Blind Landing (Flipped #1) (4 page)

T
here are
no such things as tears and no such thing as injuries in gymnastics.

I’ve seen bones sticking out of girls arms, legs and knees bent the wrong way backwards, teeth that have come through girls’ front lips. And typically, those girls have been back at practice the next day after they’ve been stitched up, shot up and wrapped up. They spend their time in the gym doing anything and everything they can, working around their injuries in ways most normal people
never
would. Most normal people wouldn’t leave the couch for five months with some of the injuries I’ve seen. But elite gymnasts … we are not the normal kind of people.

There is a slight bump on my tailbone from a stress fracture on my spine that I had as an eleven-year-old. It never properly healed, and I never gave it the time to. Fractures, sprains and bruises aren’t even classified as injuries in the gymnastics world, so I was up and at it, fully practicing the next day. After a particularly hard fall, directly on my ass while trying to learn a new vault, I felt something pull so hard it felt like my back was on fire. And I never told anyone. Thus, the thousand cracks that can be heard round the world when I get out of bed each morning.

What I’m saying is … fear, injuries, crying, we don’t talk about them. It would make us weak. And the one thing that will immediately disqualify you from making the Olympic team …
weakness
.

It’s why I’ve been getting up each morning at five thirty a.m. To come down to the beam gym and stand, frozen and scared, at the opposite end of the four inch piece of wood that I’m supposed to fling myself down.

“Come on, you’re not a scaredy cat!” I slap my legs, the smack of my hands against flesh reverberating through the empty gym.

And still, something in my head will not click. Some part of my mind has a hold over my body, it won’t allow me to power through the mental block and just
do
the skill. Some gymnasts have the ability to
feel the fear and do it anyway
. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been afraid of anything in this sport.

Until now.

I take a few steps, letting my toes grip the squishy leather padding under my feet. I feel centered, at home. This is where I paint, sculpt, carve. This sport is my art, and my body is the canvas. I put on a show; I dazzle and excite.

Moving my arms in a flourishing motion, I do a couple of the artsy dance moves that have been choreographed into my beam routine. When I get about halfway down the beam, I stop, staring at the end where I’m supposed to dismount. I charge forward, launching myself into a front full. My body is in a layout position and I rotate three hundred and sixty-five degrees, coming to land with a small thud on the mat below.

“Perfect landing. But that’s not your dismount.”

The deep voice startles me, the reality that I’m not alone anymore severely pissing me off. “This is a private session.”

A very amused Spencer stands at the double glass entry doors, a crooked grin on his sleepy face. In just running shorts and sneakers, with sweat dripping down his carved-from-stone abs, a little bit of my anger melts away. Male gymnasts have hot bodies, but Spencer Russell is a step above. He looks like one of the actors Marvel would cast in their superhero movies.

“Well, when you’re on the grounds of a training camp with a number of very open gyms, especially at five thirty in the morning, it’s not so private. Plus, you had every light in the damn place on. Of course someone was going to wander in.”

I hop down, removing my hair tie and pretending to fix my ponytail to give my hands something to do. This guy made me nervous, and no one ever made me nervous.

“And you’re just, what? Getting home from a late night of partying?”

Spencer crashes his hands to his heart. “You wound me, Nat. I couldn’t sleep, so I went out for a run. Us broken people can still keep in shape too.”

He moves closer, the pure manly musk of him reaching my nose and making my ovaries quiver. “I didn’t mean … I’m sorry. I just like my quiet time in the morning. Sometimes I come down here to work, to just practice and remember why I fell in love with gymnastics in the first place.”

My admission is deeply honest, and I’m a little shocked I just confessed that to him.

“I get it.” Spence places his large hands on his hips, and the black running shorts slip a little farther down. I can see the victory trail that disappears below his waistline and my mouth might be watering. “With all of the people, the noise, the screaming coaches, the pressure … it’s overwhelming. It’s smart to do this. Although, I think … if you’re really in this for the real reasons, you never lose sight of that love.”

My heart aches for him. I know why he has that faraway look in his eyes. “You miss it.”

Spence shrugs, heaving his body down onto a chalky, dusty blue mat. Then his eyes, the color of newly blooming leaves, meet mine. “Every day. This sport is my life, and I’ll never walk away from it. The fact that I can’t do it anymore, that fucking sucks. It does. But it doesn’t mean that love stops existing. I gave it everything I had, and gymnastics gave me nineteen beautiful, kickass years. I’m lucky. Some people never find what truly makes them happy. I got to live my dream for as long as the world let me, and I gotta be thankful for that.”

His outlook makes something in my chest warm. “The doctors … they really don’t think they could fix your—”

“So, why are you playing around with new dismounts?” Spence cuts me off, clearly not wanting to discuss his injury.

But it doesn’t mean I want to hash out my brain’s fucked up state. “Eh, just playing around.”

