Peyton almost snorts into her vegetable soup. “Ask Nat about Spencer Russell. I’m sure she’ll have some opinions where he’s concerned.”
She gives me a sly smile and I want to jam my fork into her eye. See this, right here, is what I was trying to avoid in the first place. I didn’t even get the yummy, yummy sex with sexy, sexy Spencer and there is already speculation.
“What’s going on with Spencer?!” Grace yelps at the same time Julia says, “You’re hooking up with a coach?!”
I roll my eyes as tables around us start to stare. “Will you keep it down? Jesus. I’m not hooking up with anyone, least of all Spencer Russell.”
“Is that why he drove you home at one in the morning the night we went to Jenkinson’s?” Peyton adds fuel to the fire.
“What?!” Julia and Grace shriek at the same time.
Jesus fuck. “As I seem to recall, I had to get a ride home with someone else because you were puking your brain’s out in Jared’s car. How is Jared by the way?”
Peyton’s face turns almost the exact same color as Grace’s hair, and I chuckle. “I’m not sleeping with Spencer. I’m not sleeping with anyone. Unlike you crazies, I’m not addicted to chasing the male gymnasts up and down this place. I’m here to make the Olympic team, and nothing is getting in my way of that.”
I spear into another Brussels sprout and chomp down as they all stare at me.
Peyton sighs and slings her arm over my shoulder. “There’s no way you’re getting laid. But you do need to pull the stick out of your ass before you do permanent damage.”
Julia and Grace chuckle while I roll my eyes for the hundredth time.
“You have all been here one month. Some more than that! But now, we are month and half from picking Olympic team. Today, we test. Test your skills, test your routines, test your strength.” Novak prattles on as all forty of the Olympic hopeful male and female gymnasts sit on the big blue floor mat.
One of the other coaches takes over for His Royal Nastiness, giving out instructions as she paces the white out-of-bounds lines. “We are having a mock meet. Ladies, you will go in Olympic order; vault, bar, beam, floor. Men, you will also rotate through the events in Olympic order; floor, pommel horse, rings, vault, parallel bar and finally high bar. Everyone will be scored as if this were an international competition. The final rankings will show you, and us, where you stand on ultimately being selected for the Olympic team.”
Hushed whispers start to circulate through each group of friends sitting on the floor mat, but I keep my attention solely on Novak.
“And if you’re in the bottom two, well … there is a very good chance you could be going home.”
The hushed whispers explode into nervous chatter as the coaches begin to separate the groups into teams of four. Five on the women’s side and five on the men’s side. They want to see who will compete well together. Because this isn’t just an exercise in singular performance, this is judging how well you’re going to work as a team in Rio.
As usual, I’m paired up with Peyton, Julia and Grace. The fearsome foursome, or that’s what we like to call each other when we’re joking around and pretending to be badasses.
“Fearsome foursome’s fearless leader speaking here,” Peyton motions us all in, our unappointed captain. “We are going to kick ass. We are going to slay this mock competition. We are going to stick every landing and point every toe. And rock out to our floor music. And look hella good while doing it. Got it?”
She holds her hand in the middle of the circle and we all pile on in some cheesy, sports slideshow moment. But as cliché as it is, her speech fills me with confidence and inspiration. This is just another mock meet in the long line of tasks to the Olympics. And I’m so fucking ready.
“Natalia, you will go first on vault. Then Peyton, Julia and Grace. You will switch the order on the next event, having Grace go first, and so on for each event until the mock meet is over.” Novak directs us, signaling that I should get ready to vault right now.
I sprint down the runway, my calf and thigh muscles working in time with my feet. The raw power surging through me is similar to the energy I get at real competitions.
See, I love to compete. Have always loved it. You dare me to do something, I’ll go one step further. And gymnastics is the hardest sport of all. Because really, you’re only competing against yourself. You can’t do anything to hinder another’s performance; there is no defense in gymnastics. You just have to be the best you can be, better than anyone else, to win. And I love that.
