Head Over Heels

by Hannah Orenstein

“It’s flattering that he asked you,” I say evenly.

  “But you don’t think I should take it,” he counters.

  “I…” I stare out the window as houses and trees whiz by us in the darkness. “I am incredibly grateful for Dimitri. He changed my life. He could’ve made me an Olympic champion, if things had gone differently. But he’s not a nice person, or a good person, or a person who would treat Hallie fairly.”

  “He’s tough and old-school,” Ryan says, shrugging. “That’s what makes him legendary. Coaches aren’t made like that anymore.”

  “He’s tough, yeah, but he’s…”

  I trail off and bite my lip. I want to say abusive, but that’s not a word you throw around lightly.

  “Did you hear what he said about me? Basically calling me fat?” I ask, changing tactics.

  “What?” he asks, sounding disgusted. “I didn’t notice.”

  “Yeah. ‘There’s so much more of you to see now,’ ” I recite.

  Ryan sighs heavily. “That’s not cool.”

  “Exactly, it’s not. Imagine hearing that, but worse, all day, every day, when you’re thirteen years old,” I say.

  Ryan flicks on his blinker and makes a turn, so it takes a while for him to respond. I get the sense that he’s grateful for the extra time to formulate a response.

  “I’m sure he’s not a saint, but this is the opportunity of a lifetime,” he says finally. “I get one shot at a job like this, and there’s no better coach in the entire sport. Every boss has their shortcomings—there’s no ‘perfect’ job.”

  I hate that he makes air quotes around the word. It makes me feel as if he thinks I’m overreacting. I study his profile in the moonlight. I wonder what would happen if I described to him in unflinching detail what it was really like to spend the most impressionable years of my childhood with Dimitri. I can’t muster up the energy to explain what he’s really like if Ryan will only defend him.

  I sigh and slump back in my seat.

  “It’s late,” I say. “We don’t have to talk about this now. If you’re happy, I’m happy for you.”

  He reaches across the gearshift to hold my hand. His warm fingers weave through mine and rest in my lap.

  “Thanks for coming with me tonight,” he says, squeezing my hand.

  I don’t squeeze his back.

  MARCH 2020

  • CHAPTER 18 •

  Nationals are a week away, and Hallie is still struggling. She can’t control her power on her forward tumbling pass—the front handspring, front full-twisting layout, front double-twisting layout—so I suggested she add a stag jump on the end. That way, any energy that comes bounding off the tumbling goes directly into a real, choreographed move. She’ll get points for a jump, rather than a deduction for not sticking the landing. A stag jump should be pretty: one knee bent at a ninety-degree angle in front of your body, with your other leg trailing out long and straight behind you, and your arms thrown triumphantly in the air. But Hallie’s is tense and tight, and it throws off her timing going into the next segment of her routine. Once she loses her cool, it’s hard to recover. The rest of the routine gets rushed.

  “Okay, let’s move to the tramp,” I suggest. “We can work on your form there.”

  We’ve been finessing this one second of her routine for fifteen minutes now, and I can tell that Hallie is running low on both energy and patience. It’s true that the trampoline is a less physically taxing place to jump repeatedly than the floor is—the elastic power mesh bounces you right back up, obviously—but also, no matter how old or sophisticated a gymnast gets, there’s still nothing quite as joy-inducing as playing around on a trampoline. And more than perfect form, more than excellent technique, what Hallie really needs right now is to feel good. Going into a competition, an athlete’s mental headspace is just as important as her physical well-being, if not more so.

  She trudges over to the trampoline, and after a few lazy bounces, she gets serious.

  “Stag jumps?” she asks, confirming her task.

  “On every bounce,” I say. “Focus on getting that back leg nice and straight.”

  She swings her arms to get some momentum, then bounces into shape. With each jump, she thrusts her right leg a little harder behind her.

  “That leg needs to come up faster,” I observe. “That’ll keep the jump short and sweet, which is what we want.”

  She nods like a little soldier and jumps again.

  “Faster,” I insist. “The leg comes up quick and high, then snaps back.”

