Head Over Heels

by Hannah Orenstein

  “Maybe later?” I suggest. “I’ll have one of whatever you’re having.”

  Ryan grabs a beer from the fridge, scans the table for an opener, and snaps off the cap. We clink bottles ceremoniously.

  “You look great,” he offers sheepishly. “I’ve never seen you, you know…” He gestures to the slick pleather pants and looks like he’s at a loss for words. “I’ve never seen you with your hair down before.”

  Was his comment flirty? It felt flirty—but maybe he only wanted to bring me along because the other guys here have dates.

  “Oh, thanks, yeah. I figured, you know, I could look a little more presentable for a night out.”

  I don’t know what else to say, so I mumble that he looks great, too. It’s not a lie; he’s in a charcoal-gray sweater that looks like cashmere and slim-fitting black pants. Away from the gym’s harsh fluorescent lighting, dressed in real clothes, he looks more like a GQ model than any real person has a right to. He may be my boss, but I’m not immune to the fact that he’s hot. I like that while he’s tall for a gymnast, he’s much closer to my height than, say, Tyler. It’s nice not to have to crane my neck to have a conversation with him.

  “So, uh, how do you know Goose and everyone?” I ask.

  “Goose and I grew up together in Florida,” he explains. “He’s been in Boston since college, and half the reason I was psyched to take the coaching job at Summit is because it’d mean seeing him regularly again. And then a lot of these guys are buddies from the gym. Here, let me introduce you.” He gestures for two people on the sprawling sectional to scoot apart and make room for us. “Move.”

  A space opens up, and we sit, our thighs bumping as we get comfortable on the couch.

  “This is Avery, the other coach,” Ryan tells the group.

  He reels off their names, though there are too many for me to keep track of them. His friends nod at me in recognition, like they’ve heard of me already and knew to expect me tonight. People say hello, then return to a heated conversation about the Patriots’ chances of making the Super Bowl. The last thing I want to do is talk about football with another guy.

  “So, you must have been a gymnast, too?” Goose asks.

  Next to him, his girlfriend, a blond girl with meticulous highlights dressed in a clingy, metallic sweater dress—Melissa, I think?—looks up.

  “Yep,” I say. “I retired after an injury about seven years ago, so I’m just into coaching these days.”

  “That’s sick,” he says, shaking his head.

  “So cool,” his girlfriend adds.

  The attention makes me slightly anxious. I know the next logical question is if I was ever in the Olympics, like Ryan, and that’s a rabbit hole I don’t want to have to deal with. So I jump in with a question of my own to divert the conversation.

  “What do you guys do?” I ask.

  Goose works in sales for a tech start-up, and Melissa teaches fifth grade.

  “It looks like they’re finishing up,” Goose says, nodding to the beer pong table. “Want to play next?”

  “Yeah,” Melissa says, leaning forward. She clutches my wrist. “Girls against guys?”

  “Let’s do us against them,” Ryan says, claiming me on his team.

  “Are you any good?” I ask.

  He gives me a cocky look. “Two world-class athletes against these two? We got this.”

  We wait a minute for the game to wrap up, and then Goose sets up the table for another round. He throws the first ball and sinks it into a red Solo cup, but Ryan doesn’t look worried at all. I expect him to step up to the table for the first throw from our side, but he encourages me to take the shot. I center myself against the table, focus on the exact spot I want the ball to land in, and steady myself. The precision reminds me of preparing for a vault—except here, my skills are shaky at best. Sure enough, my ball bounces off the rim of one cup and ricochets across the living room. I chase after it in a hurry before it disappears under the couch.

  “Try a lighter touch next time,” Ryan suggests when I return. He mimics the throw.

  I chuckle. “Are you coaching me? You know, we’re off the clock. This is just for fun.”

  He holds his hands up. “All right, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

  “No, no, I don’t mean you have to cut it out—I’m just teasing you. Show me how to make a shot.”

