Blind Landing (Flipped #1) (12 page)

I
wake to salty
, humid air and the sound of water lapping against sand, and I ache so badly for California and my family that for a second I let myself bask in the naïveté that I might be home.

But one look around the room as I blink my eyes open and that illusion fades away. For one, my mother has absolutely no taste for decoration. Whereas Hannah Russell is like some HGTV muse, every inch of her shore house looks picturesque with it’s white and beige, shells and driftwood.

And the other reason I know I’m not home is because there is one very naked man currently snoring next to me, his muscled arms wrapped around my waist. If my parents ever even let me bring a boy home, he would be locked in a cell my father would have built in the basement.

“
Spence
!” I hiss in his ear.

All my plea is met with is more snoring. He’s lucky he’s hot.

“
Spencer
!” This time I pinch his ass cheek, the muscles beneath like silk-covered steel.

He wakes with a start, his buzzed brown head shooting up, the creases from the pillow giving him an adorably sleepy expression.

“Huh?”

“You accidentally fell asleep in here!” I keep my voice quiet, hoping Hannah and Lance are already downstairs.

After last night’s double round of orgasms, we must have passed out. Together. In this guest room where I’m supposed to be staying, and Spencer is not supposed to step one foot in.

“Shit! Fuck!” Spence stumbles out of bed, stubbing his toe on the bedpost and flying into another round of cursing.

I slap my hand over my mouth, holding back the giggles threatening to explode from my throat as I watch him stuff his morning wood back into the boxers that were discarded on the floor hours ago. He shoots me a warning glare, blows me a kiss, and then cracks the door open. Holding up a thumb behind his back, I take it that the hallway is all clear, and he slips out.

Once the door closes behind his bare back, muscles pulling and flexing as he tiptoed out, I bury my face in my pillow and let the laugh loose.

With the spontaneous fit of giggles clear, my mind begins to wander to last night.

Spence’s declaration of his feelings had been unexpected, but not unwelcome. I’ve known for a week or so, or probably from the very beginning if I’m being honest, that what we’re doing was more serious than just “having fun,” as I’d told Peyton. Obviously it’s more; why would I have agreed to come down to the shore and meet his parents if all I wanted was a sexy fling?

So we’re going to see where this goes. I don’t know what that entails, seeing as I’ve never had a conversation like that with a boy. Sure, there were boys back in West Chester that I’d see, some would call it date, for a month or two. High school type relationships, though I’ve never officially been enrolled in a traditional high school. They were fun and exciting, I got experience with fooling around.

But none of those even compare to what I’m doing with Spencer. The things I’m feeling for him go way past attraction, the way I value his friendship can only be described as priceless. He’s quickly become the first person I want to talk to when anything happens to me, the last person who is on my mind when my head hits the pillow. My mom once told me that was how you knew you were in love; the person you love is the last thing you think about before you fall asleep, and the first image that pops into your brain when you wake up.

Did I love Spence? I wasn’t sure. And I had no time for such silly thoughts. In the grand scheme of my life right now, love had no place. I’d been training every single day of my short life for a dream that only something like one percent of the population even got a shot at. Distractions like love, I could put those on the back burner for months, years if needed, to achieve my goal. To stand on that platform in Rio and hear the USA’s National Anthem being played while thousands of people cheered my name.

The sound of pots and pans clanking downstairs has me stirring, and I want to make use of the incredible outdoor shower I saw on the side of the house yesterday. Apparently Spence has brought out the water nudist in me, first the Atlantic Ocean and now his parents’ shower.

I get out of bed, feeling more relaxed than I have in months. Not only was this short trip important in a Spencer-way, it was important for my health. Getting off the training grounds, pulling myself out of the gymnastics world even for a night will be good for my head space come this week.

The week before Olympic Trials. My skin prickles with anticipation just thinking about it. In just seven days, my name could be sitting next to the all-time greats in the book of female gymnasts picked to represent America in the Olympics.