  “Snaps back,” she repeats, continuing to bounce.

  At the height of each jump, her chin tilts up and her fingers flick out with style. She looks like a star up there. It’s gratifying to see her improve after months of working together.

  And after seeing Dimitri last week, that’s what I need: I have to know that I’m helping Hallie, not hurting her. If I pass down what he did, I would never forgive myself. Hallie screws up her mouth in concentration as she tracks the distance between her and the trampoline. Her full body weight plunges down on the black mesh and she rebounds brightly into the air once more. Her limbs soar jubilantly into shape; at the peak of her jump, she beams. She knows she nailed it.

  * * *

  I haven’t seen Ryan outside of practice since Dimitri and Jasmine’s cocktail party. I’ve gone to yoga after work twice, and on the nights I’ve been free, he’s had plans with friends. All week, I’ve felt starved for attention; I had forgotten what it’s like to crave somebody like this. I could physically feel the way I yearned for quality time with him—sometimes, low in my gut; other times, like an actual pang in my chest. When he texted me yesterday evening to ask if I’d be free for a date night tonight, I replied yes practically while my phone still buzzed with the incoming message.

  He texted confusing instructions: I have a secret plan for us. Wear something warm, and make sure you have socks.

  Socks? What’s the plan? I wrote back.

  He replied, Like I said—it’s a secret ;)

  I knew I wasn’t going to weasel the truth out of him, so instead, I tried to puzzle out what we could possibly be doing—hiking? skiing?—and took great care to find a matching pair of socks without any holes. Tonight, after drilling stag jumps with Hallie on the trampoline, Ryan and I waited until Hallie had left the gym’s premises in her dad’s car before we both climbed into his car. We decided earlier that I’d stay over at his place and he’d drive me back to the gym the next morning. The plan made me feel as if we were serious and committed, or at least on the way toward it.

  “So, now you can tell me where we’re going,” I say once he’s pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Nope,” he says.

  “Not even a hint?” I ask.

  He’s resolute. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  He talks about how much fun he had dreaming this up, and how it’ll be the perfect way to chill out in the midst of Nationals prep, but I just can’t focus. My mind ping-pongs from sleuthing out where he’s taking me to our last in-person conversation about Dimitri’s job offer. We haven’t had a chance to discuss it. There’s so much I could say to him—and as much as I want to ask how he’s feeling about what Dimitri said, I don’t want to ruin the romantic mood.

  He drives through the town center and pulls into Osaka Sushi. The familiar wooden sign gives me a burst of nostalgia, but it takes me a moment to piece together why he’s so excited.

  “I told you about this place, didn’t I?” I say, suddenly recalling. “When we were driving through Greenwood after Lolly’s.”

  “Your family likes to come here for special occasions,” he says.

  “Ryan! You remembered.” I take off my seat belt so I can properly lean across the car to give him a hug and a kiss. “But wait, the socks? Warm clothes? Was that just to throw me off?”

  I’m overheating in a thick turtleneck and knit scarf. There are gloves stashed away in the pockets of my parka.

  “That�
��s for after dinner,” he says, winking as he gets out of the car.

  * * *

  Ninety minutes later, when we’re happily filled up on a sashimi platter and a sake flight, I still don’t know where we’re going next. But Ryan did insist on heading out of the restaurant as soon as the bill was paid, rather than lingering at the table. I get the sense we’re on a deadline. In the car once again, I feel warmed by the sake from the inside out, touched by the romantic gesture of bringing me back to Osaka Sushi, and high on the anticipation of discovering where this adventure all leads. Whatever desire I had earlier tonight to ask Ryan about Dimitri has faded away. It’s not that I don’t care—it’s that moments like this don’t come around often. It’s not every day that a gorgeous man throws together a surprise date packed with personal touches at a series of secret locations. I slide my hand into Ryan’s and squeeze a silent thanks.

