“I’m not stressed,” she snaps.
She looks wild, with a cloud of frizz escaping her ponytail at the temples. But then her expression softens. She must understand, on some level, how that’s just not true.
“I’ll try it once,” she agrees. “If Ryan thinks it’s a good idea, too.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I promise.
Hallie shoves her feet into sneakers, stands up, and slings her gym bag over her shoulder.
When she turns to walk away, I catch a glimpse of what’s on her screen. I recognize it because I saw it, too, earlier that day—Delia Cruz’s Instagram encouraging her followers to donate to RAINN, a nonprofit that supports sexual assault survivors. Hallie’s broad shoulders look small and slumped as she disappears around the corner and heads outside to her mom’s waiting car.
I know Ryan’s still inside, probably cleaning up alone. All the other classes and team practices have wrapped up for the night, and the rest of the coaches have headed home. The lobby is empty by now, too; the usual rows of Lululemon moms playing games on their phones have cleared out of the plastic folding chairs. I head back into the gym to find Ryan and talk to him about setting Hallie up with yoga lessons.
Sure enough, I find him in the back corner of the main part of the gym, cleaning chalk dust and sweat off crash mats with a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels. He’s changed the music from its usual Top 40 radio station to what must be his own classic rock playlist.
“Hey, what are you doing back here?” he says, spritzing a mat with soapy water.
“I wanted to get your opinion on something, but while I’m here, can I help?” I ask.
He pauses and looks at the waist-high stack of mats he’s yet to clean. They’re each eight or twelve inches thick, but still—that’s a lot of mats.
“If you really don’t mind, sure, take a mat,” he says. “What’s up?”
I drag the next mat off the stack and pull it parallel to the one he’s cleaning. He hands me the spray bottle and I get to work.
“So, I finally went to yoga this weekend, and it was amazing,” I explain. “Not just the workout part—though that actually wasn’t half-bad—but the mental part of it.”
“Nice.”
“And it made me think that Hallie could actually really benefit from adding yoga to her routine, especially now and during the next few months.”
“Yeah? Why?”
I consider how personal and vulnerable I actually want to get here. I want him to understand how yoga could clear Hallie’s head in a way that gymnastics never could. But I don’t know if I’m ready to share the rest of my thoughts with him. I don’t doubt that Ryan had a hell of a time during his competition days, dieting and pushing through punishing workouts. But I also know that, as tough as it could’ve been for him, it wasn’t the same as what I went through. While puberty signals the end of a girl’s gymnastics career, it’s the real beginning of a man’s: gaining weight and developing muscle only makes him better at the sport.
And Ryan never trained under Dimitri. He probably never worked out on an empty stomach, worrying that his vision would go fuzzy and black around the edges as he sprinted down the vault runway. He probably never tried to convince himself the quaking pain in his stomach was from too many crunches instead of skipping a meal. He wouldn’t understand how restorative it was to be in a place in which you simply had to listen and react to your body’s needs.
Gymnastics has changed lightning-fast, even in the decade since I was Hallie’s age. The top athletes in the sport these days aren’t eighty-five-pound waifs like some of the ones I looked up to as a kid—they have real, solid muscle and power, like Hallie does. She’s smarter than I ever was, and she knows she can’t perform her best if she’s starving. But she faces a new set of pressures I never could have imagined: a more difficult scoring system; watching her competitors’ skills ratchet up every day on Instagram, just like their follower counts do; the disturbing sexual abuse scandal and its coverage on every news channel in America right now.
“I’m just saying, I think she’s going through a tough time right now, and what I loved about the yoga class I went to was the emphasis on self-care,” I say.
I cringe at how hokey that sounds, and I try again.
“I don’t think it’s a bad idea for her to have a place to chill and zone out, where she doesn’t have to worry about being the best, or training for some goal,” I explain. “She can just stretch, listen to my roommate’s cheesy but weirdly effective mantras, and have an hour to herself, away from the news.”
