Blind Landing (Flipped #1) (3 page)

I
spend
most of my Sunday off sleeping. Not because I’m hungover, or tired from not getting back to camp until one in the morning, but because this is the only day where I’m not bullied or badgered to be somewhere.

I don’t have to wake up at six a.m. and throw myself right into taxing workouts and routines. I don’t have to put up with anyone telling me what to do. I can sink under my tiny twin duvet in my closet-sized dorm room and snore to my hearts content.

After floating around in the cold, quiet ocean for another twenty minutes, both Spencer and I agreed we would need to be able to feel our fingers again at some point. We swam back to shore, me sneaking glances at his gorgeous body as he cut through the surf. I swear I tried to be respectful, like he said he was with me, and not ogle him naked … but once I got a glimpse of the ass you could bounce quarters off of the deal was off. I’ve never gotten so turned on by a man’s ass in my life.

We dressed quickly, my skin pebbling in the cool night air, and ran back to his car. We didn’t talk the entire ride home, instead opting to listen to music and give each other some mental space. I’d never felt this comfortable with someone this quickly. But I saw something in Spencer that so exactly mirrored my own personality, and the similarity put me at ease. We bobbed our heads along with Dashboard Confessional and All American Rejects until he dropped me off in front of the girl’s dorm in the early hours of the morning.

And now we’re back. Bright and early Monday morning in the main Olympic gym, every male and female gymnast spread out on the bright blue floor stretching and getting their muscles loose for the day.

“Only five of you will make the women’s Olympic team, only five of you will make the men’s Olympic team! That means twenty of you will be going home. No glory, no representing your country!” Novak claps as he walks the outer portion of the floor exercise mat.

The matted carpet brushes against my cheek as I transition into a middle split, my hips pressing against the floor in full flexibility. These warm-ups are timed in counts of eight, much like a dance routine. Everyone knows them by heart, and there is no talking as a compilation of cheesy instrumental pump-up music, read: horrible Jock Jams soundtracks, plays in the background. Novak doesn’t realize that something more akin to Jay-Z or Ludacris would get a lot more of us going in the morning.

“Julia, how many times have we discussed this?! You will never make team if you can’t even do a fucking middle split!” Novak’s face turns an unnatural shade of red as he stomps over to where she stretches.

I know what’s coming; we all know what’s coming. Some gymnasts are just more flexible than others, and even though Julia’s hips are only a hairbreadth off the floor, it’s still not acceptable to Novak and the other drill sergeants.

“OWWW!” Julia cries out in anguish as Novak’s big hands push hard on her tailbone and butt, forcing her hips into the ground.

“If you’re in pain it means you’re accomplishing something!” He yells down at her head as she thrashes in obvious discomfort, trying to breathe through the torture he’s inflicting on her.

After about an entire minute of her whimpering, Novak finally lets up, the several eight counts of holding the split are over. We all transition into our left leg split, and no one says a word.

This is how it is to be at this level. The coaches are more abusive than they are supportive, as much out for themselves as they are to see that you succeed. You have to truly love this sport to want to go through this bullshit. You have to truly want to endure this horrible treatment and hours of falling on your face, butt and every other body part.

And I do. I know that if I ever stopped doing gymnastics, a chunk would be missing from my heart. My life would be a little less bright.

Novak claps again and I look over in his direction. “Thank you for being able to join us this morning, Spencer.”

Turning towards the gym’s front doors, I watch Spence, as he told me to call him last night, stroll in clad in his typical wardrobe of sandals and workout shorts.

And nothing else.

Jesus, he’s sexy. With all of those carved-out-of-stone muscles and short brown buzz cut, it’s like he should be in a Marines uniform instead of in a chalk-covered gym. He looks like he just rolled out of bed three seconds ago, and I squirm in my split. Which only adds to my building frustration as the carpet and my leotard create friction below my waistline.

“Oh, no problem, boss. Anything for you guys.” He gives a lopsided grin and jumps onto a stack of mats, lounging with one elbow propping him up. It’s as if he’s constantly posing for a non-existent camera, like he’s the star model for a shoot in Gymnastics Monthly.

Actually, I think he did have a five-page spread a couple years back and I have it somewhere in my desk at home.

“Grace, Julia, Natalia, Peyton, Quinn and Lila … you are headed to the bars gym for the first part of practice today. Spencer, I will be assessing the men on pommel horse for the first part of the day, so you will be helping with the girl’s bar workout.”