  Finally, the jig is up: he pulls off a main road down a narrow street that winds into the town forest. He drives slowly through the heavy thicket of pine trees until we reach a clearing. There’s a cul-de-sac full of cars streaked with winter grime parked near an outdoor ice-skating rink. Although it’s a dark night, the rink itself is bright, thanks to white floodlights and golden Christmas lights wrapped around aluminum poles. I’ve been to this rink a few times for my elementary school classmates’ birthday parties, but it’s only now, as an adult, that I see how charming this spot really is.

  “This is so sweet!” I exclaim, getting out of the car.

  “Do you skate?” he asks.

  He looks hopeful but hesitant, the way people do when they hand you presents with the tags still attached in case you want to return them.

  “I haven’t skated in years, but I always liked it as a kid,” I say.

  “Me, too,” he says.

  A rink attendant in a red clapboard shed asks for our shoe sizes and hands us clunky skates. We lace them up and totter to the edge of the rink. He steps over the threshold first, then extends his hand so I can steady myself as I step onto the ice. I take a few tentative glides with my hand hovering over the railing in case I lose my balance.

  We make a slow first lap side by side, getting used to being on the ice. There aren’t many other people here—three couples in casual clothes and a single skater in athletic gear who makes sharp turns and elegant spins—so it’s calm enough to go at our own pace.

  “So far, so good, but I bet I’ll fall flat on my ass at least once tonight,” I say.

  “I’ll catch you,” he says.

  “Don’t you dare. I’ll probably pull you down with me,” I warn.

  “You’re not gonna fall,” he predicts. “I remember you on beam back in the day—your balance is absurd.”

  “Don’t jinx it,” I say.

  He’s right, though; by our second lap, I feel sturdier, and by our third, I’ve regained my confidence. I slip my hand into his and trust my balance enough to plant a kiss on his cheek as we glide. I can’t help but see flashes of the future—maybe we’ll hike this spring, canoe this summer, train for a half marathon together this fall. We’re both used to solitary sports, but there’s something appealing about tackling new adventures as a pair.

  As we continue to skate circles around the rink, we whisper theories about the other couples—which ones seem happily in love, which seem more like old roommates who couldn’t give a damn about each other—and resolve to never fall into the latter category. We trade stories about ice-skating experiences as kids, and the Olympic skaters we’ve met over the years. On some laps, we don’t talk at all, content to enjoy the twinkling lights nestled into the forest and the blur of our hazy reflections gleaming on the slick ice. With Ryan, silence doesn’t feel like pressure.

  But there’s one question I can’t get out of my head.

  “What’s all this for?” I ask finally.

  “A guy can’t take a girl out?” he replies.

  “Of course, of course. But, I mean, this is spectacular.”

  His cheeks go pink, and I don’t think it’s just from the thirty-five-degree weather.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing you in the gym,” he says slowly. “And at your place, and at mine. But I’ve never really treated you to a real date night, and you deserve that.”

  “Oh!” I say, touched.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not, uh, the fanciest guy,” he says sheepishly.

  “You?” I joke back. “Huh, never would’ve guessed.”

  He smirks. “And I thought about a gourmet dinner somewhere, but I know you love to cook. I know you’d rather cook than be waited on.”

  “True,” I admit.

  “So I thought your old favorite sushi place would be a treat, and this would cap the night off perfectly. I hope you like it?” he finishes.

  “I love it,” I say. “Thank you for planning such a fabulous date.”

  I don’t mean to, but I flash back to a “date night” with Tyler. Or, rather, it was supposed to be a date night. Instead, we watched Fast & Furious 6 in silence while we ate Easy Mac. He had told me not to bother with cooking a special meal for date night. He didn’t get that cooking for him felt like another way to show my love. He fell asleep before the movie was over. But this feels entirely different—it’s thoughtful and personal. He put care into choosing something I’d like.

  “So you’ll keep me?” he says.

  I can hear a note of restrained laughter in his voice.

  “Eh,” I joke, pretending like I’m attempting to make up my mind. “I’ll keep you.”

