A glance at the clock on her tiny bedside table shows it’s close to four thirty a.m. “Sorry, I fell asleep. I can go if you want an hour or so of sleep.”
I’m not usually a sleepover kind of guy, but I was so comfortable and tired last night that I must have dozed off with Nat. And then round two happened and we must have both passed out again. Usually I feel awkward and cagey if I happen to make the mistake of falling asleep in a chick’s bed. But right now, I don’t feel anything but Nat’s skin on mine and a warm feeling of content in my chest. I push away analyzing that. I don’t analyze. And I don’t want to start now.
“No, stay. You actually make for a nice pillow. But don’t talk, you’ll ruin it.” She stirs and her body slithers on mine as she backs herself against my front, creating the best kind of friction.
“A pillow? That’s all I’m good for. Not what you were saying last night. And this morning.” I grin and wrap my arm around her tiny torso.
Nat sighs. “You may have just ruined it.”
I nibble at the porcelain slice of exposed skin on her neck. “Does this make up for it?”
“Mmmm.”
I’ll take that as a yes.
A few minutes of snuggling more, and then Nat begins to get restless. I can tell from the twitching of her fingers, the way she jiggles her legs. And I realize this woman and I have more in common than I could ever possibly imagine.
“You can never sit still, can you?”
I feel the tiny smile that stretches her lips. “Never. It’s like once my body is up for the day, I can’t go back to bed. It has to move.”
“It’s like we’re related or something.” I laugh, and then my face goes stone cold sober as I feel Nat start to quake with laughter. “That’s not what I meant! No! Um … I meant on a spiritual level. We’re cut from the same cloth or something. Not like brother and sister kind of shit, but … you know what I’m saying!”
Her howls of laughter echo off the cement dorm walls. “No keep going, I’m really enjoying this hole you’re digging yourself.”
My heart rate has picked up as I tickle and pinch her sides, distracting her from my stupid use of words. “You know what I meant!”
She gulps in a lungful of air. “I sure hope so. I’d hope you don’t fuck your sister like that.”
Cackles of laughter peel from her mouth.
“It’s only because I have no sister that this isn’t totally, horribly gross.” I grumble.
She pats my large hand that now rests on her smooth thigh. “Aw, it’s okay, Spence. I get it. You think I’m the lost piece of your puzzle. Your match in every way. Don’t go falling in love with me, buddy.”
Nat’s teasing me. The little minx. “I may have to shut you up the only way I know how if you keep wounding my pride. Show you how big my ego really is.”
She sits up, the sheet falling away from her naked body and leaving her rosy pink nipples exposed to me. “All right, big guy. We need to get a move on. This Olympic gold isn’t going to win itself.”
She hops over me and onto the floor, landing with soft feet. She’s stark naked, traipsing around her room as she rolls on deodorant like I’m not even there. This girl is amazing. She’s unashamed of anything. Fearless in all aspects but one … and I’m helping her take care of that.
Girls fall into one of two camps. They’re either so shy during and after hooking up that they can’t move without the lights off and a winter coat covering their parts. Or, they are way too brazen, flashy and showy in their attempt to convince me of their perpetual cool girl persona.
Nat falls in the middle of those two camps. Or she’s not even in one. I’m not even sure. All I know is that this woman likes sex, isn’t afraid to ask for what she wants, doesn’t need to define this, and has an attitude like she could take me or leave me and neither would affect her all that much.
And again, I realize how uncannily similar we are. The universe is either giving me a high five or a middle finger sending Nat my way.
“What’s our plan of attack for today, boss?” Nat steps into a red leotard with a tie-dyed blue pattern running over it.
I get up, not bothering to hide the steel pole between my legs that is very much begging for her attention. “We need to get you on the real, competition beam today, and all week. But first, we need to show your brain what it won’t let itself remember.”
