by Brett Cooper
Chapter Eight
James Gold lay in bed beside his wife, trying to sleep. His breathing was shallow. His thoughts were jumbled. He realized that he was more nervous than excited, and this surprised him. Tomorrow was the big day. At last the Idaho scout would make her appearance. Only an act of God could keep Christine from the scholarship that no one would deny she deserved anyway. As long as she didn’t cough up a kidney or spontaneously combust, it was a done deal. This would be the best five grand he’d ever spent. Talk about a win-win. Christine would win, of course. The scholarship was hers after all. That was the most important thing. He and Gloria would win big time in the college expense department. No denying that was a factor. The university would win, too, by gaining a marvelously gifted athlete and young scholar. And Alexis would win. She’d probably take her $2500 cut and invest it right back into the gym, which would then help Christine plus all of the other girls. So it was a win-win-win-win-win-win. Or something like that. He’d lost count. Bottom line, he was a lean, mean Charlie Sheen: WINNING.
Alexis. Maybe she was the reason for his unsettled nerves. Was this guilt he was feeling? Seemed like it might be. He hadn’t actually done anything, though. Not actively. Yet there had been flirtation. Innuendo. Veiled suggestions.
He remembered in particular when Alexis had rubbed his arm for a moment as she’d said, “I really respect a man who does whatever it takes to help the ones he loves. I’m sure you are very warmly appreciated at home.”
Admittedly, this was right after she’d taken from him an envelope full of cash. But how could he blame her for wanting money? They both wanted a good deal. And that is what they were getting.
The thing was, when Alexis had been a little overly familiar with him, had stood a little too close, said some things that could definitely be understood in more ways than one, he should have let her know that he was happily married. Emphasis on happily. Obviously she knew he was married. But he hadn’t done that. In fact, he’d flirted with her nearly as much as she’d flirted with him. He’d said some things as well. Complimented Alexis on her perfume, for example. He knew better. There was no reason to compliment a woman’s perfume other than to flirt. Was there even such a thing as innocent flirting? In the beginning, when all this had started, he’d told himself there was indeed such a thing. But no, he had to admit now that in fact such a path could never be truly innocent. Flirting was a one-way street. And that one-way street should be reserved for his wife.
On the nightstand, his phone lit up, illuminating slightly the darkness of the bedroom. He snatched it. There was a text from Alexis. It came over as being from Syd. Probably her middle name, he always figured.
The text read: “bottom fell out. we’re a no go. make sure c stays home. details to follow. please confirm ASAP”
James breathed in sharply, then stifled the sound. Unlocking his phone, he typed: “got it.”
Just then, Gloria stirred beside him. She rolled over. “Everything okay?”
“Uh, yeah,” he stammered. “Fine. Amazon never sleeps. They just shipped another package.” This was a relatively safe lie. Busy as the Gold family was these days, he and Gloria were ordering one thing or another several times a week; hence they were always being informed of the next thing to be processed or shipped or delivered.
As surreptitiously as possible, he pressed SEND and then locked the phone, turning it face down to prevent its light from advertising more new messages. Gloria rolled back over. He rolled the other way. Then he said to himself, “Yeah, this is a sign. Deal’s off. I’ll just get my money back and then stay far far away from Alexis Winger.”
When Christine was spreading light cream cheese on her breakfast bagel, her dad entered the kitchen and greeted her with a grim expression.
“What?” she said. She hadn’t said much to him all week. She intended to keep it that way.
“Christine, I’ve been thinking. You’re not 100% after that spill you took yesterday.”
“I’m fine.”
“Listen. You’re only a freshman. With scouts, sometimes you only get one look.”
“What are you saying? I’m totally fine.” Christine stomped her bare heel on the burnt orange Mexican tile floor to prove it. She felt an unexpected stab of pain, but she didn’t show it. “See?”
“It’s not worth the risk,” Dad said. “There’s always next year and the year after. I’ve already been in touch with your coach, and she agrees.”
Her coach. Ha. No, a coach was someone you respected. He’d been, what, in touch with her. Did he really just say that?
“I’m going,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve been waiting for this tournament, Dad. I have to go.”
“You’re not going, Christine. I understand you won’t agree, but this is for the best.”
She felt her teeth clenching repeatedly. She took a few deep breaths. Christine lived for competition. There was no way she was going to miss this meet. She was totally fine. Basically. She didn’t want to hear any of this, not at all. And definitely not from her dad.
“I’m at least gonna go and watch,” she said. And when we’re out in public, she thought, you won’t be able to keep me from competing.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said in a tone that didn’t sound sorry to her. “You’re not.”
“We’ll see,” Christine said under her breath, fiercely, as she turned and stormed off to her room, abandoning her bagel on the kitchen counter. The knife and cream cheese left out for him to clean up.
“Get back here, young lady,” her dad said. When she ignored him, he added, “Then you’re grounded. Until further notice.”
Grounded, she thought; that’s just another word for what you already said.
In her bedroom, Christine stewed in her anger. She sat on her bed, twisted the sheets in a tight knot as if strangling them. She could easily cry a river, but she was determined not to shed a tear. Oh, the irony! Her father deciding what’s right for her, when he was the one who clearly didn’t no right from wrong. Or worse, did know and yet chose to do wrong. She pulled at her hair until her scalp was screaming.
Finally she made a plan. She texted her mom: “Remember when you said you’d help me?”
A moment later came the answer: “what can I get you, honey”
“No questions asked?”
“no questions”
At the gym, she walked her mom to the viewing area.
“You’re the best,” Christine said.
Her mom smiled and embraced her. “Good luck.”
“Thanks. By the way, what’d you tell Dad?”
“That I’d keep an eye on you.” Her mom winked.
“I’m surprised he didn’t, like, duct tape my feet to the floor or something.”
“He doesn’t trust you at the moment, but he trusts me.”
“Good. He should.”
“Yes, you’re right about that.”
Christine felt strange: proud for standing up to her dad when clearly he was out of line; disappointed in herself for disobeying him, because she still didn’t like the idea of that; and psyched for competition, fueled by the sights and sounds of the tournament: the enthusiastic squawking of the families in the crowd, the nervous chatter and mild taunting of teammates and opponents.
After completing her focusing routine, she headed over to the uneven bars. Mr. Winger was there, slipping a wrench into his pocket as he turned to see Christine before him.
“Don’t worry,” he laughed. “I won’t be spotting you again.” He signaled to Coach Jill for that, then, still laughing, said, “Break a leg!”
Christine did not join him in his laughter.
As she chalked up, she spotted a young woman seated in a folding chair nearby. The woman wore a University of Idaho tracksuit. The scout, had to be. They made eye contact. Ms. Anderson looked down at her clipboard, scrunching her face as if deep in thought.
Whatever. Christine was going to nail her routine regard
less. Even if the scout and her coach and her dad were against her. Even if it meant no scholarship.
For ten seconds she had felt perfect. It was all good until the first transition. She remembered the brief midair weightlessness – then she grabbed the lower bar and it gave out. It hadn’t been tightened. The bar dropped several inches and jolted against the supports. Christine couldn’t hold her grip. She went flying. She tried to land on her feet but she couldn’t bring them down in time. Her tailbone smacked the mat first. Christine thought in that instant that she wouldn’t be able to get her hands down in time to break her fall before her head was whiplashed against the mat.
And she was right.