  Over the course of the game, between turns, he slowly but surely guides me. He’s standing inches behind me when I finally land one, and he leans forward to wrap his arms over my shoulders in a celebratory hug.

  “Yes!” he exclaims. “Great job.”

  When we win the entire game a few minutes later, it’s all because of Ryan.

  “Victory!” I cheer, throwing up both hands to punch the air.

  “We’re a great team,” he counters.

  “That one point I scored definitely helped,” I say faux-seriously.

  He doesn’t argue with me.

  We relinquish the table to the next group of players and get another round of beers from the fridge. The party has gotten crowded.

  “So, Avery, beer pong champion,” he begins, “I know we spend all this time together at work, but please don’t take this the wrong way—can you tell me about yourself?”

  I laugh. “Like, first date style?”

  “First date style,” he echoes.

  “Is this a date?” I ask, suddenly feeling emboldened by the beer and the victory and the heady rush of New Year’s Eve.

  His shoulders creep toward his ears, his lips curl, and he cocks his head to one side. “Maybe?” he asks coyly, self-consciously, like my question caught him off guard. “If you want it to be.”

  Before I can formulate the right response—do I want it to be?—he clears his throat and rushes to add, “Or if you don’t want it to be, that is absolutely okay, too.”

  “I wondered what you were thinking when you invited me out,” I say, hedging my bets.

  “I…” He falters. “I never heard you mention seeing anyone. Are you seeing anybody?”

  “I’m not seeing anyone, no,” I say. I hesitate, then decide to share a little more. “But that’s kind of why I moved back to Greenwood. I was in a relationship in LA, and then it ended.”

  I consider telling him more about my breakup with Tyler, but decide against it. That conversation would require exposing too much of myself. I don’t need Ryan to see the raw, messy bits of my life. It’s better that he think of me only as a stellar coach or maybe even as someone he might start to like. There’s no use ruining that impression.

  Ryan nods and sips his beer. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Maybe I’m imagining it, but whatever glimmer of potential there was between us before, it’s hardened now. His jaw sets a millimeter tighter than it did before. Is he calculating how long I’ve been back in town and how quickly a person can get over heartbreak?

  “It was… it was for the best,” I say. “It was time. We should’ve broken up long before we actually did.”

  I’ve never said that out loud, but it’s the truth. I’ve always been conscious of the fact that Tyler pulled me out of a dangerous spiral; I know he was so damn good for me when we met. But we both changed. We grew apart. And just because I’m grateful for how he was back then doesn’t mean I owe him forever. The idea is strangely energizing. I’ve been leaning one lazy hip against the kitchen counter, and I straighten up to my full height.

  “You’re a fighter,” he says serenely. “You’ll get back out there in no time.”

  A fighter. I can’t remember the last time someone called me that. It’s been ages since I deserved that compliment. It feels good to be seen that way.

  “Yeah, I know,” I say, testing out what it’s like to accept praise. Not bad.

  Ryan digs through an open bag of potato chips, and when he looks back up at me, he has a funny look on his face. His mouth twists to one side. I get the sense that he’s weighing whether or not to say something, and I don’t
want to interrupt his train of thought. I pick lightly at the chips.

  “For the record, I’m not seeing anyone, either,” he says finally. “I haven’t had anything serious for a while.”

  “Mmm.”

  I worry that if I say too much, I’ll scare him into changing the subject—and I want to hear more.

  “It was tough to date when I was training seriously, and then after, I jumped into a relationship, probably just to feel normal and fill all that time, you know? I figured, if I can’t be a competitive gymnast anymore, maybe I could be someone’s boyfriend.”

  I can’t help but let out a short, harsh laugh. “Oh, I know that feeling. Maybe too well.”

  His face lights up. “It’s weird, isn’t it? Going from this thing that dominates your whole world to nothing at all. It’s like, well, shit, can I even be anybody else?”

  I exhale deeply. “I know what you mean.”

  “But anyway, that didn’t pan out. Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” I say.

  He takes another chip and turns it over in his hand, considering it.