“She does seem pretty stressed,” he admits, ripping off another square of paper towel.
“I think yoga would be a great way for her to relax,” I say.
“Then sure, let’s do it,” he says. “You’re thinking of having your roommate work with her?”
“Sara’s awesome, yeah.”
“Maybe an hour or two a week?”
“I’ll set it up!”
I can’t wait to tell Sara.
“Cool, thanks,” he says. “You’re the best.”
He finishes cleaning one mat, drags it back to its regular spot under the bars, and takes off his sweatshirt before starting on another mat. Underneath, he has on a white tank top that reveals the full scope of the Olympic rings tattooed on his bicep. I’ve seen the bottom edges of it peek out from his T-shirts before, but I’ve never seen the whole thing. It’s not quite as bright as I imagined it would be—instead, the colors are ever so slightly faded, as if it were simply a natural part of his skin.
“What?” he asks, a little self-consciously.
He must have caught me staring.
“Oh, nothing,” I say, embarrassed. “I’ve just never seen your tattoo before, that’s all.”
I scrub furiously at the mat beneath me until my paper towel begins to shred.
“Oh! Here, look.”
Ryan comes over to kneel next to me on the mat. I don’t really like most tattoos—you only get one body, and I doubt most things in life are worth permanently etching into your skin. But this one makes my heart beat faster. I know the Olympic Games have their roots in ancient Greece, when men held footraces and threw javelins in a festival to honor the god Zeus. The athletic challenges were revived in Athens in 1896, when the first modern Olympic Games were held. When you remember the history, it’s hard not to see Olympic athletes like modern-day Greek gods.
“Can I touch it?” I ask timidly.
He laughs. “Sure.”
I run my finger over the outline of the rings. He earned this.
“If you wound up going to the Olympics, would you have gotten one?” he asks.
“Yeah, of course,” I say, nodding. “I mean, I’d want a small one, somewhere easy to hide, but yeah.”
“Why hide it?” he asks. He flexes his bicep, and the rings jump. “It’s an honor to join the club.”
“I don’t know, tattoos aren’t really my thing,” I say.
The expression on his face falters just a fraction of an inch.
“But yours, though… I like yours a lot,” I rush to add. “That’s probably the only one I’d ever consider getting for myself.”
“If you were to get one, where would you put it?” he asks.
“I used to think about this all the time, you know?” I tell him. “I thought maybe my ankle.”
“Huh.” He wipes his finger over the bare skin of my ankle, like he’s imagining ink there.
“Or the other place I was considering was the side of my ribs.”
I brush my fingers along the spot over my tank top. Ryan’s gaze follows my hand. He reaches out to gently slide his thumb over the same stretch of my torso. His knuckles accidentally graze the side of my breast, and I pretend like I don’t notice, like my skin doesn’t buzz with anticipation, like I haven’t already imagined what his touch would feel like there.
But then Ryan leans closer, and his hand is on the nape of my neck, and his mouth is on mine. The kis
s is slow and sweet, but that’s all it is: one kiss. I savor the softness of his lips and the nuzzle of his stubble against my cheek for a long, lingering moment, and then he pulls away. As soon as I register the distance between us, a dull pang erupts in my chest.
“Why did you do that?” I ask in a hushed voice, even though I know there’s nobody else around.
“I… I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admits.
“But we said we shouldn’t,” I remind him, hating myself for saying it out loud.
“We said we wouldn’t,” he says. “But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if we’re making a mistake.”
I can barely believe what I’m hearing. I go very still, almost too nervous to swallow, as if I could make the wrong move and ruin whatever is about to happen.
“So what are you saying?” I ask.
“I’m saying that I know what’s at stake here. We’re not wrong to be cautious,” he says slowly, as if he’s choosing every word with the utmost care. “But, god, Avery, I can’t ignore how I feel about you anymore. If I don’t tell you this now, I know I’ll regret it for a long time. I need you to know that I like you—really like you.”
