The gym closed at ten.

Most members were gone by nine-thirty. The fluorescent lights over the main floor had already been dimmed. I was the only one left on the stretching mats when Roman Hale walked over, clipboard in hand, and stopped in front of me.

He was the senior trainer—mid-forties, tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of quiet authority that made people finish their sets without being told. I had been coming three nights a week for two months. He had corrected my form exactly four times. Each time his hands had lingered a second longer than necessary.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“Trying to get the hip mobility work done.”...