With thoughts of Novak saying my name running through my head, I grab the towel Hannah laid out for me and quietly slip out of the house.

Spencer’s parents have been … a surprise. I mean, I know Spencer is a character, has a big personality and is always cracking jokes. But Hannah and Lance take it to another level. Hannah is the most open and honest person I’ve ever met. Maybe a little too much so, last night she was telling me how long it took her vagina to heal after giving birth to Spencer. And Lance … it’s as if he spit Spencer. Made a little mini-me. Watching them together, you’d think they were twins, not father and son.

I open the door to the wooden outdoor shower stall and step inside, shedding my sleep shorts and T-shirt and dropping them over the closed box. Lukewarm water sprays out of the showerhead as I turn it on, the warm, beachy morning air hitting my skin. The combination feels better than any sports massage I’ve ever had.

All of the worries and thoughts jumbled inside my head start to melt away with the soapy bubbles traveling down my body, my muscles sore from the workout Spence gave me last night. Who knew an elite gymnast would still have muscles that weren’t trained and sculpted to death?

My hands are midway through combing the shampoo out of my hair when I hear the door of the shower stall creak open. My eyes don’t whip open fast enough before Spence is holding his hand over my mouth, silencing the surprised shriek that bursts from my lungs.

“I thought you were some kind of intruder! A rapist!” I hiss at him when he finally takes his fingers from my lips.

He glares at me in amusement, those green eyes sweeping my naked body with appreciation and lust. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I was the only one who knew you were showering
naked
out here. You know this is supposed to be used post-beach? As in, when you still have a bathing suit on?”

I shrug. “You know you’re like … a Peeping Tom.”

Calloused hands mold to my wet breasts, and it’s only then do I realize a very naked Spence is pressing his body against mine, a very particular part of his anatomy extremely happy to see me. His flesh shapes to mine, mixing with the cotton-scented soap and rubbing slippery bubbles between us. It’s as if his hands, intent on plucking and kneading my nipples, reach inside of me, creating a pulsing ball of need low in my belly.

Just like in the Olympic gym, a little part of me wants to stop him. Alarm bells sound in my brain that we might get caught. But then, I turn them off. Last time they started to alert me, nothing happened. And not stopping Spence resulted in a great big O-tastic reward for me. So I’m all systems go in this heavenly, outdoor shower.

I’m not going to be one of those girls who acts like she’s weary of getting some in public. For one, it would be a lie. I have no problem getting hot and heavy with Spence where someone might happen upon us. And two, we both love this. The thrill of being in a public place. I’m also not one of those women who is going to act all innocent and harp on morals and
the right thing
. Let’s be honest … this feels too good to be wrong. And even if it was, I don’t give a fuck.

“I think I like you wet even more than I like you chalky,” Spence murmurs as his hands travel lower, lifting one of my legs and hooking it around his hip, leaving me only one leg to stand on.

I chuckle. “You like fooling around with me when I’m covered in chalk?”

His fingers skate over my hip and butt cheek, descending dangerously low so that I’m panting while my core begs for him to touch me where I need it.

“Yeah, it’s kind of kinky. My gymnastics fantasy come to life.” Spence’s teeth sink into my earlobe, the zings igniting along my spine.

We both cease to breathe when his fingers finally find my drenched opening, and my hands wrap around his steel pole. He pushes a thick digit inside me, stroking the spot that makes me see stars.

Spence buries his head in my neck as I use one hand to work his shaft, pulling up until I brush the sensitive skin underneath his engorged tip. My other hand cups his balls, rolling and pulling them until he’s muttering obscenities into my flesh.

My orgasm builds slowly, soaring higher and higher as he pushes every button in me. We’re working each other over, the hot water feeling cool against my skin, Spence’s fingers the only heat source stoking the flames exploding in me.