There’s more urgency in his voice now, and he shifts on the mat to sit up straighter. He takes my hand in his.
“I’ve had a crush on you from the day we met, you know that?” Ryan says, flushing pink at the memory. “At some competition years and years ago? I recognized you in some arena hallway, and you told me where to find the vending machines.”
“I still can’t believe you remember that,” I say, grinning.
He nods. “Of course. You were hot and insanely talented and so entirely out of my league.”
If this were any other moment, I’d brush off the compliment and make a self-deprecating joke, but I’m frozen in awe.
“Trust me, the crush is still there,” he continues, squeezing my hand. “But it’s more than that now. I want us to give this a shot for real.”
Ryan’s gaze is brimming with exhilaration and hope, and I know I’ll remember the way he looks right now forever. Here’s this Greek god of athletic prowess and ambition, made suddenly and startlingly human—full of emotion and desire. He’s reached the pinnacle of human achievement, won one of the most coveted honors in the world, traveled the globe, and yet he’s here. And he wants me.
“What do you think?” he asks.
There’s a slight tremor in his voice—he’s nervous. I have a million thoughts swimming through my head right now, and it’s surprisingly difficult to pick just one to voice. Finally, I collect myself enough to speak.
“If anything real happens between us, I think we should keep it quiet, just so we don’t distract Hallie,” I say.
“Absolutely,” he says, nodding.
“But if we agree about that, then my answer is yes,” I say, scooting closer to kiss him lightly. “I want you. I want this. I want us. We’d be idiots not to give this a try.”
“Yeah?” he says, like he can’t quite believe I agree.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling so happy my heart could burst.
This time, when he kisses me, I can feel him smiling. He cups my cheek with one tender hand, and I get lost in the hypnotic way his lips move against mine. It’s like our bodies instinctually know that this is—finally—right. The kiss feels like a celebration.
He guides us down so we’re lying on the mat, which is now, thankfully, clean. Somehow, the athletic equipment and fluorescent light overhead fade away, so all that matters is him in front of me. We’re lying side by side, facing each other, with the rest of the world and all its distractions blocked out. As deliciously thrilling and tender as our kiss on New Year’s Eve was, this is even better. His hands roam from my hair to my hips to the spot on my rib cage he grazed before everything changed. His fingers slip across the hem of my tank top, and I press into him, encouraging him to slide his hand underneath the fabric, against my bare skin.
After keeping a polite distance from him for so long, it’s almost unfathomable to me that this is real. I don’t care if this is the right place to do this—I don’t want to think at all. I kiss the sharp edge of his jaw, then the soft curve of his earlobe, and then a trail down his throat. He groans softly and rolls on top of me, propping himself up on his elbows, with his legs intertwined with mine. I like the solid sensation of his weight on top of me. I let my hands wander across the taut, powerful muscles in his shoulders and down his back; they feel even better than I had dared to let myself imagine.
“Take this off,” I say, tugging at his shirt.
Ryan obeys, revealing an exquisite set of abs. I can’t help but reach out and touch them, just to make sure I’m not dreaming. They’re perfectly solid—this is real.
I pull my own top over my head, not bothering to make a disclaimer about my lack of abs. He wouldn’t have said all those things if he didn’t think I was beautiful, if he didn’t want me exactly how I am. And anyway, there’s a glint of desire in his appreciative gaze that makes it clear he likes what he sees. It’s intoxicating.
He lies back and pulls me on top of him so I’m straddling him. Now I can feel that there’s no question of whether he’s attracted to me. I lean forward and kiss him deeply; my hair falls like a curtain around us. He unhooks my bra and tosses it to the side. His touch is electrifying. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this with anyone, but that’s hardly the reason this feels so good. It’s because this is Ryan, and that feels like a victory. I want more of this—I want all of him.