  “So I guess what I’m saying is that, if this were a date, I wouldn’t mind,” he says.

  I like the hopeful twinkle in his expression.

  “Well, I—” I start to say.

  “Hey, everyone!” Goose booms from the couch. “One minute to midnight. The countdown’s coming.”

  He double-fists electronic devices, cutting off the music with his phone and using the TV remote to take the Times Square broadcast off mute. I hadn’t even noticed Melissa bustling in the kitchen, but while Ryan and I had been talking, she must have poured champagne into two dozen plastic flutes lined up in rows on the counter.

  “Here, help me pass these out,” she instructs as she squeezes by me, clutching four to her chest.

  I’m frustrated that my conversation with Ryan got interrupted. I grab as many flutes as I can carry and make my way into the crowd, passing them out. When I turn back to get more, Ryan is behind me, his gaze locked on the trembling, overly filled drinks. I hand three plastic flutes to strangers and keep a fourth for myself. I feel too self-conscious to take up prime real estate in a spot in front of the TV, so I move to the edge of the party, near the windows. There’s a roaring, rhythmic cheer coming from the hordes of tourists in Times Square that signals the new year is mere seconds away. I wonder how many millions of people must be watching this same exact sight, and what unfathomable pressure that must place on whoever is responsible for lowering that massive crystal ball.

  “Ten, nine, eight,” the party chants.

  I shrink closer to the windows, unsure whether or not to join in. They aren’t my friends.

  “Seven, six, five,” they shout, growing louder.

  Suddenly, Ryan slips between the couple to my left, and he’s by my side.

  “Hi,” he breathes.

  “Hi,” I say, instantly feeling less alone here.

  He places his hand on the small of my back.

  “Four, three, two, one! Happy New Year!” everyone announces.

  All around us, couples erupt in celebratory kisses. I turn to him just as he turns to me. A curious grin plays on his face. His fingers slide over my waist, keeping us close. I place my hand lightly on his chest, tilt my head up to look at him, and we kiss. I feel a giddy burst of adrenaline, and it’s not only the festive energy radiating throughout the room. Despite harboring a crush on him for years, I never fathomed a world in which I stir up the same dizzying feelings that he creates in me. Ryan pulls back ever so slightly, and a smile curls on his lips.

  “Happy New Year,” I whisper.

  “I think I like this year already,” he says softly.

  He rests his drink on the windowsill, then pulls me closer to him, sliding his hands over my hips. His embrace is warm and thrilling. I feel confident enough to let my hand roam from his chest to his shoulder to his neck, feeling the powerful muscles underneath his sweater. My fingers brush the plush edge of his hair. He nuzzles my cheek and trails kisses down the side of my neck. The sensation is electrifying, and my eyes flutter open.

  Most of the crowd has moved on from making out; the music is back on. It suddenly hits me that I’m kissing Ryan—not just Cute Ryan from my teenage dreams, but Ryan, the coach I work alongside every day. The person who, like me, is responsible for molding an Olympic champion, and probably shouldn’t be distracted right now. A thick blanket of self-consciousness settles over me, and I tense up.

  “You okay?” Ryan asks, dropping his hands from my waist.

  I stare out at the room of people. “I, uh, I… I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” he asks, looking concerned.

  “Should we be doing this?” I ask, pushing my hair back from my face.

  Anxiety creeps into my chest.

  “Is this too soon?” he says, inching away from me.

  I take a deep breath. It’s hard to face him.

  “I like you, but I didn’t expect to like you like this,” I say, fumbling for the right words. I’m not brave enough to say what I really mean, which is that I didn’t expect to like him this much. Crushes never really work out that way—just because you think someone is attractive from afar doesn’t mean shit when it comes to having a real connection. “Should we maybe, I don’t know, think about this? I don’t want to mess up what we have at work.”

  He rubs his jaw and doesn’t look at me right away. “Sure thing.”

  “I should go,” I say.

  He doesn’t protest.

  The entire ride home to Greenwood, I replay that kiss in my mind and regret leaving.