“Oh my God …” I hear the moan escape my lips, and in a split second, I’m tumbling over the edge. My climax shudders out of me, expanding to every limb until I’m clamping down on Spence’s hands, hips and mouth. The final sparks of lust roll through me just as Spence growls into my mouth, my thumb flicking his tip.

“Jesus fuck, Nat …”

Spence’s warm climax spills over my hand, his abs contracting as his hips flex into me, a shuddered breath floating against my lips. He’s magnificent, a powerful, beautiful beast caught in the throes of his climax.

When he’s finally able to breathe again, his green eyes lock onto mine, the only thing holding us up is the wooden wall behind my back.

“We should probably get out of here before my Mom starts looking for us. Or before we drain all of the hot water from the entire house.” Spence smirks, his lazy grin matching his dazed eyes.

I laugh, turning to wash the rest of the shampoo out of my hair. Spence helps me, soaping himself up while I squirt conditioner into my hand and lather it over my blond mane. We work together, our fingers exploring, washing and trailing over each other’s bodies.

By the time we’re actually done, all I want to do is get back under the hot spray and repeat our fun from earlier.

And while Spence wraps a towel around me, using another to pat my hair dry, I realize I’m in trouble. Because while I might not have time for distractions like boys or love, it’s clear that the universe has other plans.

Because it put Spencer Russell directly in my path.

S
even days
.

That’s it.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours until I compete in the meet of my life. The one that will determine whether or not the past sixteen years have been worth it or not.

Because let’s face it, the Olympics is not the most difficult meet of my life. It might be the biggest, the pinnacle that will complete a career. But Trials is the hardest. The most nerve wracking. It is the last hoop to jump through before I get to advance to the place I’ve always been working for.

And for some reason, Novak has always had a fun tradition on the first day of Trials week. I’m not sure why, as he has never struck me as a person who has a humorous bone in his body. But the Monday of the final week, he teases us gymnasts with a little bit of humility, a little bit of amusement.

And that comes in the form of Opposite Day.

I’ve heard about it over the years,
the best day at Filipek’s
. Everyone looks forward to it, it might even be on par with Trials. It’s the day that all of the gymnasts gather in the Olympic gym and trade events. So, the women perform on the men’s apparatuses, and the men have to compete on the women’s four exercises.

There is a tiny bit of incentive. Not only does the winning team get bragging rights, but the male and female who finish at the top of their group get priority event rotation during Olympic Trials. And as a rigid competitor, I want that. Will kill for it. I always do better in competition when I rotate in Olympic order, so vault, bars, beam, floor.

I know today is going to be hilarious when the men punch through the glass doors of the gym, wearing nothing but tight red, white and blue leotards, their junk bulging in the tiny Speedo-like crotches.

I’m even more speechless when Spence walks in at the back of the group, in the exact same getup.

Everyone in the gym bursts into laughter, sputtering and wolf-whistling at the cocky men strutting their stuff as they walk onto the floor exercise.

“I didn’t know coaches could get in on this!” Rourke hits Spence in the shoulder.

“It’s good moral support for my gymnasts. Plus, a day where I’m allowed to get in touch with my feminine side? Count me in.” He does a little dance move that has everyone doubling over.

“All right, all right. You know the rules. You know what is up for grabs. Let’s get started with the men on vault.” Novak gets down to business. Guess his fun meter ran out before he even stepped foot in the gym.

We all pad over to vault, the men and women taunting each other and generally trying to act like each other. The men prance around, flipping their hair. And the females keep grabbing our nonexistent crotches and making loogie noises.

Vault goes by in a flash; since it’s one of the two apparatuses male and female gymnasts share, and since we generally all do the same vaults as each other no matter the gender, there really isn’t a competition on this event. Jared and I receive the best scores, and my heart rate notches up a level as the men move to uneven bars and we move to parallel bars.

“Have fun trying to master parallels.” Spence nudges my side when no one is looking, the two of us walking in the back of the group as we strap on our grips.

“Have fun trying not to hit your feet on the low bar.” I shoot him a cocky grin.