  I skate to a stop and pull him gently toward the railing. I steady myself against it and kiss him deeply, slipping my fingers under his scarf to hold him close. It’s true that there’s a certain thrill about kissing someone for the first time, when you can only guess what it’ll feel like, how your bodies will respond to each other’s, and if there will be sparks. But this is thrilling in a different way: comfortable, familiar, easy. I can anticipate the way his lips will move against mine. I know there will be sparks. I can’t believe how lucky I am.

  The rink is quieter now; we’re among the last people left. It’s a picturesque moment, but I know there’s a bigger reason tonight makes me so happy. Being here in his arms feels exactly right.

  “What an incredible night,” I say.

  I have to stop myself from uttering the three little words that almost roll off my tongue next.

  “You are incredible,” I say, swallowing the too-soon words and choosing the safer ones instead.

  He nuzzles closer and kisses me again. When he pulls back, he hesitates, like he’s trying to determine exactly what to say next. I wonder if the same words are running through his head, too.

  “I…” he says.

  My stomach does a backflip.

  He gazes at me for a moment that feels like an eternity.

  “I’m really glad you’re here with me,” he says, pulling me closer for a kiss.

  Everything about it—the steady pressure of his hand on the curve of my hip; the scent of pine; the slippery surface of the ice beneath our feet—I commit to memory. I want to remember every detail, because this is the night I know for sure that I am falling in love with Ryan Nicholson, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  • CHAPTER 19 •

  A chill runs up my spine when I enter the National Championships arena in Miami. The nervous energy hanging in the air feels just as real as the mingled scent of chalk dust and sweat. I follow Hallie and Ryan around the perimeter to find a spot to settle down, and I can’t help but drink it all in: the crunch of errant bobby pins underfoot; the spare cans of hair spray and bottles of butt glue rolling out from unzipped gym bags; the ritual gestures of gymnasts warming up; the satisfying scrchhh of grips being Velcroed on and off wrists; the anxious parents snapping gum in the bleachers. I savor every bit of it. I feel as if I’ve come home again. The moment I walked through the door, I straightened up, lifted my chin one notch higher, and tightened my pony
tail. This time around, though, nobody’s watching me. This isn’t about me.

  We’re here for Hallie. It’s her day. She finds a bench on the far side of the arena, closest to the beam, that has yet to be claimed by anyone else and drops her duffel on it.

  We’re all clad in matching navy tracksuits embroidered with Summit’s logo over our hearts. Hallie removes her jacket, revealing a gleaming, emerald-green, long-sleeved leotard. It’s spangled with Swarovski crystals across her collarbone and down the center of her chest, like a glittering necklace or a piece of armor. If she goes to the Olympics, her competition leotards will be chosen by the American Gymnastics Federation, and she’ll probably be clad in red, white, blue, or all three. But for now, she can wear whatever she likes. I know this leotard is one of her favorites because it brings out the green flecks in her hazel eyes.

  There are armies of gymnast-coach teams just like us scattered across the venue. I spot Delia Cruz rolling her wrists in supple circles to warm up for bars. Maggie Farber and Kiki McCloud sit with hands over their faces while their coach tames down their ponytails with hair spray. Across the arena, Dimitri reclines on a bench while his group of Powerhouse gymnasts stretch silently. I recognize their faces and names, though I don’t know them personally. His star student is Emma Perry, a fiercely talented competitor who’s probably the front-runner of the entire sport. He has Skylar Hayashi and Brit Almeda, too—the former is a vault specialist who began performing flawless Amanars at fourteen years old and has only gotten more intimidating since then; the latter is a decent if less memorable athlete who brings in reliably fine scores but doesn’t quite have that X factor. I don’t think Ryan has broached the subject of Dimitri or Powerhouse with Hallie or her parents yet. In the frenzied lead-up to Nationals, there hasn’t been time.

  Each gymnast’s competition roster is assigned randomly. When the schedule flashes on the big screen that looms above the arena, Hallie’s face hardens. She’s up first on bars, which means she’ll spend the rest of the day rotating through vault, beam, and then floor. She doesn’t complain, though; she knows NBC’s cameras have likely already begun swirling, and she’s smart enough to understand that her reaction to the news shouldn’t be a dismal one.