Blind Landing (Flipped #1) (2 page)

“
F
irst position
, and plié, and rise up on relevé, and bend back, extend the arm …”

I hear Svetlana, Filipek’s ballet teacher, tapping out her instructions to the tinkling piano music. Another transplant from Europe, the redheaded siren is only a couple of years older than most of us. She was one of Russia’s prima ballerinas, but at the age of twenty-four, was already too old to perform when Novak scooped her up and convinced her to come here.

Ballet is a necessity for gymnasts, and any elite program has eight to ten hours at the barre a week.

And while I’m listening to Svetlana, and heeding her instructions, my mind is somewhere three buildings over, focused on the greenest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen.

Spencer Russell is the bad boy of gymnastics. Everybody knows that. I’m just surprised it’s taken me this long to bump into him.

Literally.

My heart thumps as I think about the sly grin he threw my way as I mouthed off to him. He’s too attractive for his own good. With that buzz cut of brown fuzz he sports and his near nakedness all the time, he looks like some kind of military soldier instead of an unruly athlete. Look up the words muscles and sexy in the dictionary and they would be replaced with pictures of Spencer. The man is jacked, toned and carved … and he looks like he sat out on a yacht all day with the way his sun kissed skin just begs for some oiling up. And he’s tall, which is so rare for a male gymnast. Being on the shorter side usually works in male gymnasts favor, almost like it does with jockeys.

But not Spencer Russell. No, he never does anything by the book. At six foot one he towers over almost everyone at Filipek’s. It makes it even more difficult to look away when you get trapped in that hypnotizing green stare.

He has a reputation, one that would have me running towards him instead of away. Spencer is a ladies’ man, a laid-back go-with-the-flow kind of guy. He gets away with everything and looks damn good doing it.

The man is trouble.

“Psst, Nat!” Peyton whispers to me as we move into passé, bringing one pointed foot each up to the inside of our knee on our straight leg.

I stare straight ahead at her wavy black ponytail and try to be quiet as I whisper back and conceal my smile.

“What’s up?”

Svetlana instructs us to turn and grand plié, and my calf muscles scream out. After six hours of practice and one hour of grueling conditioning and weight lifting, my body is burnt out. Thank god tomorrow is Sunday, the one day a week we get to rest. Every other day of the week is eight hours of intensive workouts and practice.

“Where are we going out tonight?” Peyton sweeps her arm gracefully over her head.

I sigh. She’s been trying to get me to go out since I got here two weeks ago. “I told you, I’m here to practice and make the Olympics … I don’t have time for that. Plus, I’m not even twenty-one.”

“Like that little fact has ever stopped you before? Come on, some of the girls and boys team members are going to this bar down the shore. A little sand in between your toes, a little drink in your system. You’ll feel much better.”

She’s right. I wasn’t a shut-in when I lived in West Chester. I went out maybe once or twice a month, found a college party or something to make me feel normal. To feel like a regular nineteen year old.

But then I’d wake up the next day and struggle through practice. Or I’d just feel guilty as hell. My parents were struggling, pushing their budgets to the max so I had the opportunity to follow my dreams.

Svetlana calls for the end of our dance hour, and everyone removes their ballet shoes and throws them in their bags.

“Come on, you know you want to come out. Call it team bonding.” Peyton presses me more as she pulls on a pair of black soft shorts with fake chalk handprints on the butt.

“Where are you going?” Grace Jenkins, one of the youngest potential national team members at seventeen, asks.

“Oh my young one, somewhere you can experience in two to three years. So, what’ll it be Nat?”

Even if gymnastics isn’t necessarily a team sport, you could only control your own performance, it would be good to have allies on my side. If some of Novak’s darlings liked me, it would only work more in my favor.

“Sure, why not? But only for a few hours.”

* * *

T
he bar was packed
, the air was salty and the drinks were flowing. The sounds of the ocean lapping against the Point Pleasant Boardwalk reminded me so much of home that each time I looked out over the dark sea, a knot of emotion clogged the back of my throat.

Jenkinson’s Boardwalk Bar & Grill played host to various age groups in various states of drunkenness. There were the old men, who looked like they’d been brought in when the place first opened years ago, cluttering the stools at the bar. Forty-something women with their leathery tanned skin, trying desperately to hang onto their youth. College kids home for summer break, escaping down the shore for their first taste of freedom even before Memorial Day Weekend.

In the middle of all of the chaos was a group of overly muscled and underfed gymnasts. Anywhere else in the world, we would have been celebrities. Known for our insane skill and talent, and worshipped for the glory we might someday bring our country in the Games. But tonight, we were just a group at the bar, some of us not even old enough to be allowed in here. Thank God for fake IDs.

“Another tequila shot!” Peyton screeches as her pink crop top rides farther up her malnourished ribcage. She was wasted and rubbing up on anyone who came her way.

