Page 33 of Burnout
Except one little girl. She’s practicing on the lowest beam. It can’t be more than a foot off the ground and there’s a mat below it. The child is in tears as she tries over and over, foot slipping off every time she tries to land the cartwheel. The other girls are staring, and the coach is trying to console her.
Avery approaches slowly, talks to the coach for a moment, then walks over to the crying girl and squats down in front of her. I can’t read her lips like Archer would be able to, but the soft smile she offers tells me she’s encouraging, maybe soothing her. When the little girl nods her head, Avery stands. The little girl tries again, and this time Avery spots her, realigning her legs as she comes down. They do that a couple times. The coach starts instructing the other girls and soon they all get back to work on their own cartwheels.
I keep working on my handstand, but in between each one, I stop and watch how Avery helps her. She’s up on the beam with her now. The little girl watches as Avery does the simple cartwheel.
Her movements are so fluid and graceful, so controlled, I realize as I wobble through another handstand.
I drop down to the floor and give up all pretense of practicing. Avery looks over from the beam and arches a brow. I smile back.
She really is sexy. Today she’s in a royal blue leotard. It cuts up high on her hips and makes her legs look about ten times longer than they are. Every inch of her is made of steel.
After Avery assists the little girl with a few more cartwheels, the class breaks up and heads toward the door. The girl hugs Avery around the stomach before darting off behind her peers.
I glance up at the giant clock on the wall, noting the time, as she walks back to me.
“Sorry, that took longer than I thought,” she says.
“It’s fine.”
She glances at the clock. “It’s been an hour.”
“Yep.” Sixty minutes and all I’ve learned is that Avery likes super muscular dudes and is surprisingly good with little kids. Neither of which is going to do a damn thing to help me improve my freestyle skills.
“Do you have a few more minutes?”
“I’ve already wasted an hour, what’s another few minutes?”
THIRTEEN
I’m trying really hard notto lose my shit with Knox.
Since the minute he showed up, he has seemed completely disinterested. He’s done everything I’ve asked, but he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
I take a seat on the floor and he does the same, somehow making the action seem twice as hard.
“Spread your legs out like you did standing.” I show him. “Then place your hands on the ground and shift your weight so you’re in a straddle like this.”
Knox watches closely as I hold myself up by my hands, then he tries it. He’s not quite flexible enough to straighten his legs completely, but he manages to get into the straddle somehow.
He’s strong and his body is agile. I was messing with him when I said he was skinny. He isn’t as ripped as Tristan, but I prefer Knox’s body type. He’s muscular and cut without being too bulky.
Between his muscles and all his tattoos, he’s had all the girls in the gym admiring him since the second I made him take offhis shirt. Hey, if he’s going to be a jerk, I might as well get something out of this.
I like his tattoos a lot. He has a floral design down the left side of his arm and covering part of his chest. It’s stunning. Roses and vines, and other objects that I can’t quite make out without staring harder than I should.
He has more tattoos on his hands, chest, right arm, back, and one on his upper thigh that I catch a glimpse of each time he does a handstand and his shorts bunch up. But the roses are my favorite. I wouldn’t have expected it, but they look good wrapping around his muscular bicep.
I can tell he has potential beyond what he’s capable of now. He might have thought it was dumb, but a few minor adjustments with his hands and some repetition against the mat, and his handstands already look better.
“Good,” I say. “Point your toes a little.”
He wobbles as he shifts his gaze to his socked feet. Seeing him attempt to point his big toe is the bright spot on my day.
After another practice earlier where Coach Weaver kept me off beam and forced me to practice skills on the floor instead, my irritation bubbles just under the surface. The worst part is I’m a little relieved every day that she keeps me from pushing too hard. It’s another day I don’t have to worry about trying and failing.
And to make matters worse, an article came out today with the top five collegiate-level gymnasts to watch this year. I’m not on it except for a footnote in the last paragraph that if I could get back to performing like I did two years ago, I might be a threat.If.If. IF!
“Now press up into the handstand from this position,” I say, refocusing my attention.