Novak, Melinda and another female assistant coach stand at the end of the runway facing the vault, getting ready to judge my two attempts. I present, raising my arms up in salute that I’m ready to go and they’re ready to watch me.
And then I’m off, racing like a prized horse down the blue felt runway at the large brown stationary object. Right before I come to the springboard, I lay my hands on the floor, catapulting myself into a roundoff. With my back facing the vaulting horse, I spring up off the board, doing a back handspring onto the vault. My fingers touch the leather for maybe a second, but no more, before I’m flipping myself around not once but twice in a lay out position, all the time twisting three hundred and sixty-five degrees in each flip.
In the blink of an eye my vault is over, my feet hitting the squishy red mat on the other side with a thwack. I bend my knees and hope to God my body is centered, because as far as stuck landings go, there are no guarantees.
I hear Peyton and the other girls whoop at the end of the runway. “Woohoo! Go Nat!”
When I’m sure I’m not wobbling, that I’ve stuck and demonstrated the landing, I turn and raise my arms up in salute to the “judges.” Perfect double-twisting double-back Yurchenko.
“Very nice, Natalia. We don’t need to see another.” Novak dismisses me, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. I beam, knowing I impressed him.
As sick as it was, as much as I despised him, I couldn’t help the boost to my ego just his little affirmation gave me.
The rest of the vault rotation goes off without a hitch, even with Peyton’s near-fall which Novak calls sloppy. We get through bars with no mistakes, except Peyton tears a rip in her hand, leaving a bloody gash on the bar that looks like a serial killer came through here.
“Here, I have some Bag Balm.” Julia holds the Vaseline like cream, used for cow’s utters, out to Peyton.
“Ugh, thank you. I just ran out of my last tin.” She slathers a dollop on her torn up skin and wraps tape around it, indifferent to the pain and ready to rotate on to beam.
Rips are like quarter, or sometimes silver dollar, sized chunks of skin that literally rip off of your hands after too many bar workouts. It’s like peeling away a fresh blister the size of a coin on your palm. And we just practice through them. Tape ’em up and get on with it. A rip is never an excuse not to practice.
“You ready for beam?” Peyton eyes me as she wraps her damaged hand.
I think she knows what’s going on with me. She was there the first day I stood frozen on the beam. We haven’t discussed it, but we both know what fear looks like and what it can do.
“Yeah …” I nod, not sure at all if I’m ready.
I’m first, as Novak’s lineup dictates, and I think I might vomit. I’ve never felt like this. My nerves are filled with ice water, it’s what all of my coaches throughout my history in the sport have always said. I’m a machine, I learn my routines and I execute them perfectly in competition. And I love it. I don’t shake or chew my nails or pat my stomach nervously before having to perform. I thrive on competition.
But right now, I’m not thriving.
“Let’s go, Natalia!” Novak calls me from his seat opposite the balance beam, and I nod, stepping up onto the mats.
I start my routine, running at the springboard positioned at the end of the beam and doing a front tuck up until I’m standing on top of the four-inch wide structure. I dance and turn, jump and flip. But I’m not
solid, not confident. Every landing has shaky balance. When I do my series of leaps, I take two steps after to gain control of my flailing body. I’m not zoned in; my head is on the last part of the routine. My dismount.
And suddenly, here I am, rooted to the spot at the end of the beam. Visualizing my neck snapping backward, the floor rushing up at me. The timer calls a warning, the one minute and thirty seconds I have to perform the routine are almost up. In a real competition, if I exceeded that time, I would be docked points.
I run, knowing I won’t do my dismount. Instead, I launch my body into a full twisting front layout. An elementary skill, a dismount I used to do when I was a level eight.
I stick it easily, raising my hands and presenting to Novak and the other “judges.” They don’t look pleased, and I feel the pit in my stomach sink. Shit. This is not going to end well for me.
“What the hell was that?” Julia whispers in my ear, concern all over her face.
“Fear. That’s what happened.” I throw my water bottle against the wall, where it explodes.
