“Sir?”
“You interacted. Period.” He shrugged. “She ignores everyone else.”
“We caused a little bit of a scene.”
He chuckled again. “All the people watching you?”
I nodded.
“They were probably startled to hear her voice, she hasn’t spoken to anyone in so long.” Excitement clashed with the context of his next words. “Hell, she yelled at you!”
“I noticed, sir.”
He winked, and it put my earlier ill-feelings at ease. At least about him.
Today as a whole felt like a foreign, jumbled-up mess. Everything I’d learned about myself in the last twenty-eight years was being overruled and replaced by a newer, completely opposing emotion.
At least, that’s what it felt like right now.
God. I needed to clear my head. Start over. Recalibrate or something.
“Keep up whatever you’re doing. It may not feel right now, but it will in the end.”
The weird thing was, it did feel right. Natural. It felt like we’d been ribbing each other for years.
“She may not ever like you—”
Well, that was inspiring.
“But I have a feeling she will learn to listen. And that’s what’s important,” he stated resolutely.
Was it?
I wasn’t so sure.
Instead of commenting directly, I shook it off and asked about the one thing I knew would help me the most.
“Is it still alright if I tumble here after hours?”
“Of course.” He reached behind him, leaned over the desk, and pulled open one of the drawers. With a bang, he slid it shut and reached to pass me something. “Here’s a key. Just lock up when you’re done.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded. “You shouldn’t have to wait long. Everyone should be clearing out pretty soon.”
His grip was strong as I shook his hand and stood to leave. When he smiled genuinely again, I started to feel silly. I was compelled to understand everything in every new situation immediately by an innate desire to be liked and do well, but in this case, it wasn’t doing anything but cocking the gun aimed straight at my own foot.
I didn’t need to know every detail about Callie or her father right now. I just needed to settle in and be myself. I had a penchant for hard work, and this effort would be no different. The rest would work itself out in time.
When I stepped outside and the door closed behind me, I unintentionally surveyed the room and the people in it.
Two thorough scans later, I didn’t find what I was looking for.
She’d said she was leaving, and I’d been in her father’s office for enough time for her to do it unnoticed. I guess a part of me just expected I’d get to have another word with her. Something less toxic. Less heated. Less judgmental—on both ends.
One of the coaches I’d met earlier—Jim, I think—waved goodbye with a smirk on his face.
“See you tomorrow,” I called out in reply. He just shook his head in the affirmative.
Done being watched, I headed for the exit instead of hanging around. My bag was in my bike anyway, and I wanted to be able to change before I left tonight.
The new metallic charcoal paint of my Street Glide sparkled under the parking lot lights as soon as I opened the door. Crickets chirped in the field across the street, and the glow of the nearly full moon cast a shadow on the windshields of all of the remaining cars. Approaching ten PM, a slight sheen of dew had settled on every surface and pebbled tiny drops of water on the leather of my seat.
I’d always been a bike guy, and it had never been much of a weather issue this far south in Georgia. At least not where temperature was concerned. But now that I had a steady schedule and responsibility, I figured I’d need to look into a form of backup transportation when the rain got to be too much.
I lifted the saddlebag open and pulled out my bag, setting it on the seat so that I could focus on the bottom.
I kept a picture of my parents there, young and in love and fresh off the boat from Russia. My father was a dancer and my mother a gymnast. They worked incredibly hard from the moment they got here until the moment they died in a car accident six months ago. Tragic as it was for me, I always took solace in the fact that they went together—for them. A shining example of what made a good team, my father often pushed and pushed until my mother pulled and bent him to her will. He went willingly because it made sense. They were both trying to go the same direction.
There was nothing my father would have wanted more than to follow her to Heaven.
Expelling one shuddering breath, I shoved one hand through my overly shaggy hair and pulled the top of the saddlebag closed with the other.
Grabbing my bag, I headed back for the door and scooted into the bathroom while the remaining stragglers were making their way out.
I changed into shorts and wrapped both ankles, being sure to tape them comfortably tight. I also pulled out my thinner tape and attached my pinky finger—that I somehow managed to break all the time—to my ring finger as a preventive measure, and slipped one of those elastic headbands into my hair to keep it out of my face. Exiting the bathroom, I moved slowly, poking my head out first and finding the lights dimmed to appropriate “we’re closed” levels.
The door only squeaked a little as I let it swing shut behind me, and pulled the switch closest to me back into the on position. The light made a hum, but it was the kind of sound that faded almost immediately because I was so conditioned to its background noise.
I chucked my bag to the side, a dull thud resonating as it hit the floor, pulled my t-shirt over my head and pitched it on top, and sank to my butt on the end of the long Rod floor to do a thorough stretch before I made any passes.
Quiet. Peaceful. Homey.
This was my favorite way to be in the gym—
Alone.
Such an ironic concept for me. I constantly felt it, but I never actually was.
Not until this time of night anyway. It was my favorite time to be here, and usually I didn’t do anything. Just hung out on a mat somewhere and stared at the warehouse ceiling.