My stomach flips. Bars is my best event, I’m not nervous about that. I could do my routine, which is one of the hardest of anyone at Filipek’s, in my sleep.

But having Spence watching me with those green eyes? Tracking my body as it spins and flies through the air? It makes the butterflies in my stomach explode.

I know he likes me, genuinely likes me. I know because he told me. And I genuinely like him too. We also find each other hot, or else we wouldn’t have gotten naked together in the Atlantic Ocean last night. That’s obvious.

But I don’t do boyfriends. Especially not boyfriends who are gymnasts. And don’t even get me started on the gymnast turned coach thing. Even if he isn’t
my
coach. Point is, I don’t even do hookups. Sure, I have in the past, but most of the time I find that the sex isn’t worth it and things just get awkward. Most would call me more adult than my years in this thought-process, but being an elite athlete means having to grow up fast. My biography might read nineteen, but I’ve been told I have the maturity and life view of a thirty-year-old. Talk about being jaded.

The whole relationship thing, no matter what form it’s in, is just too messy. And as much as I hate Filipek and everything he stands for, I need to focus to achieve my goals. I’m not here to fulfill anyone else’s dreams, just my own. And partially my families.

I don’t have time for Spencer Russell. And what’s more, I have a feeling Spencer Russell does not have time or interest for girlfriends either.

Spence salutes Novak, taunting him and crossing the line just a little more than anyone would dare where he’s concerned.

Then he turns to our group. “All right
chicas
, let’s get moving. Someone remind me again, what’s this low bar for?”

The rest of our group giggles and bats their eyes at Spencer, but I just roll mine. His humor about the difference between the men’s high bar and the women’s uneven bars is the oldest joke in the book.

“Why don’t you watch and learn? We’ll show you what real gymnastics looks like.”

I skirt past him, pulling my gym bag over my shoulder as I exit the building and head to one of the countless warehouse buildings on the grounds that houses all of the bar equipment. The rest of the girls push their way in after me, a sea of brightly colored leotards, bare legs and ponytails.

“All right ladies, get your grips on and let’s get started. Five cast handstands, five back giants and five front giants to get started!” Melinda, a mousey assistant coach with straight, dull brown hair, barks at us.

I loop my grips on, the dowel on the inside of the thin leather strip that covers my hand hitting right below my fingers. The top two finger holes nearly cut off the circulation in my ring and middle fingers, but at least I know they’re on securely. I pull the bottom Velcro strap as tight as it will go, knowing I’ll put blisters on top of the blisters already healing at my wrist bones.

A gymnast’s hands are some of the grossest parts of her. Like a ballerina’s feet after wearing pointe shoes for too many years, a gymnast’s hands are callused, ripped and shredded. I can barely feel my pinkies anymore due to lack of circulation, but dunking my hands in the chalk bucket next to the set of uneven bars puts a little more confidence in my ruined digits.

“Does she actually want to challenge us, or does she think we’re still like level seven’s?” Peyton walks up beside me, her metallic gold leotard shining under the fluorescent bulbs.

I snort, her comparison of all of these elite athletes to novice gymnasts amusing. She was right though, Melinda giving us this as a warm-up was a total joke. I could do a giant back when I was a level six, and it wasn’t even required or taught then.

Most competitive gymnasts started at level four, and worked their way up. After level nine, every gymnast had a choice; move up to level ten and try to go elite, or stay at level nine and have a normal childhood while also doing the sport they loved on the side. Level niners who stayed got to go to prom, live at home, and eat pizza on Friday nights. Those who chose to go elite, like everyone in this gym, got their GED or were tutored in the back room of a gym. They put college on hold in favor of eight-hour a day workouts, moving away from their families and dedication to one thing and one thing only … the Olympics.

I scrape new chalk onto my grips from the block in the bucket. “I’m surprised you’re even standing, much less talking to me and doing ten giants.”

She drank almost an entire tequila bottle thirty-six hours ago. I’d be on the floor in a hangover coma. But Peyton is jumping from the low bar to the high bar and swinging her entire extended body around the high bar using nothing but her hands and momentum.

Peyton dismounts by letting go and tucking her body into a ball while it flips around once, a perfect flyaway. It’s a simple dismount, something you learn as a level six, but it’s just another way Peyton works harder. She’s always going above and beyond. Apparently at everything, including drinking.

“When you want to learn my secrets and run with the big girls, we can talk.” She winks at me before heading for her water bottle.