Ten
Spencer
Everyone in the gym turns to stare at the source of the noise. My eyes seek out and find Nat, standing with her hands on her hips while water drips down the wall in front of her. Her face is red and angry, and if I knew other people wouldn’t notice, I’d keep staring at her. Anger makes my flirty friend hot.
Of course, I know why she’s freaking out. I saw her beam routine. I’ve been watching her out of the corner of my eye from the men’s side of the gym. Watching as she rocked both vault and bars. Watched as she started her beam routine shakily and then wimped out on that dismount again.
“Fear. It’s got her by the balls.” Jared whispers as he passes me on his way to get his grips on for his rings rotation. His southern twang hits the rational part of my brain, making the lightbulb go on.
He’s right, of course. I didn’t notice it until now, but no one would show up at the gym at five in the morning if they weren’t trying to overcome something. She was trying to hide her fear and get over it without any of the coaches noticing.
My guys do great throughout the rest of the mock meet, with Jared coming in first of course. Duke nabs fourth out of the rest of the twenty guys, which still puts him in the running for the squad of five gymnasts.
“And on the women’s side, the rankings end with Caila and … Peyton.” Novak looks at Melinda, who is reading off the standings sheet.
I glance over at the girls, the ones with beaming smiles on their faces. The ones with indifference or frustration over their middle of the group ranking … the ones like Natalia. She shouldn’t be middle of the road, but Novak is punishing her for the whole beam thing. The rest of her routines were near perfect tens, and everyone knows it.
Then there are the two girls she announced last. Peyton is white as a sheet and looks like she might vomit. This isn’t good. In my experience, the bottom two are sent home days after this doomed ranking.
“You girls can go. Pack your things.” Novak bites out the words and walks out of the gym.
The gasps of everyone in the crowd are audible.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Nat’s voice is louder than it should be, and Melinda glares at her.
Peyton bursts into tears, something I don’t think I’ve ever seen her do in the four years I’ve known her. But as sad as her situation might be, she’s not the one I’m worried about. I grab Nat’s elbow, pulling her from the face off with the coaches she’s about to attempt.
“Come with me.” I half-drag her out of the gym, her protests and get off me’s falling on deaf ears.
People are staring after us, but I don’t care. She’s two seconds away from either punching a coach or getting herself thrown out of Filipek’s.
As soon as the double glass doors slam shut behind us, the summer air swamping our already sweaty bodies, she explodes.
“What the fuck, Spencer?! Don’t put your hands on me! Are you trying to get people talking about us?! And how dare you! They’re just going to kick one of the best gymnasts this country has ever seen off the team?! She’s just out of the running? This is fucking bullshit!”
Nat is raging, pacing and spewing her vitriol and pushing against my chest at random intervals. She’s fucking radiant. I have this giant urge to grab her, throw her up against the brick wall of the Olympic Gym and smash my lips into hers. But we’re friends. Just flirty friends. She’s made that very clear.
“I pulled you out of there because friends save friends from doing fucking idiotic shit. Shit that will jeopardize their chances of fulfilling the one dream they’ve been chasing all their lives. Shit that will get them kicked out and blacklisted from the one place that will get them there. That is what I’m doing! Because that is what flirty friends do!”
Nat backs down, both physically and emotionally. She takes a step back, and I see some of the rage dissipate from the depths of her cerulean eyes. She twirls the end of her long blond ponytail around her fingers and bites her lip. I think I might like repentant Nat more than I like angry Nat.
“Sorry. Fuck. Sorry, you’re right. I wasn’t even thinking. I just … how can they do this to her?” She lets out a sound of anguish as she collapses back against the brick wall.
I put my hands on her shoulders and rub, the feeling of her skin distracting me from comforting her. “It happens. We see it all the time. This sport is all about making the cut. You knew something like this could happen, stop taking it so personally. It will destroy you if you don’t let it go.”
Trust me, I know, is what I don’t say.
“Plus, I think you have bigger problems to focus on. What was that with your beam routine?”