I was all for having fun, hell I was no church mouse, but we had eight weeks until Olympic Trials. We should be pouring every ounce of energy into gymnastics.

“I think you’ve had enough there, crazy!” I took the shot away from her and plunked it on the grimy bar top, steering her away and into the crowd.

With just two beers in my system, I was feeling good but levelheaded. And that was it for me. I needed a good dose of rebellion, not a truckload of it. Peyton was pushing her luck on that one.

“Where did you go?!” Julia Traplin’s serious face pokes out from behind two tall Guido dudes with spiked hair and orange spray tans.

“Sorry, had to drag Miss Tequila Worm away from the bar.” I roll my eyes behind Peyton’s back.

Julia throws her hands up and glares at Peyton. Julia might be Peyton’s age, but this is her first shot at the Olympics. She got into the sport late, but her lithe body and beautiful grace make her a front-runner to make this year’s Olympic team. She’s serious and lethal; her attitude is what drew me toward her. She calls it the Tiger Mom in her, and doesn’t let you forget for one moment that Asians will one day rule the world. With her dark almond eyes and pin straight black hair that falls to the middle of her back, she looks more like a supermodel than an athlete.

“Don’t you think maybe you’ve had a little too much …” Jared Hargrove, arguably the best male gymnast this country has ever seen, eyes Peyton cautiously.

“Lighten up, Jared. Haven’t we earned this?” She gives him a salacious grin, and I get a feeling there is some history there.

“All right, hand her over. I’m going to take the first car full home. Who’s coming?” Jared grabs a stumbling Peyton and loops his massive arm around her waist. I’ve heard around Filipek’s that he’s some southern gent, this just demonstrates how true those rumors are.

A couple of others from our group volunteer to go in his car, ready to leave the bustling bar whose patrons get more rowdy by the second. But I kind of like it. The noise, the fun. We’re so serious all of the time, so young to be so focused. I want to soak this in for a little bit longer before I have to dedicate myself again.

When the table of our group of fifteen or so clears, I’m left standing next to a giant with biceps bigger than my head. One glance up and my eyes connect with the clover green orbs smiling down at me.

“Well hey there, Nat.” Spencer rests his forearms on the back of the barstool in front of him, his relaxed posture and mile-wide grin sending little tingles of arousal down my spine. This guy was attractive, and he knew it.

I hadn’t noticed him in the group all night, and certainly hadn’t ridden here in the same car as him. My heart would have been doing back handsprings if I had. Even with a dark gray shirt on, I could still make out the superhero-like muscles he sported.

“Be careful with those chairs, you could trip someone.” I move closer to where he stands, the four other gymnasts still present at the bar fading away on the other side of the table.

“Be careful with that top. Men do dangerous things around a shirt like that.” Spencer eyes the valley of my cleavage that my black V-neck tank top reveals.

You might think that walking around in leotards all day would make one feel sexy. It’s the exact opposite. After awhile, the wedgies, total lack of boobs due to sports bras, and uniformity to all of the other girls in the gym gets annoying. It’s a rare occasion when I’m able to dress how I want to and put makeup on. So tonight I took full advantage.

“You’re cocky, you know that?” I toy with the ends of my blond hair, admiring the way his strong jaw ticks at my assessment of him.

“I call it confidence, darling. And hey, you’re not known for being shy in the gymnastics world.” He cracks a piece of gum I wasn’t aware was in his mouth. The way his lips move distracts me.

I smirk. Two can play this game. “So you’ve been asking around about me, huh? Would that be as a coach in the gymnastics world, or as a typical hot-blooded male?”

The noise in the bar ratchets up a notch as the bartender announces that shot girls will be making their way around for the next five minutes. Do I want to watch drunken idiots get covered in vodka while girls in booty shorts pretend to sexily stand on the bar pouring liquor down their throats? Not really.

As if sensing my need to get out of here, Spencer gently touches my elbow where it rests close to his. “Hey, do you want to go do something fun?”

With that no-good smile, and those bewitching eyes, there is no way I’m not following him.

I
jog down the boardwalk
, with Natalia keeping pace, and veer off into a sand dune that leads down to the beach.

It’s pitch black and quiet this far down; the houses lining the sand not yet occupied with the summer crowd. In two weeks this place will be packed with families and college kids looking for escape. I know because I’ve spent at least a week down here every summer since I’ve been at Filipek’s. The Jersey Shore is singularly original, there is no other place like it. While it might be tacky and overbearing at times, it’s also beautiful and peaceful like only small shore towns can be.

Out here, when there is nothing but the clap of the ocean against the sand and the moon reflecting off the water, I feel a calmness in my soul that I could never replicate.

“Wow, it’s so pretty out here. It reminds me of home.” Natalia kicks off her sandals and walks into the shallow water.

I can’t help but stand back and admire the way her long legs look in the moonlight. I’m usually a tits or ass kind of guy, but I can’t keep my eyes off of her mile-long limbs.