I am all Zen and spiritual and shit because I’ve been thinking about this tactic for a while. I had only just learned of it when Duke started talking about how one of his college gymnastics buddies would watch his own routines on YouTube.
“And how do you plan to do that, genius?” Nat is fully ready now, sliding into a pair of shorts, throwing her gym bag over her shoulder and shoving a granola bar in her mouth.
She’s the most low-maintenance, yet stunning, female I’ve ever known.
“We are going to watch you doing Arabians.” I say it simply and with a shrug, throwing my shorts and shirt on, not bothering with anything else. I brush my teeth, and spray some cologne on once in a while. But personal upkeep isn’t really my thing. The reason I shave my hair so short to my head is because I can’t be trusted to keep anything longer than that styled right.
Nat stares at me with a dumbfounded expression. “Again, not following you. That would require me to actually throw one. Which I’m not sure I can do yet.”
I grab my phone off the floor where it must have fallen last night. A casualty of sex, I think and smirk. Nat tilts her head, and I’m not unconvinced she knows what I’m thinking.
I hold up the iPhone. “How long have you been performing that dismount? One, maybe two years? And in that time, how many of those international competitions did you perform it in? There is bound to be endless footage of your gymnastics skills on YouTube. And we’re going to watch your beam dismount.”
It’s like I’ve just turned on the lightbulb in her brain as I watch her blue eyes fill with excitement. “Spence, that’s actually a really good idea!”
“See, I’m good for something. Or a lot of things.” I wink, crossing the room to stand in front of her. “Now, if you’ll give me a couple dozen of those granola bars to get me through until breakfast, I can work my magic.”
She chucks a chocolaty chip bar at my head, and I shrug, tearing it open and eating it in two bites.
We’re quiet as we walk to the beam gym, no one around but us, the morning dew and the chirping birds.
“Sometimes, if it’s really quiet and the sun hits the ground the right way, this place reminds me of California.” She stares up into the bright morning sky.
“Do you miss it?” I almost feel the peace radiating over her body.
“With every single breath. Maybe not the place so much, but my family.” Her eyes tinge with sadness.
I don’t usually do heavy shit, but I find myself wanting to comfort this woman. At every angle, I want to make her feel better. “When was the last time you saw them?”
“About a year ago? I was at the club in West Chester for about ten months before I came here. And before that I was with a club in Texas. So in the last ten years or so, I’ve probably only seen them for holidays.”
The life of an elite gymnast wasn’t easy. Often times the elite clubs were only located in specific areas, and there were only a handful that could catapult a gymnast to the success they needed if they were to make the Olympics. A lot of times, these young kids moved clear across the country in pursuit of their dreams. Sometimes alone, sometimes with one parent. This sport broke up families, childhoods. And in the end, sometimes it wasn’t even worth it.
“How about you? When was the last time you saw your parents?” Nat’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
I was one of the lucky ones. “I’m actually a Jersey boy. Native, born and bred. I try to see my parents most Sundays.”
Her demeanor warms. “How did I not know that?”
I fake a frown. “Because all you want me for is my cock.”
Nat
hits me in the bicep. “It’s sweet, you being a mama’s boy. It must have been easy for you to come up through the gymnastics ranks with this place in your backyard.”
“Even got to go to high school for some time.”
She gasps, her mouth opening and all I can picture is my dick still inside her warm cheeks. “You did not! Male gymnasts always have it better. I never even got to go to prom.”
It wasn’t uncommon for female gymnasts to drop out of school in favor of tutoring at the gym. Girls who were going the elite or Olympics route only had a certain number of years, a shelf life if you will. They needed to hone in on whatever special magic youth gave them. Males had it a little easier; we could compete until practically the age of thirty. As evidenced by Jared.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t miss anything special. Except seeing me win Prom King.” I open the door to the beam gym and usher her inside.
Nat rolls her eyes as she sets her gym bag down. “You would. All right Mr. Cocky, let’s get to work before your ego is as big as the ceiling of this warehouse.”