Navy blue eyes peer up at me, and all at once I become hyper aware of how intimately we’re standing.
“Nothing was wrong.” She turns her cheek to me and I study the long, graceful neck before me.
“Oh, so elite gymnasts just change up their routines every once and a while? It was feeling boring? Is that why you replaced a skill worth five tenths more with a skill you could do in your sleep as a ten-year-old?”
Nat shakes her head and tries to move around me, but I box her in, my arms bracing the wall on either side of her.
“You’re afraid. What happened? I know what fear looks like, Nat. We’ve all seen what havoc it can wreak.”
She sighs; someone coming out of the gym jars us both. But they can’t see us, the two girls paths solely focused on running to whatever workout, gym or training session they have next.
“I fell on my neck.” Nat whispers, turning her head to the side and averting those big blue eyes from mine. Even without her gorgeous features trained on me, I can feel the fear radiating off of her body.
“When? How? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.” My heart aches for her.
I know about fear. You don’t throw your body into flips and dangerous stunts without coming down with fear every so often. Most gymnasts naturally get it once in awhile. Like the flu. It throws off your whole damn system. But with treatment, it can be eradicated.
“About a month and a half ago at my home gym. I was just going through a beam routine set, it was just one in the ten I had to do that day at practice. I was about halfway through, resting on my laurels and throwing my skills like I could do them in my sleep. I let my guard down; I wasn’t tightening my body enough. I went into it, and my foot slipped somewhere along the way. The next thing I knew, I was laying on the mat with my neck bent backwards. I didn’t hear a snap or a crack, but I wasn’t allowed to move until the trainer came in ten minutes later. For ten minutes, all I could think was: Can you feel your fingers? Can you feel your toes? Am I ever going to do gymnastics again?”
I wipe my hand over my face, empathy flowing through me. We may not be motorcycle racers or football players, but I bet I’ve seen more bones poking through the skin than they have. I bet I’ve seen more emergency room visits, fractured spines, premature arthritis a
nd life-altering injuries.
“I get it, Nat. I do. But you’re fine now. You’re here, on your way to the Olympics. Don’t let the fear control you.” It’s a stupid response, I know because of course you can’t just take the advice to get over your fears. Poof! Someone else says it and you’re not afraid. It doesn’t work like that.
Those dark aqua orbs, the color of clear blue waters off Bermuda or Aruba find mine. Nat is gripping her honey blond hair tightly. “You don’t understand. I don’t get scared. I’ve never been afraid of anything in this sport. Not for sixteen whole years.”
My stomach drops as I stare at the vulnerable woman in front of me. She’s a gymnastics unicorn. Fear has never been in her vocabulary. She’s one of the rare of us who can throw skills way outside of her skill range without so much as a thought.
“That’s why this is so bad …” I trail off, connecting the dots.
Nat nods. “I have no idea how to control this, because I’ve never been afraid of doing anything. Spence, I stand at the end of that beam and my body won’t let me move. I’m a prisoner in my own skin. I don’t know what to do.”
There is so much pain in her eyes that I feel a twinge deep down in my own gut.
“I’m going to help you. You’ll get over this, Nat, and I’ll help you. You deserve this, you deserve to go to the Olympics. You’re the best female gymnast this country has seen in decades. We’re going to fix this.”
She nods at me, and I see it in her eyes. The admiration, the hope that I will be able to solve all of her problems. And the word that is ringing in my head.
Together.
Eleven
Natalia
The first night without Peyton is rough. I head back to the dorm, where her door stands ajar and her room empty across the hall. That sends me into a downward spiral.
The floodgates open, and the tears don’t stop for hours. I feel more alone than ever, my one real friend in this entire place has been kicked out, her dreams unfulfilled. I finished in the middle of the group during the mock meet today. I should have been first. Fucking first. I killed my routines, besides beam. Novak is punishing me for showing weakness. If he didn’t know what was up with me on beam before today, he surely knows now.
Blind Landing (Flipped #1) Page 5