But I’d spent an extraordinary amount of time in the locker room tonight. Thinking. Fuming. Considering. And talking myself in circles.
I watched discreetly as girls came and went, grabbing their bags and heading back to a late night of hearty home-cooked food and homework. The late nights were relentless in the life of a gymnast, but so were the early mornings. I couldn’t for the life of me remember a day that I’d slept past six or fallen asleep before midnight. Not one. In twenty-six years.
And I didn’t see it changing.
Pulling my lavender, terry cloth pants out of my bag, I didn’t bother to clean the chalk from my legs before pulling them on. I shut my locker quietly, but the sound of pounding on the rod floor made me jump.
I thought everyone was gone, and my parents normally locked me in on their way out. Creeping around the bench in the middle of the narrow room, I peeked out the door and sank down into a squat so I could see under the beams.
A tan, muscular back stood out against the bright blue waistband of his shorts, and his ankles faded into one big, white blob thanks to the tape. His right hand twitched minutely, the fingers curling into his palm softly, and he bounced on his toes just once before taking two long strides into his hurdle. His round off just barely skimmed the floor, the rods rippling with the force of his whip backs, and he ended with one of the highest, most explosive full-twisting layouts I’d ever witnessed.
It wasn’t a simple pass for the layperson, but he certainly made it look that way.
My earlier words haunted me as though they were an actual ghost.
Maybe you’re the lazy one.
Good one, Callie.
Walking with his head down, he followed the white line down the center of the thin strip of floor on his way back down to the beginning, and the ends of his too long hair flopped forward from the binding of
a pretty girly headband.
Nik needed a haircut like I needed an attitude adjustment, but his abs did more than make up for it. Perfectly defined and well-honed with the muscle of a seasoned athlete, I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. They weren’t the kind of muscle a guy got from being in a gym and lifting weights.
They were the kind that actually helped lift stuff.
For him, that meant his body.
For me, it meant I was an even bigger fool for hitting him with the old “those who can’t do, teach” jab.
As quietly as I could, I crept out the door and behind the beams, across the mat in the pit, and settled into the corner created by a standing mat and the wall just next to the bars. It afforded me the perfect view without disclosing my location to him. He didn’t seem to know I was there, and I had no intention of changing that.
I just wanted to watch. To have my moment and let him have his, but spy on him all the same. I wanted to see someone else do the work for my enjoyment, and I wanted to do it in peace. And my hormones didn’t mind the view either.
Disappointment flooded my veins fast and furiously as he stepped off the end of the rod floor and walked over to his bag.
He couldn’t be done, could he?
He’d made two passes for shit’s sake.
That’s more than you did tonight, an evil (read: obnoxiously right) voice chided inside my head.
But, no. Two seconds later the evidence of his intent to continue rang out from his hands.
A slow beat filled the otherwise silent air, and then scratched to a halt as he changed the song. His head bent forward, and that went on a couple of times until he found the one he wanted, gently lobbed his phone on top of his bag, and turned back to the floor.
Panicked, I slid back into my hole and closed my eyes, like that could somehow prevent him from seeing me, and held my breath until I heard the telltale sounds of his feet starting his pass mixed with the harsh melody of a fast and furious Metallica song.
Just the frenzy of the music had my heart ready to beat out of my chest, and I wasn’t even doing anything. I had no idea how he managed to tumble to it. Too scared to look soon enough, I missed that pass and had to wait for him to walk all the way back to this end to start a new one.
He took a couple of deep breaths, bounced on his toes again, and then he was gone. Round off, back-handspring, whip back, whip back, whip back, motherfucking full-twisting double goddamn layout. His power nearly shook the foundation of the goddamn warehouse, he drove through his toes so well, and once again I felt the fool for thinking I knew better about my stupid tumbling than he did.
At the exhale of my breath his head jerked in my direction, and I whipped my head around again, sinking into the mat and biting painfully into my cringing bottom lip.
Please don’t let him see me, please don’t let him see me.
The sound of the floor exploding let me know he hadn’t as he started another pass and my head whipped out immediately, as not to miss the rest of the skills.
This time he finished with a double full-twisting double layout. And still made it look freaking easy.
No sweat shone on his forehead, and his hands didn’t shake with unease. He was completely in his element, focused on the music and the skills and not in the slightest bit winded. He was practiced. He did this a lot, and he did it well.
I found myself hoping he’d stay all night as I watched pass after pass, each one increasing in difficulty and speed. Each skill had to be timed perfectly, each hand and foot placed with precision. And God, he was fun to watch.
He barely smiled, but I could see a glow light him up from within. He loved doing this. He loved it without bias or question, and he did it wholeheartedly.
In that moment, he didn’t want to be doing anything but this, anywhere but here.
I used to know how that felt, and I longed to feel that way again.
After the fifteenth pass, I sank my butt to the floor and my back into the wall. I was tired from watching and he’d finally formed a few droplets of sweat on the center of his chest.
I couldn’t actually see the droplets at this distance, but based on the glow, I could imagine.
By God, I could imagine.
The music still raged in the background and his stupid hair still flopped around his ears. But something else had changed in the time it took for me to watch those passes.
