Blind Landing (Flipped #1) (13 page)

S
pence is already waiting
for me outside of the beam gym when I stroll up.

“Now that we got you over your fear, we need to perfect the dismount. It’s not just enough to be able to do it. You’re going to be an Olympic athlete. It has to be perfect.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks,
Oh Wise Coach
. As if I haven’t been training my entire life on that singular principle. As if I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t already understand that.”

He swats my butt, earning himself a scowl. “Well, Miss Sassy Gymnast, you have three days until Olympic Trials, and I’d really like to see you on a podium in Rio. Sorry for wanting you to win gold …”

He acts all innocent, like I’ve struck him down. But a caress of my hand across his bare abs, low against the waistband of his shorts, has him sidling up to me like a hungry dog.

“Down boy. We have work to do.” I pronounce the swing of my hips more than usual as I strut away from him.

The adrenaline that’s been coursing through my veins for days, ever since I won the Opposite Day Meet, has me hyped up. Almost shaking with anticipation. Trials is in three days, and I’m so fucking ready I don’t know how I’ll contain myself for the next seventy-two hours.

Spence works with me for two hours, instructing me on dismount after dismount. Straighten an ankle here, point a toe there. My back is too arched, my rebound is not explosive enough. His tips are priceless, his words and teaching molding me into the best possible gymnast I can be. Despite whatever else has gone on or is going on with us, I value him so much just for the fact that he’s been an unending wealth of knowledge. He is really good at coaching, and in just a short period of time he’s helped me immensely.

And he’s done it without verbally abusing me, or making me feel worthless or stupid. I’ve witnessed so many of my coaches over the years rule and teach out of fear rather than encouragement. I’m grateful that I was just born with an iron spine, it wasn’t built or strengthened over the years, I’ve just always had it. So their insults and harassment have usually just bounced off. Other gymnasts haven’t always been as lucky. Why do you think we see so many psychological issues, eating disorders, and low self-esteem in professional gymnasts? Sure, there are the few who have completely healthy and fun experiences with the sport, but most of us fall into that trap of self-hatred at one point or another.

“What do you think you’ll do after Rio?” Spence interrupts my thoughts. His big, buff body sprawled out on the mat by the pit in the beam gym.

I swing my leg over the beam, straddling it and then laying back, all of my limbs dangling over the sides. “I don’t know … can’t I just focus on the next month of my life? The biggest month of my life?”

He chuckles, his abs contracting as he does. “Yeah, I guess you’re allowed that. But you should really think about what you might do next. Or you’ll end up like some loser who didn’t plan and has been stuck in gymnastics hell for the last four years.”

He’s referring to himself. I sit up, leaning forward until my elbows rest on the leather and pin him with my eyes. “You’re not a loser, asshole. You work as a coach in the most well-respected and notorious gymnastics facility in the entire country. You get to train Olympic-caliber athletes.”

Spence rolls his head to the side, his jaw clicking as he shrugs a shoulder. “I guess. I just … after it’s all over, I just wish I had done more planning for the future. I could have gone to college or something. Not that I’m good at anything besides the world of gymnastics.”

I never realized he felt like this. “You can still do those things, you know. If you could do anything right now, what would it be?”

His eyes become unnaturally guarded. “I don’t know …”

Hopping off the beam, I walk to him, dropping to my stomach next to him and placing my elbows on his naked chest. “Yes, you do. Don’t get all shy on me now, Russell. I opened my fearful head to you. Now spill.”

He looks up at the ceiling, a resigned sigh making his pecs rise. “I’ve been thinking lately that I might open my own gym. Run it on the principles of fun and healthy training.”

“I think that would be wonderful. You’d be fantastic.” I’m not saying it as one of those automatic responses. I really mean it.

Spence’s eyes connect with mine and I know he’s about to kiss me. My fingers tingle and my toes curl, the adrenaline sparked on Monday turning into something new. Something that tumbles through my chest, swinging and rolling through every limb and digit until my body feels like it’s been thrown into free fall. I suddenly can’t catch my breath.

Not that I’d be able to as Spence lays his lips over mine in a blisteringly soft kiss. His mouth is hard but gentle all at the same time, his hands twisting in my ponytail and skimming down my back until goose bumps rise on my flesh. Our tongues explore and tangle, lazily working against each other, twisting my heart and stomach up into knots. The only remedy is more Spencer.

We make out for what feels like years, my body feeling drugged and sluggish as I come up for air.

“Remember the first time we kissed in this gym?” Spence is sporting a prominent hard on as he sends a flirty smile my way.

“It seems like decades ago, not two months.” I rub my nose over a muscled ridge near his collarbone.

“I know. You just couldn’t stay away from me, could you?”