Since male gymnasts only have a high bar on their event, they usually don’t have to worry about bend their bodies or making sure their toes don’t clip anything while they’re concentrating on swinging around.

“We both know I typically don’t have a problem fitting my legs between small spaces.” He whispers that, his eyes full of innuendo.

“Careful Coach, you wouldn’t want others to interpret your words as dirty or inappropriate.”

Our smiles are goofy, the fun of this jacking both of us up. It’s foreplay, just a light teasing before we inevitably see each other tonight and go at it. I kind of want to rip that hilarious women’s leotard off of him and mount him right here.

Half of the guys fall on uneven bars, they aren’t able to get the right amount of momentum because they have to cut their downswings short due to the low bar. Spence does a half-ass routine, and I know it’s because his arm mobility won’t allow him much movement. My heart aches a little bit, but his silly smirk when he dismounts and does a girly present to the judge cures the sadness. Duke actually has the best bar routine, sneaking a release move and a double back dismount in for the top score.

The women cycle through parallel bars, most of us doing mediocre on an event we were never trained for and don’t have the muscles for. A lot of the male events rely on upper arm strength, the kind that can only be inherited genetically and not through even the toughest conditioning. We will never admit it to their faces, but the male gymnasts do one up us on their ability to bulk up, and it gives them the advantage on Opposite Day. They might not be trained in artistic dance, leaps and jumps, but the women just don’t have the arm strength it takes to even make it through a routine on pommel horse or rings.

As Opposite Day goes on, we all laugh and relax with each other. My stomach muscles actually ache with how much fun I’m having. The men do some ridiculous routines on beam, they’re big bodies completely out of place on the tiny piece of wood. Grace goes above and beyond on rings, treating them like some aerial acrobats tool instead of just holding them in her hand.

“She looks like some sort of contortionist up there!” Julia stands amazed and the entire gym watches as Grace stands on one of the rings, lifting her other leg behind her head and swinging to catch the other ring.

“Why does she have to make this look insanely cooler than when we do it? Isn’t it hard enough to do an Iron Cross? Now I’m going to have to compete with the circus over there.” Duke pouts in the corner. I think he’s genuinely upset that he can’t get his body to do that.

“Women, bro. Just when you think they won’t be able to beat you, they turn around and spin magic or some shit and voila! Completely dominated you.” Jared throws up his hands as Grace does a gainer off the rings, landing her dismount with a cute flick of her hands.

“Whatever, I rocked on beam.” Duke still pouts.

“You straddled it …” It’s the first time I’ve seen Julia even crack a smile in a guy’s direction.

“I meant to do that,” Duke rubs his groin, which has got to be severely bruised. “Anyway, why you thinking about me straddling something in the first place?”

His cocky grin lights up his face, his coffee brown eyes stalking her. Even I feel the heat, and I’m not even in the kitchen.

“I hope your nuts fall off tonight.” She cuts him, walking off before he can even come up with a good comeback.

“That girl is a little crazy …” Spence sidles up to me, still looking ridiculous in his too-tight leo.

“You’re a coach, you can’t say that about the gymnasts!” I hit him and he holds onto my hand for the briefest of seconds. Just a little too long to be a friendly gesture, but too short for anyone to notice.

“No, he’s right, she’s a psycho. I think I might be a little in love with her.” Duke gazes at Julia’s back, his eyes moony.

“All right, lover boy. Time for our last events.” I clap Duke on the back, heading to high bar.

I’m in the lead going into the last event, and I can see that Olympic order prize just inches from my grasp. This mock meet, if we can even call it that, has been fun. But more importantly, it’s gotten the competitive adrenaline flowing in my veins. It’s getting me geared up, psyched up, for Trials. I’m ready to kick ass.

After four or five of the other girls compete on high bar, Novak signals for me to start. Rourke hefts me up, my hands connecting with the chalky cylinder of wood. The dowels of my grips press into my palms, creating more calluses on top of the permanent ones etched into my skin. My body arches and hollows, my swing building as I start from a dead hang.