“I thought you were going to show me what real gymnastics looks like? This just looks like you standing around and talking.”

Spence comes to lean on the metal casing of the bars, the part of the structure that holds up the equipment and ensures it doesn’t all come crashing down.

“You’re pretty good at the whole condescending coach thing, you know that?”

I don’t wait for his answer, just glide into a kip and begin the warm-up Melinda detailed out. All of it easy, skills I can do from muscle memory without even thinking. My toes point and my legs straighten, all of the years of practice and coaching coming together seamlessly.

“Now show me those between the bar giants,” Spence chuckles as I jump from the low bar to high bar.

“Gladly!” I singsong as I whip my body into the skill.

I love giants. The rush of falling and then tapping all of your toes and muscles to muster back over the bar on the upswing.

It’s the closest thing to flying a human can get, in my opinion.

That’s why I love this sport. The things we do with our bodies, they
should
be impossible. For most people they are. But I’m one of the lucky few that has the ability to do them.

And trust me, it makes you feel invincible.

N
at smiles
as she goes through her bar routine. Jesus fuck, she reminds me so much of me that it’s insane.

No matter how much any coach berates her or tells her what shit she looks like, she keeps going. That bright burning light for the sport and her dreams never diminishes.

It’s the same light that still burns in me, even though I’ll never be able to accomplish what she will. It’s what has me coming back to Filipek’s every single year. Gymnastics is addicting, and even if I can’t do the drug anymore, I’m happy to sit by and watch other people get high.

Except now she’s throwing the chalk block violently back into the bucket after missing her fourth Gienger. Starting in a giant, Nat is supposed to let go of the bar as her toes rise above it. Then she does a backwards flip with a half turn in a laid-out position and re-catches the bar. Except … instead of re-catching the bar, her fingers keep grazing it and she lands on the mat below, knocking the wind out of herself.

“Try to tap your toes a little earlier. It will give you the momentum to rotate faster and your head will then be above the bar so you can catch it firmly.” I motion with my hands the movement I want her to mimic.

“Yeah, if it was so easy, why don’t you just fucking do it,” I hear Nat mumble under her breath.

“Why do I feel like you’re only cursing at a coach because it’s me?” I wink at her to try to lift her spirits, but even my flirty banter isn’t making her any happier.

I usually don’t do pouty girls or attitude, but something about Nat’s frown is making my mood sour too.

“All right, Grekov, watch and learn.”

I chalk up my hands, which are grip-less, but this isn’t a serious practice for me. I’ll throw the skill, a little rough around the edges, but maybe it will give her more confidence and bring some light back to those sea blue eyes.

I heft myself from the low bar to the high bar, and even though my body is still in tip-top shape, my movement feels awkward. I haven’t been on the bars in … well, forever.

As I soar through the air, testing out a couple of swings, I feel better than ever. I knew from the first gymnastics class my parents put me in at the age of four that this was going to be my life. Playing around on the equipment, competing, being a gymnast … this is what I live for.

My body swings parallel to the bar and I feel all of the strength and momentum of my body. This is the addiction every gymnast craves. This feeling of invincibility.

I’m just about to release the chalky bar and start my body flipping, but then it happens. That shooting agony ripping through my shoulder and down my arm, making the whole limb go rigid.

“Ah, fuck!” I bail out of the Gienger, rolling to the mat below on my back and doing a back somersault to come to a stand on my feet.

I grab my shoulder, massaging the aching throb pulsing through my muscles. And that’s when I realize pretty much every girl in the bar gym is staring at me with the same expression on their pretty faces.

Sympathy. Pity. The hopeful fear that what happened to me will never happen to them.

“All right, so women’s gymnastics isn’t as easy as it looks.” I play off my pain with a goofy smile, raising my good arm in a saluting present, as if I’ve just stuck a landing after a spectacular routine and these girls are my judges.

I walk off the mat as the next girl starts her turn on the uneven bars I’ve just dismounted.

“Does it still hurt that much?” Nat appears next to me, caution at my reaction written all over her face.

“I guess that’s what happens when they tell you your arm strength will never be the same.” I shrug, smiling at her and shoving the disappointment down.

“Spence …” Her voice is pure anguish, her whispered tone, making me want to punch something.

“Nat, it’s nothing. Don’t you have a routine, specifically a Gienger, to work on?” I snap, my tone harsher than I want it to be.

She nods, dunking her hands in the chalk bucket and walking off to another set of bars.