A noise somewhere in the gym has us jumping in our skin. “You don’t think that someone is in here, right?”

I’m spooked, nervous that someone will discover us. It’s one thing to get up close and personal with Spence with the idea that someone might catch us, that is sexy. But having someone actually catch us? It would cause a shit storm that would topple all of my dreams right off the podium.

“Don’t be so freaked out. We’re fine. It was probably the wall or the floor, these buildings are old as shit. Why, you scared someone might find out about us?”

The tone of his last sentence makes it sound like a question. Like he’s broaching the subject of going public. Time to lock that down now.

“It’s just … can we circle back to that after the Olympics? I told you before, I need to focus. And I love what we are doing, what we have. But right now, I love it the way it is.”

I try to ignore the bit of hope that disappears from his green eyes. But he nods his head. “Yeah, of course. You’re right.”

He smiles, but I can tell it’s not his usual happy-go-lucky expression.

“We better get out of here, you have endless hours of practice ahead of you. One step closer to Rio means one step closer to you having to stop avoiding defining whatever it is we’re doing.” He happily laces his fingers through mine.

Spence has turned over the hourglass, the time to change the subject on our relationship is slowly ticking away.

B
eer and baseball on TV
. Sounds like my kind of heaven right now.

After a full day of practice, overly anxious athletes, and bureaucratic bullshit leading into Olympic Trials, all I want to do is veg out on my couch with a bag of beef jerky and a bottle of IPA. And since my sort-of-girlfriend won’t allow me to sleep with her, or even in her bed, for the next two days, it looks like I’ll be vegging out alone.

Nat is peddling some mumbo jumbo about me being a distraction, or how her body won’t be able to rest with another person sleeping in her twin bed. I made the argument that I’d strum her body into so many orgasms, she’d fall into the best sleep of her life. She wasn’t buying it.

As I walk across campus, the grounds are practically empty. The gyms stand like ships in the late afternoon after a long day at sea, waiting for the morning, for the crew to get back to work. It’s almost July, the muggy, hot air encasing my body as if I was swimming through molasses. By August it will be humid as hell, with bugs trying to bite any ounce of my skin they can get to.

And by August, we’ll be in Rio. I’ll be on the floor as my guys compete, feeling the rush in a completely different way than I ever thought I would. I’ll be watching Nat compete her way to an Olympic gold, of that I’m sure.

“Hey bro, Novak asked you to meet him in the administrative building.” Rourke passes me on his way out to the parking lot, hiking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the offices.

That’s strange. “He say what about?”

He shakes his head. “Dude, I don’t ask about stuff that doesn’t concern me. Especially when it comes to anything concerning Novak. You know this!”

“Yeah … sorry, man. You’re right. Say hi to Willow for me.” I fist bump him.

“Thanks, tonight is a princess tea party. Not sure if she’ll let me slide with not dressing up in a gown …”

I bust out laughing as he grimaces and walks towards his car. Rourke is a great guy, and he’s also a great dad. Makes it easy that his four-year-old daughter Willow is an absolute doll.

Redirecting myself towards the offices, my stomach drops a little. A meeting with Novak, that wasn’t scheduled in advance, cannot be good. A meeting with Novak isn’t good, period. He’s the worst kind of person, harsh and mean. And ignorant to the fact that he actually is harsh and mean. The combination is deadly.

I know about what happened to his wife, how that must have devastated him. I also know, from the older coaches here, that he wasn’t a saint even before she died. Losing the woman you love, I can’t imagine what that would do to a man. But I’d like to hope that if God forbid something like that ever happened to me, I wouldn’t turn into a monster like Novak had.

I pause before I open the door to the administrative building, steeling myself for whatever bullshit is about to come flying my way. Although I can’t possibly fathom what he wants to meet with
me
about, an ominous feeling floats over me. Like in a movie, when a rain cloud suddenly pops up over a character’s head.

Bracing for impact, I open the door, the click of keyboards and ringing of the receptionist’s phone completely foreign to my ears. I do springboards and wood equipment and rock music all day. An office setting? It actually makes me shudder.

Approaching the desk, the mousy woman behind the counter is continually putting the people on the other end of the line of hold. “Filipek’s Gymnastics, please hold. Filipek’s Gymnastics, please hold. Filipek’s Gymnastics, please hold.”

I tap the counter, trying to get her attention but also trying to occupy my hands. When she finally detaches the phone from her ear, she looks up at me, not saying a thing but expecting me to read her brain.

“Uh … I’m here for a meeting with Novak …”

The receptionist stares down at her computer. “Spencer Russell?”

She asks this as if I had any say in the scheduling of this meeting. I nod.

“He’ll see you in his office.”