Seventeen
Natalia
The scale looms in front of us, its dials and measurers glimmering in the harsh neon light. Four brown ponytails stand between it and me, and I can feel the rage already boiling in my veins.
“One hundred and seven pounds, Grace!? You gained two since last week. Cut back on dinner, or you may just be sitting at home instead of in the Olympic village in Rio!”
Grace steps from the scale, her face white as a sheet and her fingers practically carving slits into the sides of her thighs.
One hundred and seven pounds. That was practically malnourished by American standards. If Grace was fat, I was obese at one hundred and twenty pounds. But I didn’t care about numbers or a scale or any of that shit.
I care that a grown man was subjecting young girls to body shaming. Making them get on a scale every week and be picked apart, every inch of them measured with a BMI measurement caliper. I care that he is mentally screwing with Grace, a sixteen-year-old who I’m pretty sure is throwing up the measly two meals a day she even picks at, let alone digests. I care that Novak has created these harsh limits, has turned a sport I love into something that neglects and harms young women.
I’ve watched him over the years. Berate and demean his gymnasts at meets. There have been rumors that he’s locked girls in their hotel rooms with no food all weekend when they are away from their parents at meets.
I just never saw it firsthand. Until I got here.
The scale comes to rest at the tips of my toes, and I step up, Novak working the dials and weights.
“One hundred twenty. Same as last week, still heaviest one here. Can’t you stop getting your period?”
My mouth drops open, but I shut it quickly. I can’t believe a fully grown man who has been tasked to take care of my well being is actually suggesting I stop the normal flow of my body parts. That I should sacrifice being healthy in order to lose some more weight to … what? I am already an elite gymnast, headed for the Olympics. I hone my muscles and my conditioning every single day. I’m as strong and as in-shape as I will ever be.
What Novak does … it’s sick. Twisted. He wants to warp and brainwash these girls into listening to whatever he tells them. And sadly, most of the times it isn’t true.
And times like today, and every single day until I’m standing on that platform winning gold in Rio, I have to perpetuate it. Keep my mouth shut. Because he calls the shots, he names the team.
How badly would I like to punch Novak in the face right now? How badly would I like to call him out for creating these girls’ horrible lack of self-esteem?
I would fucking love it.
But all I’m allowed to do is roll my eyes. Nod my head. And move on. Put my shorts back on and get on my way, dragging myself to another gym.
“You think I can make him get on that scale? I’d love to weigh that beer gut.” Julia whispers into my ear as we walk out.
“I hate that shit. We’re gymnasts. We have muscles and lean fat. Do they think these eight hour a day workouts are just not doing anything? I’ve had ripped biceps since I was five.”
We both roll our eyes in unison.
“I’m worried about Grace. These weigh-ins are not good for her.” Julia chews on her thumbnail.
“I know they’re not.” Even I can hear the worry in my own voice.
It’s this nonsense that makes so many elite athletes, not just gymnasts, quit before they can see glory. The bullshit, the red tape, the hoops to jump through. When you get up to this level, it’s not just about the sport you love and being the best. There is ass kissing and an image to maintain.
I never wanted this part, but sadly, you can’t escape it.
But I know that soon enough, my time will come. I will stand with my hand over my heart, a medal around my neck and listen to them play the Star Spangled Banner.
And then I’ll come for Novak. I want to return my sport, the sport I love so much, to its proper place. Uplift both girls and boys, show them how to healthily compete and make it fun again.
Because as serious as being an elite athlete is, they need to be here for the right reasons. Not because they’re scared. And not because they feel like they’ll end up as disappointments in their coaches or parents eyes.
But because they truly, truly love it.
I try to shake off the morning’s annoyance and get focused on my workouts for the rest of the day. With only about a month left before Olympic Trials, and only two months left before Rio, I needed to throw myself full force into being the best I could be.