Once I build enough momentum, I heft my muscles, making sure they’re all flexed down to the point of my toes. I swing into a glide kip, bring my hips parallel to the bar and then tapping my feet up into a cast handstand. From there I swing a few giants, pirouetting and switching my grip from a back giant to a front giant. My body circles around the bar, completely laid out as the soaring feeling I crave so much washes over me.

Adding in a few release moves for shits and giggles, I make the routine up as I go. It’s fun and uninhibited, just doing gymnastics for the pure bliss of it. This is why I love this sport. I feel the smile ghosting my lips as I release the bar, tucking my body and rotating twice before my feet hit the ground, digging my toes into the mat to ensure a stuck landing.

Whistles and cheers bring me back down to earth as my friends and coaches celebrate the awesome routine I just performed. And with that, I lock up the winning spot on Opposite Day. I’m going into Trials with the best event order.

The boys end the day on floor, and everyone is tittering with child-like excitement at what tricks they’ll pull out. Duke and Jared go first, dancing to feminine tracks, prancing around and shaking their non-existent asses and tits. Duke cements the first place spot much to everyone’s surprise; it’s well known that the golden boy of gymnastics is and always will be Jared until he retires. I have a feeling the rookie there is going to give him a run for his money in Rio.

And then, just as everyone starts getting restless and ready to go back to their dorms and crash, the opening trumpets of “My Humps” by the Black Eyed Peas start to blare over the sound system.

“Oh. My. Fucking. God.” My mouth drops open as Spence struts onto the floor, popping and twerking his hips to the opening beatbox of the song.

“This is fucking YouTube gold.” Duke pulls out his cellphone, hitting record on his camera app.

Spence winks at the crowd of us, pushing out his sculpted pecs as if they were double D’s. He shimmies, launching his body into a series of leaps and jumps that I have to admit are impressively graceful for a man standing six foot. Coming to the corner of the floor, his face sets in a serious line, focusing on his tumbling pass ahead. He rockets across the springy blue carpet, into a roundoff back handspring and catapulting into a double full in back out, a skill that requires him to complete one flip while twisting three hundred and sixty-five degrees, and then flipping in the air again before landing solidly on his feet.

“I can’t even fucking do that! He makes it look so easy.” Julia pouts off to the side.

The audience roars after he sticks the landing, his arms flying up and his body continuing it’s swanky perusal of the floor. Spence’s face is glowing, his body radiating electric energy and positivity. If he’s getting this much joy from a silly dare of a floor routine, then I’m only experiencing a small portion of what he must have looked like when he was seriously competing.

He is in his element, down to the true meaning of that phrase. I’m an elite gymnast, and I’m envious thinking that I’ve never come close to feeling what he feels even right now, when it doesn’t even matter. Gymnastics radiates through his bones, his skin, it’s a part of who he is.

It
is
who he is.

A sudden sadness permeates the goofy giggles he’s caused to wrack my body. He must miss this every single day. Every second.

Spence finishes the routine with a split, spreading his legs so wide that I can perfectly make out the indent of his soft cock in the leotard material. Everyone gasps and cheers at the raunchy move, but my insides flush with need. For my stupid, sexy, hilarious … boyfriend or whatever the fuck I am calling him this hour.

We fall to the back of the group, our steps slowing and moving farther away from the crowd of other gymnasts.

“Whatchu gonna do with all this junk?” Spence asks me seriously.

I look around to his ass. “I see no lovely lady lumps, my friend.”

He raises a brow. “Friend, huh? So we’re back to that? I’m pretty sure friends don’t make friends scream while orgasming.”

I smack his ass, maybe not full of junk, but certainly sculpted and great for ogling.

He eyes me, his green pools moving from amusement to vicious desire in two seconds flat. “You just let me know when I can mix my milk with your cocoa puffs.”