Page 7 of Spring Break With A Gold Medalist

“Don’t you need to be here?”

I sweep my gaze over the gathering. “Nope. The coaches have everything under control.” Nodding toward a far door, I continue, “Can you make it that far?”

Pulling her hand from mine, she reaches for the cane she’d propped against the wall. “As long as it’s not a race.”

“As slow as you need…” I almost call her baby doll. Just what the small ears close by don’t need to hear. Nor does anyone need to know how I visualize slowly taking care of Maya’s sensual needs. I’d debated wearing the oversized jersey today. Now I’m glad I did.

Once we close the heavy metal doors behind us the sudden silence is a shock. Maya shakes her head like she’s clearing away thoughts. “Wow. I didn’t realize how loud it really was in there.”

“There are times when louder is better for keeping most of the kids focused. Did you notice the little girl who sat next to Beryl?”

“The one wearing headphones?”

“She has issues with noise. She’s still quite young and very talented. Determined to win medals. We’re working with her, her folks, and a therapist to help her adjust to competition situations. I have no problem with her wearing noise cancelling headphones during practice. Unfortunately, they aren’t allowed in competition.”

“Changing the rules and ideologies for well-established sports takes a long time and a determined fight. Ellie and I always had to field questions about why we wore shorts or leggings as our uniform instead of bikini bottoms. Some people even claimed we were breaking the rules.”

I would give my right nut to see Maya in a bikini. I bite back a snort. Maybe not my nut, because I’d want to be feeling it against her. Have her cup it in her hand. And… my cock agrees. Down, boy. Now is not the time. Nor is this the place.

Turning slightly sideways I point to an electric golf cart parked next to its charger. Maya’s mouth parts in surprise. So damn kissable. I’m in to her way too deep and I don’t want to surface.

“A cart? Your place is that big?”

“The additions to my original facility have expanded the square footage a lot. The cart was provided by a local pro hockey team to assist their players get to the rehab room. Or for anyone else who needs a ride. So?”

She smiles and her eyes sparkle. God, I love sparkly eyes. “A ride sounds like fun.”

Even though the cart has a top speed of about 10 miles per hour, Maya waves her hands in the air, telling me she’s always wanted to ride in a speeding convertible just to feel the air rushing over her body. The joy and exuberance filling her expression erases the lingering sorrow she seems to carry with her. The need to see that delight wells up in me. As does the desire to see her joy turn to passion. Imagining how she might look when an orgasm washes over her, I nearly crash the cart into the doors leading to the rehab gym.

“Oops.”

“Guess maybe I should have fastened my seat belt. Are you always such a… ahem… good driver?”

I’ll show her how good I am at driving. Driving her senseless with passion.Focus Tolenski.“What can I say? The need for speed got to me.”

Her golden laugh echoes in the empty hallway, filling cracks in my soul I hadn’t realized were still there. Reminding me there’s more to life than workouts and coaching. Without effort, she’s bringing balance back into my life. She is my balance.

With that confusing thought, I circle the cart and hold her hand while she maneuvers her leg to the floor and stands. She doesn’t take her hand away and I’m more than happy to keep her fingers entwined with mine. I open the doors and the lights come on automatically.

“Wow,” she whispers and takes a few halting steps into the cavernous space.

I attempt to see the area through her eyes. Equipment is grouped into areas of specialty—shoulders, arms, legs. More common exercise equipment like treadmills and stationary bikes face a long bank of windows overlooking a nearby park. The center of the room is open while opposite the windows small private rooms are used for things like ice baths and therapeutic massage. One of the hockey guys even has an acupuncturist come in to use a room once a week.

Guiding her toward the leg specific apparatus, we slowly cross the room. She studies the machinery. “And I’d be able to use this?”

“As long as no one else is using them. There’s only a couple guys from the hockey team needing the equipment now. Oh, and three or four from the football team. I anticipate baseball injuries to start trickling in before too long.”

“This is amazing. And it must have cost a fortune. I take care of the finances for our team…” Her voice fades, the joy disappears, and she sighs. “Well, for Ellie’s team now. And I know how much something as simple as one of those balance balls cost.”

“My partners—the owners of the various teams—have deep pockets when it comes to keeping their players healthy and on the active roster. I’m just glad I bought up extra land when I decided to build my gym here in Love Beach. One of my better decisions. So, ready to get to work?”

She gives me a disgusted look. Even that looks cute on her. “Uh, no. I’m going back for more chocolate.” She tilts her head and grins. “As long as you agree to drive safely.”

A week passes before I see Maya again. I’m swamped with the usual requests that come after a big competition. Suddenly parents are determined to place their kids in sports programs and gymnastics is no exception. Being an elite facility with strict standards I can easily redirect the majority of requests to local programs. While we do have classes for any interested children here in Love Beach, our main focus is preparing athletes for national and international competitions.

While it would be easy to have a blanket ‘not right for your child’ letter to send to parents, I don’t have it in me to turn down a hopeful gymnast without explaining why. I spend a good portion of time crafting detailed rejection letters. Some parents have thanked me for my honesty and suggestions, others can’t fathom why their precious darling wasn’t selected.

Whenever Maya’s been in the gym, I’ve either been tied to my desk or actually coaching. Knowing she’s so close yet untouchable is killing me. Late Saturday afternoon I toss the final letter of this batch onto the pile the receptionist will take to the post office on her way home from work Monday. My eyes are tired and scratchy but rubbing them with the heels of my hands doesn’t help.

---