I thrived on competition energy, reveled in it. I was like a soldier ready to do battle, putting on my leotard armor, securing my weapons, my bare hands, with tape and chalk each morning. I’d been preparing for this since I could walk, and it was almost surreal that all of my training, all of the blood, sweat and tears was going to, hopefully, pay off in just weeks.
Pushing open the Vault Gym door, Aerosmith hits me full force in the chest. The rock music wound around my limbs and made my heart beat. My lips spread into a goofy grin.
And he was the reason why. Rourke Bosco.
I spotted him, his fist pumping in the air as he stood on a spotter’s block in the middle of the lineup of vaulting tables at the far end of the wall. Rourke was the sole vault coach at Filipek’s, and rightly so. He was a fucking vault genius. And he was a maniac. And I loved him.
There were coaches you instantly clicked with, either because their philosophy inspired you or their personality clicked with you. With Rourke, it was both. I’d admired him in the community for a while, but being able to train with him was a whole other level. He was fun, motivating and just a great teacher.
It also didn’t hurt that he was a total DILF. Or … a dad I’d like to … well, you know.
“Rock on, ladies! Bow down to one of the greatest rockstars of all time. Walk this way, talk this way!” Rourke formed the rock symbol with his hands and sang at the top of his lungs.
Oh yeah, and he blasted nothing but rock classics in his gym at all times.
“He’s so freaking cool,” Anna giggles as she pulls her Tiger Paws out of her bag and begins to strap them on.
We all walked in, dropping our gym bags by the cubbies against the wall and making our way up the “lanes,” as we called them. The vault gym was nothing more than a large rectangle. Running the length of the gym were a dozen or more vault runways, thick felt carpets that feet could grip to and assisted in giving each gymnasts’ legs more power as they ran at the stationary object in their path. At the end of each runway was a red and white regulation springboard, and a tan vault which either emptied into a pit, or onto hard, solid ground.
The vaults always reminded me of the Painted Ladies in San Francisco. Sure, they weren’t colorful, but each vault got higher as you looked at the next one, making them look a lot like stairs, or the famous houses on the hill. The larger the height you vaulted on, th
e bigger balls you had. And guess who vaulted on the highest setting?
“You know the drill ladies. Four run-bys, four one legged runs on each leg, four walking handstand passes, four half-ons, four Tsuks, and then we get into real vaults!” Rourke jumps down from his block and makes his way toward us, his wavy brown hair flopping in his eyes as he takes lengthy strides.
Rourke might be one of the most fun coaches at Filipek’s, but he was still all business when it came to his regimen for workouts. We did about an hour or two of warm-ups before he even let us start practicing our competition vaults. We had to run down the runway, get our legs nice and loose. Then we had to walk it on our hands to warm up the power in our shoulders. Then four elementary vaults, which were supposed to not only get our bodies used to the springboard, but also help us focus on our form. Pointed toes, pretty hands and straight legs were, after all, the fundamentals of good gymnastics.
And finally, we had to complete four Tsukaharas, a vault that required a gymnast to jump off of the springboard and turn her body one hundred and eighty degrees onto the vault so that she was in a handstand with her back facing the runway. Once there, you had to explode off of the table into a back tuck, using nothing but the power from your shoulders and hands. For most gymnasts, it was hard. For elite athletes like the girls who had made it here, we’d been doing them for years in our sleep.
Julia shook out her shoulders and ankles as we stood side by side at the end of one of the runways. “God, I love these hours.”
Vault was her favorite event. But I had a feeling she wasn’t just talking about the gymnastics of it all as she stared moony-eyed at Rourke across the gym.
“Me too, especially after that show of tyranny back there. Vault is just mindless, easy and exhausting.” I looked forward to getting lost in the monotony of the afternoon.
“Hey now, I’m obsessed with this ‘monotony.’ We can’t all be floor superstars.” Julia was a power gymnast, dancing and artistic ability didn’t really interest her.
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