“All right, ladies! Full routines. I want to see ten completed, stuck routines before you’re allowed to move to your next event! I’ll buy whoever finishes first a new leotard!” Melinda screams out, and everyone jumps to attention.

Girls
, I roll my eyes. They love their clothes. And to gymnasts, new leotards are the best kind of fashion binge.

I focus back in on the girls as they soar around the bars, trying to smother the wish that I was in a gym across Filipek’s campus training for my own Olympic moment.

* * *

“
T
ouchdown
! Take that motherfucker!” Duke jumps off the futon and does his own version of a touchdown dance. Which apparently means shaking his ass in mine and Jared’s faces.

“Dude, sit down.” Jared huffs, his annoyance at losing another round of Madden coming through clearly. Not that Duke cares.

Duke, still standing, turns around with what is going to be either a genius or an idiotic statement. “Hey, you think they’ll ever make like a USA Gymnastics 2016 video game for Xbox? Maybe they’d ask me to be on the cover!”

Put that one down as idiotic.

I laugh. “Dude, the day they make a male gymnastics video game is the day pigs fly. No one but us would play that. Plus … you would never be on the cover.”

His face falls, as does his body, making the futon he and Jared are occupying sag and groan. We’re in the bland, white-walled common room on the second floor of the boys dorm playing video games, eating food we shouldn’t be, and all around just being jackasses as we shoot the shit. These are what our nights consist of. With six a.m. wake up calls for them and coach status for me, it’s not like we can hit the town and pick up some hot chicks. We’re not even allowed a beer or two.

Well … technically, they’re not allowed. But I like to still keep myself in shape. And at this point, if I let myself, I wouldn’t stop until all of the whiskey in the world was gone.

“How was practice today?” I ask, genuinely curious about where their heads are at going into the final two months. I know how daunting this can be, how cutthroat the process can get. I want to be a shoulder for both Jared and Duke to lean on if they need it.

“Good, bro. I finally nailed that double twisting double back dismount off rings.” Duke nods, proud of himself. I shouldn’t worry about him; the guy is so unfazed by everything.

It’s Jared I’m concerned about. Before I was his coach, not that I considered myself that now really, I was his teammate. I know how nervous he gets in the final stretch. Especially since this will most likely be the last time.

Jared looks at me, all of the unspoken things we know about flashing through his eyes. “It was good. I’m feeling good. Loose, ready. I just want these two months to fly by. This is the time I hate the most.”

I smile, knowing all he is thinking about is Rio. “Hey, whatever happened when you brought Peyton back the other night?”

Jared’s jaw ticks, and I know for sure now that there is something between them. Something happened, four years ago in London, and it’s been pissing Jared off ever since.

“Nothing man, she’s just so irresponsible. I had to pull over twice so she could puke out the window. And to top it all off, I had to carry her to bed. The woman needs to take better care of herself or she won’t be making it to Rio.”

“Tell us how you really feel,” Duke snorts.

Jared throws his video game controller at Duke’s head, missing narrowly and putting a dent in the common room wall.

“What is this I heard about you trying to show off in the bar gym today?” Jared leans back on the creaky futon and eyes me.

I push onto the back legs of the one of the cushioned desk chairs littering the room and try to avoid his stare. It shouldn’t surprise me that he found out, guy has the intuition of a psychic.

“I was just joking around …”

“By trying to throw a Gienger? Are you trying to rip your arm clear off your body this time?”

My shoulder still throbs from the asinine skill I tried to put it through today. But I don’t need Jared ragging on me.

“All right, I get it,
Dad
. Just drop it.”

But he won’t. “Spence, what happened, it sucks. But it doesn’t mean you don’t have a great career of coaching ahead of you. That is, if you don’t cripple yourself for life.”

The fury and anger begin to simmer in my veins. “I fucking get it, Dr. Phil. You don’t have to be on my fucking case all of the time.”

I don’t feel like sitting in the same room, much less listening to the two of them anymore. So I get up and walk briskly out, into the dim green hall that smells like body odor and gym sweat. I don’t even know why I’m still staying here. I could grab a room in one of the coaches buildings. Or even an apartment somewhere nearby the campus.

But deep down, I want to be right here. In the action, a part of this mystical madness, the training process where people go from ordinary gymnasts to Olympic athletes. That hadn’t changed in the four years I’d been here. In the four years I’d had to realize my dream of standing on the medal podium would never come true.

It was days like today, though, that I wanted to hang it all up. Call it a day. And move on.