More confusion fills my chest, but I walk back, my eyes passing over the framed pictures of all of the gymnasts that Filipek has ever sent to the Olympics. I can tell you that of the twenty people on this wall, he’s taking credit for at least three that he never had a hand in. And about ten of the ladies have permanent damage to their bodies or psyches.

Rounding the corner, Novak is sitting in his office, his head down as he looks over what seems like a phone. I knock on the door frame, his eyes snapping to me.

“Come in, Spencer.” Novak’s voice … I can’t read the tone.

“Sit.” His brusque voice commands me.

I move to the empty chair, suddenly skittish around him. “What is this all about?”

“You’ve been here four years. In all this time, I still don’t feel like you give all to this program,” Novak’s broken English insults me.

My blood boils. I might not be a huge fan of his, but, “I give everything to my gymnasts. I train them, encourage them, make sure they’re healthy and ready.”

“And apparently, you also make sure to sleep with them.” The smirk on Novak’s face chills my heated blood.

Fuck. He couldn’t possibly …

Sure enough, he shoves a phone in my face; a dark, fuzzy picture of two people laying on gymnastics mats kissing assaulting my eyes. I can make out the shiny pink material of the leotard the woman wears, and it strikes me that it’s the same leotard Nat had on this morning.

“Who is that?” I play dumb, knowing that our faces aren’t visible. We were sucking face, and in this photo there is no way you could make out who those people are.

“Do not mock me. I know what’s been going on with Natalia. And this morning, Melinda finally caught you.” Novak’s smug expression makes me want to punch him, hit him with a right cross to the jaw until he’s seeing stars.

I also note that it takes him no time at all to throw the woman who worships him under the bus. He didn’t have to drop Melinda’s name, it wasn’t necessary. But Novak wanted to let me know that he wasn’t actively investigating Nat and I, that we were the ones who had gotten ourselves caught. What an asshole.

“I don’t have anything to say to these accusations.” I wasn’t going to give him an inch, anything I said he would only twist.

And fuck, I didn’t give a shit about me. But Nat had everything to lose if he decided to pursue this further. I needed to protect her from Novak’s wrath, at least for the next month. And then we would be free. Hopefully.

“You know what it will do to Natalia’s career if it gets out that she’s been sleeping with a coach.” Novak looks almost gleeful.

I can’t help it, my temper gets the better of me. “Don’t you fucking touch her.”

His faces lights up, the malicious intent written all over his sharp, unkind features.

And suddenly, a lightbulb goes on. This is it … what he’s wanted all along. For the past four years, this monster has tolerated
me
because the gymnasts love me. Because the gymnastics community loves me. If he’d ever fired me, he would get so much pushback from not only the athletes, but the parents and the fans.

“You’ve been looking for a way to out me for years, haven’t you? You really can’t stand me that much?”

Novak’s face goes intensely serious. “You know nothing of the European method I bring. You are all laughs and fun … that is not the way to raise elite gymnasts. They need discipline and rough teaching.”

He hates me, despises me, because I won’t bend to his abusive techniques.

“What do you want?” Because I know now, that is where this is going.

If he had wanted to discipline me for my actions, Nat would be here too. But that’s not what this is. This is blackmail.

“You will leave, resign as a coach at Filipek’s immediately.” Novak might be salivating.

“And Natalia? You don’t even care about whatever it is that might or might not be happening, do you?”

He points a rough finger at me. “Spencer, I have no interest who you do or don’t stick your dick in. But when your coaching style starts to interfere with our mission here, I will eliminate you.”

I feel the rage creep up my spine, vertebrae by vertebrae climbing until I’m spewing the hatred out of my mouth.

“You’re pathetic. Evil and fucking horrific. You get off on the mental and verbal abuse of young children! You’ve taken a beautiful sport, a sport I love, and turned it into something … ugly. A sport that now includes eating disorders and horrible self-esteem. You have twelve year olds thinking they need cortisone shots instead of rest and physical therapy. You’ve driven athletes who aren’t ready to throw certain skills to injure themselves in the process, more scared of your belittling them than a skill they’ve never even attempted before.”

Novak, for the first time all meeting, looks like he’s lost his upper hand. The bastards jaw sits unhinged, shock and speechlessness overtaking his entire body at the fact that someone has dared to challenge him.

“So from here on out, I’m going to make it
my mission
to eliminate you. To kick you so far out of the sport that I love that people won’t even remember your name. Watch your back, and your business, because I’m coming for you.”

With that, I stand, the chair skittering backwards and slamming against the wall of Novak’s office. I give him one last menacing look, the adrenaline and fury fueling me. I hope I look as lethal as I feel. I’m going to end him.

It’s one thing to go after me. It’s another to go after my sport.

And it’s another to go after my girl.

I may knock a few pictures off the “bragging rights” wall with my fist on the way out.