A part of me had accepted him as someone I could trust. Someone who I could relate to. Someone who just might end up knowing how I felt. I could see myself in him, at least the way I used to be. The way he worked at his own pace with no shortage of self-instilled ethic. I could see the years he’d put in to get to that point, plain as day in the level of his talent, and I knew it had to be equal to if not more than my own.
But all of those realizations cloaked more unknowns, the hows and whys of a talented athlete like him coaching me a real-life mystery.
He looked happy on the outside, but I knew better than anyone that no disguise should make you assume what’s underneath. Funny people can be depressed. Outgoing girls can suffer from crippling self-esteem issues. And someone who seems sullen and withdrawn might just be happier in their head.
This pass would be tough, the increase in difficulty, as he progressed, speaking for itself. But he treated them all the same. The same little bounce of his toes, the same soft flex of his fingers.
Two bounding steps preceded a round off, back-handspring, double layout, whip back, whip back, and the grand finale—a triple pike.
Hysteria made me pull at the top of my leotard violently.
Was it hot in here?
What kind of twilight zone was this?
And how much energy did he have? I needed him to be done already.
Oh shit. Don’t think about sex.
I said don’t.
Don’t.
DO NOT.
Stamina. Power. Flashes of his sweat-beaded skin slick against mine.
Too late.
If I knew what it felt like to orgasm, I’d imagine watching him do something like that felt similar. As a shiver worked its way down my spine and the muscles of his strong stomach flexed and contracted, I decided for possibly the first time ever, I’d be open to being proven wrong though.
Oh man. This was not the direction my thoughts needed to go about my coach.
I was just stressed and tired. That’s all. This wouldn’t become a regular thing. Nope. Definitely not.
Get me out of here.
Finally, he headed for his bag, switching off the stream of music and tossing his t-shirt over his shoulder. He rifled through the bag slowly, taking his goddamn time, and each passing second made my skin itch more and more to the point of crawling.
Standing to full height, he pulled the bag to his shoulder, rounded the corner.
A deep breath filled my lungs with fresh oxygen and released the tightening on my starved brain almost instantly.
Thank God.
I waited for him to be gone, the bang of the bathroom door signaling my movement like the bat signal did for Batman.
Mats compressed slightly under my tennis-shoe-encased feet as I hauled ass back to the locker room door, grabbed my bag, and shot toward the door of the gym like it was on fire. I had only a short window of time to get out, and I planned to make the most of it.
The late night humidity nearly choked me as I transitioned into it at full speed, taking big gulps of the freedom it represented.
Unfortunately, I had only taken two steps in the direction of my car before the light slammed off behind me.
He was coming.
Honestly, it probably wouldn’t have been that big of a deal if he’d seen me, but my mind was too far gone to accept it. The car and the far corner of the building were just about equidistant from me, and I of course, made the predictably bad, slasher film-esque decision to flee mindlessly for the cover of the building.
The door opened just as I rounded the corner, and my heart beat ra
pidly against the metal siding exterior.
Two silent bangs of my forehead later, I peeked around the corner to get a glance.
Well-fitted jeans encased his muscular legs, and his plain white t-shirt had returned to its flesh-covering duty.
He glanced at my car once before approaching a motorcycle that was parked even closer to me, but he didn’t look my way. I didn’t trust that the subterfuge would last.
Talk about royally screwing this up.
I had the nearly skin-evacuation-inducing urge to get out of there before he spotted me, but as I watched my car from the corner of the building with him in between, I realized one important thing.
I had nowhere to—
Go.
As much as I doubted Callie would want to, my heart wouldn't stop shoving letters into the suggestion box of my brain.
“Ask,” my heart said. “What does it hurt to ask?”
My heart sounded a little like a girl.
I shook my head at myself, squeezing my eyes shut to quiet the riotous fluctuation of my emotions.
I’d known she was there between my fourth and fifth tumbling passes. A shadow had lurked on the far wall of the warehouse from behind a stack of mats. The swish of a ponytail confirmed the shadow’s identity.
She didn’t know I knew she was there though, and that was where asking got tricky.
To me, I’d felt like she was sitting there next to me the whole time despite her efforts to stay hidden, and to my complete shock—I didn’t mind.
I’d always liked to have my alone time at the end of the night. Always.
But tonight, with her, I’d liked having her there with me.
I was too confused to know what that meant, but I wasn’t too confused to know I shouldn’t be feeling it. Because I wasn’t feeling strictly professional thoughts and affection a coach has for an athlete. Hell, there’d been no time to form that kind of a formal bond.
Instead, I was feeling a draw to a near stranger, the things I knew about her inciting feelings inside of me on a chemical level. Nerves buzzed with extra excitement and the good kind of anxiety churned in my gut.
Her unique sense of self, so skewed from what the rest of the world thought, the small glimpse I’d gotten of her personality, and the way she held back in a manner that only she could understand or explain—all of it made the “couldn’ts” seem like “shouldn’ts” and really only “maybe shouldn’ts” at that.
These Battered Hands Page 3