“You’re from California, right?” I stay behind her, hooking my thumbs under the hem of my shirt and pulling it over my head.

Natalia skims her hands over the water, flicking the foam back into the ocean. I probably should not be out here with a gymnast, one who I could very well coach if Novak shifts me around during the training period in the next two months.

But when have little things like rules ever stopped me?

“Yep, Cali girl, born and bred. Although, I guess you’re not really totally a Californian when you speak Polish for the first four years of your life.” Natalia’s back is still turned, her cutoff jeans now wet at the bottom as she stands in the water up to her knees.

I kick off my sandals and shove my shorts and boxers down in one move. “A pretty girl from California should know how to skinny dip, though, right?”

I sprint past her into the surf, the freezing cold water hitting my skin like icicles as I dive in and through the foam. The dark Atlantic Ocean is biting and refreshing; the feeling of my naked flesh cutting through the water feels freeing.

I surface and gulp in the hazy night air, turning in the water to look back at Natalia on the shore.

“Are you crazy?” She’s hysterically laughing, her blond hair floating on the gentle wind.

“Only in the best way, babydoll.” I swim a couple free strokes. “You coming in?”

From everything I’ve heard about Natalia Grekov, she’s the female me. She’s fearless and outspoken, not the type to just go along with anything and everything her coaches say. She likes to color outside the lines a little, but is still one of the most focused, kickass gymnasts to ever come up through the ranks.

And thankfully, right now, she lives up to her reputation. Without me having to persuade her or promise I won’t check out her naked body. Instead, she looks me straight in the eye as she pulls the dangerous shirt over her head, revealing her naked breasts.

I see the beautiful teardrops with her rosy nipples puckered under the moonlight, and even though the water is probably as cold as when Rose laid on that door in
Titanic
, my cock goes stiffer than a steel pole.

“I could look at you this entire time. Watch as your naked body glides through the water. But I won’t. I’m a gentleman, and I can behave myself in spite of what you might think of me.”

My tone is full of joking laughter, but down below my dick is screaming at me to watch. But I won’t. I’m not a creepy pervert. Sure, I love women more than the next guy. But I’m not going to ogle her just so she can prove a point that she’s braver or wilder than I am. Tonight, just like every other night I spend with a beautiful girl, isn’t about sex. I’m all about having fun, seeing where life takes me. And if it takes me to sex, fucking awesome. But I don’t ever push for it.

“I don’t know if that makes me think more highly of you, or if I think you’re just a wimp now.”

A small splash from about five feet away has me looking up again; the beach is deserted except for our piles of clothing. A second later, Natalia’s blue eyes are sparkling dark and mysterious, like the water we’re swimming in, just inches from my face. The fact that she’s completely naked doesn’t go unnoticed by my needy cock.

Natalia gives a little shriek when she surfaces. “It’s fucking cold!”

Her dirty mouth has my balls drawing up even closer to my body. “So you’re saying you think of me?”

I’ve only known this girl for all of nine hours and her spitfire personality has me more interested than any girl I’ve met in the last two years.

“So is that what you do for fun?” She tests out a couple of strokes, and I see two plump cheeks rise above the water as it sluices over her skin.

“What makes you think I’m not always having fun, Natalia?”

“It’s Nat, I told you. Oh, I think you always are. Which is why I don’t understand why you work at Filipek’s.”

Her assessment of my current situation isn’t too far off the mark. But I’m not the go-getter type. I’ve always found myself somewhere, usually successful. And if I’m not in a successful place, I always land on my feet. My father used to compare me to a cat with nine lives.

I shrug, my pecs rising above the freezing ocean. “I love gymnastics. I might not be able to compete anymore, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want it to be my life anymore.”

Nat nods like she completely understands that logic, her wet blonde hair shining in the reflection of the moon.

“What do you think about our fine establishment? You’ve been here about two weeks, right?”

She smiles. “Have you been counting? Yeah … I like it. I’m learning and developing my routines, and if this gets me on the Olympic team, that’s all that matters.”

What she isn’t saying is that Novak is a slave driver who starves, verbally abuses and shames his gymnasts. His practices haven’t gone unnoticed by parents or committees, but as long as the USA Gymnastics Team keeps winning, no one is going to investigate or take any action against him. The stories of him locking girls in hotel rooms during away meets with not a morsel of food for two days aren’t rumors. I know from other coaches that they’re very real allegations.

But I know from very personal experience, an elite gymnast will do anything to get to the big show. The Olympics. It’s the ultimate victory for a gymnast. We have no major leagues, no signing bonuses or negotiations of contracts year after year. We don’t have a draft or a combine. This is the biggest stage we have. Once upon a time, I did whatever it took to get there too. But wanting something that much … it can be dangerous.

I look at her upturned face, the way she was staring, so mesmerized by the moon. “Well, you still have two more months. Let’s float a little longer before we have to get back to real life.”