  JANUARY 2020

  • CHAPTER 10 •

  Summit is closed on New Year’s, but opens the following day. I pull into the parking lot with one minute until practice, although I don’t get out of the car right away. Ryan’s Subaru is parked, and I’m worried about entering the gym without Hallie as a buffer. I spent most of yesterday ping-ponging between desire and self-doubt; I want to let myself enjoy the memory of that tantalizing kiss, but I know I shouldn’t. Without the heady buzz of the party clouding my judgment, it seems awfully stupid to jeopardize my professional relationship for the chance at anything romantic. We can’t risk Hallie catching on; she’s sheltered enough that a midnight kiss between her two coaches would sound scandalous, not festive. It would be a distraction she can’t afford to indulge in right now. And beyond that, Ryan is the closest thing I have to a friend these days. I don’t want to ruin that. The thought of explaining this tangle of emotions, responsibilities, and fears to Ryan makes me queasy—I’d rather simply pretend the kiss never happened. We were tipsy; I was lonely; that’s that. So I wait until I see Hallie’s mom drop her off before I dare get out of my car and enter the building.

  Hallie is usually happy to chatter away the first morning after a break, like a weekend or a holiday. But when I find her and Ryan on the floor, she’s not dilly-dallying—she’s already running laps. It looks like she doesn’t want to squander a moment of practice.

  “It’s 2020,” she pants as she cruises past me. “No time to waste.”

  Ryan turns ever so slightly toward me with his arms crossed over his chest. “Hi,” he says simply, like he’s testing out the vibe between us.

  “Morning,” I say, maybe a bit too businesslike.

  “How was your day off?” he says evenly, turning his gaze back to Hallie.

  I follow suit. It’s easier to watch her than to look at him.

  “Fine. Yours?” I say, aiming to sound slightly softer this time.

  “Fine,” he replies.

  Hallie jogs past us again, and we fall into uneasy silence.

  “Are you cold in here? It’s cold in here,” he says, sometime after her third lap. “I’m going to go fiddle with the thermostat.”

  He stays across the gym for longer than it takes to adjust the temperature.

  It strikes me that even if I want to pretend the kiss never happened, he may not. Ma
ybe he feels rejected, or embarrassed, or like he misread the situation entirely. Or maybe he came to the same conclusion that I did, that getting involved with each other can irreparably damage the work we’re doing. If Hallie overhears our awkwardness, there’s no way she wouldn’t pick up on the fact that something is off.

  I glance at Hallie—she’s been doing a variation of this same warm-up routine since she was in preschool. She doesn’t need me to hover over her and bark instructions. I leave my regular perch by the stereo and head to the back of the nearly empty gym to find Ryan leaning against the wall and looking at something on his phone.

  “Hey, can we talk?” I ask quietly. “Like, for real.”

  We’re far enough that Hallie won’t hear us, but still, I’m nervous.

  “Hi, what’s up?” he says, making a valiant effort to appear casual.

  I wring my hands and steel myself for a moment of terrifying honesty. “I had so much fun with you the other night, and I really appreciate that you invited me out,” I begin. “It was all amazing, including the kiss, but I… I don’t think it should happen again. I think we’d be better off as friends.”

  “Oof,” he says coolly. “You’re quick to turn me down.”

  “No! That’s not it. I mean, if the circumstances were different, I’d want to give us a real shot.”

  He raises one eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  I take a deep breath and try to summon the vulnerability I need to pull off this conversation successfully.

  “I like you. A lot. I really appreciate that we come from the same world; it makes me feel like you understand me better than most people. I think that if we…”

  This is mortifying to say out loud, but I have to keep going.

  “If we got together for real, it would be incredible,” I say. I’m fully emotionally naked in front of him now. “But that scares me, because we could get caught up in whatever’s between us, and that could affect our ability to work together.”

  His face softens. He doesn’t look angry—just sad.

  “This isn’t just about us,” I remind him. “It’s about Hallie, too. This is a once-in-a-lifetime shot for her.”