as Ricky Williams and Cedric Benson,” she said. “Some of the best running backs to ever wear the burnt orange and white.”
“That’s fine company to be in,” Jamar said. “Thank you for stopping by—”
“You should think about coaching for them now that you have that busted knee,” she said. “The Longhorns would be lucky to have you.”
“I’ll tell that to Coach Green when I visit the team in a couple of days,” he said.
Jamar prayed she’d walk away. If he had to maintain this smile a second longer, his face would break.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your meal,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “I just had to come over when I saw it was you.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” he said again, his shoulders slumping in relief when she finally returned to her table. He looked at Taylor and said, “That’s why I don’t want anyone to know we’re working together.”
Her brows scrunched in genuine incredulity. “So you have fans who recognize you. It still doesn’t explain why no one can know we’re working together. People work with personal trainers all the time.”
“I’m not most people, Taylor. You can work out with your other clients at a local gym and no one would bat an eye. If people see me working out with you—especially with the type of intense workout my training will require—that’s when the speculation starts.”
He fidgeted with the buckle on his watchband as he grappled with how much he should divulge. She hadn’t agreed to work with him yet, but he couldn’t make this kind of demand without giving her at least some explanation.