I trail one finger under the waistband of his green track pants, then another. He grinds his hips up into mine, like he wants more, too. I start to tug his pants down, but he stops me.
“Is that too much?” I ask.
He shakes his head and bites his lip. “No, but wait.”
He stands up and extends his hand to me, pulling me up, too. He toys with the waistband of my black yoga pants.
“Can I take these off?” he asks softly.
“Yeah,” I say.
He slides them off my hips and down my legs. I step out of them and kick them to the side. Before I realize what’s happening, he’s lifted me up so my legs wrap around his waist. If Ryan were anyone else in the world, I’d probably be self-conscious about my weight in his arms, but there’s no reason to worry. I know he’s strong enough to handle me. He carries me to a tall block by the metal high bar, usually used for training, though obviously not tonight, and sets me down so I’m sitting at the edge of it. He maneuvers smoothly so my legs are hooked over his shoulders. He looks at me, gauging my reaction, then plants a soft kiss on my inner thigh.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm.” I nod.
More than okay, I think.
He kisses me again, farther up my thigh, and then again, right at the edge of my underwear. He skims his hands over me, landing with his fingers curled around the lacy fabric at my hips.
“And what about this?” he asks.
I lean back on my elbows and tilt my hips up so he can fully undress me. When his mouth is on me again, I could melt. At first, I want to watch him. But before long, I relax fully, flat on my back on the block. I’m not surprised when, minutes later, Ryan proves that his talents don’t solely extend to athletics.
I slide off the block, not 100 percent sure that my legs won’t turn to jelly when they hit the floor, and steady myself with a hand against his chest.
“You. Wow,” I breathe.
I pull him toward me for a kiss, wrapping my arm around his neck.
“You’re pretty ‘wow’ yourself,” he says.
My instinct is to return the favor, but we wind up back on the mat. His pants and black boxer briefs are off now, and he kisses my hair. I reach for him, but then I realize we have a problem.
“Do you have a condom?” I ask.
His face goes slack. “No, I wasn’t planning for this at all. There… might? be one in my backpack, and I’ll check, but it’
s in the office.”
He kisses me and gets up to put his underwear and pants back on. He looks like he’s about to move toward the office, but thinks better of it. He grabs his shirt and tugs it on over his head.
“Just in case anyone’s out there,” he says, winking.
“There better not be!” I yelp.
I pull my knees up to my chest and watch him jog across the gym. He disappears around the corner, and once I hear the door swinging shut behind him, I can’t help but let out a laugh. It’s ridiculous that any of this is happening at all, much less at Summit. But, of course, it would happen here. This is where everything in my life has always taken place.
A minute later, Ryan’s back, with a look of triumph on his face. “I found one,” he says, shaking the foil packet.
Another minute later, and we’re both naked again—sweaty, breathless, and happy. There’s a certain stereotype about sex with gymnasts, and I heard enough jokes about it in my early twenties from gross guys at clubs to last a lifetime. The truth is that, yes, while we may be stronger and more flexible than the average person, we’re still just regular human beings who like regular sex. Putting your feet behind your head isn’t all that exciting when that’s just your typical Tuesday morning. That said, there’s nothing regular about sex with Ryan. He looks at me with awe, like he wants to memorize this moment. His fingers linger over the tender spots by my waist, the edge of my hip, the nape of my neck.
Later, once we’re exhausted, he puts his arm around me and I lay my head on his chest. It’s quiet, except for the low hum of the radio and us catching our breath. He kisses my temple and pulls me closer to him, so my thigh rolls over his legs. I kiss his collarbone and drift my fingers over the outline of his tattoo.
“Just in case I didn’t make this clear earlier, I, um, like you,” I say into his chest.
“I got that, yeah,” he says. “I’m really glad this happened.”
I grin. An easy silence passes between us. He strokes my hair absentmindedly.
“Sorry to derail cleaning the mats,” I say.
He laughs and looks around. “Now we have a lot more cleaning to do.”
“But we can do it together.”
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