I walk closer to where he’s sitting and grab my water bottle, conveniently located next to his left shin. Before I know what’s happening, Spence is standing, crowding my space and forcing me to either man up or back down.

“We could play around together.” His smile is goofy but his eyes are all molten heat.

An ember that had been simmering low in my core erupts into full flames. It would be so easy for me to peel down his shorts, for him to rip me out of my leotard. No one is up; Filipek’s is quiet. It would feel so good, so fucking good. I want to grab him by the neck and run my free hand over the buzzed hair on his scalp while he sucks and bites my neck.

But … it would just be another distraction. I’m all for fun sex, for hot hookups with even hotter guys. And I know Spence will be mind-blowing. But just like my mental block standing on that beam, something is holding me back from this.

I reach out to him, his hard abs contracting under my fingers and threatening to change my mind. “Spence, believe me. I think you’re hot. I know I’m hot. And I also know this would be good. Like,
really
good. But I have to stay focused. I don’t need any of the drama or speculation that surrounds a friends-with-benefits situation. The other gymnasts questioning if we’re sleeping together. The whole coach-athlete thing. I came here with one goal, and that was to make the Olympic team. I’m not looking for a boyfriend, and I certainly don’t think you’re looking for a girlfriend. I like flirting with you. It’s fun. But that’s all this can ever be.”

His eyes flick from the small curves of my breasts in my Hawaiian flower-print leotard up to my face. Despite my refusal, my breath is still coming out in gasping puffs. I gulp hard to get my rampant bodily responses under control.

“So … we stay flirty friends?” That lopsided smirk graces his full lips, and I have the urge to lean forward and take back everything I’ve just said. Literally. As in steal my words and promises straight from inside his mouth. With my tongue.

I nod, all too aware that we’re still standing basically chest-to-chest in this empty gym. I stick out my hand for him to shake, covertly putting a few inches of much needed space between us.

“Flirty friends it is.”

I
walk
into the diner looking for a strawberry blond head.

Pivoting my body to search for her, I see that there is only one woman in the place, sitting in the far back corner. And she has hair dyed the color of violets and gray paint.

“Oh, Spence!” The woman waves at me, and suddenly I realize I’m staring back at my own mother’s clover green eyes.

“Mom … what the hell?” I start towards her, the smell of pancakes and bacon wafting into my nostrils. I can’t wait to inhale some pork roll. And on her dime too.

She primps her hair, throwing the long locks over her shoulder and then back in front of her face again. “Do you like it?! My stylist told me it’s what all of the kids are doing these days. Really hip and modern!”

I stifle the urge to burst out laughing. “Ma, if you have to say the word hip, it usually means it isn’t.”

Her long lashes turn down in disappointment, and I try to recover quickly. “But I mean, I really like it! Looks fresh and fun on you! You know you’re always the most beautiful woman in my life.”

When in doubt, pull out that Russell charm. It’s worked in every avenue of my life, for as long as I can remember.

“You know, you learned that appeasing quality from your father. He could charm the pants off a nun.”

I hooted out a laugh, picturing my old man trying to get a religious woman out of her panties. He probably could too.

My parents are hardworking, honest people who have made a home and a life for themselves in northern New Jersey. They live down the block from my mother’s parents, and a town over from my father’s folks. A teacher and a stockbroker, I was raised on the values that manners are not an option and neither is letting someone step all over you. I grew up a Tri-State kid; splitting my time between New York City, which to us was just The City, and the Jersey Shore, which to us was just The Shore. My childhood was a happy one; it was always just mom, dad and me. I got to pick where we went on vacation, what meals mom made each night, what board games we played on Fridays. I was the only child of parents who were open to most things. And while they worked hard, once they were off the clock, they just wanted to have fun. It’s probably, no
definitely
, where I adopted my laid-back energy and ability to just go with the flow.

But it was also lonely. I’d always wished for a big family, a bunch of brothers and sisters to horse around with. Maybe it’s why I spent most of my time at the gym growing up.

“You look tired, baby.” Mom cups my cheek and looks into my eyes, her own surveying every part of my face.

If I had to admit it, I was. “I’ve been working a lot of long hours, trying to get everyone perfectly ready for Rio.” I saw the frown mark her face, and decided to change the subject. “How is Dad?”

Her grin brightened her entire face, her nearly flawless tanned skin stretching at the thought of him. I’d never seen two people more in love than Hannah and Lance Russell. And that was after nearly thirty years of marriage. It made my heart ache a little bit in my chest, thinking about my lack of a person like that.

And then confusion suffused me. I’d never thought about finding a love like my parents. Ever. Not until this minute.

“He’s great. You know your father. Work hard, play harder. He just brought on some new clients; he’s fixing up that old Grand National in the garage at night. And he wants to go to the shore house next week, so maybe we will stop in at camp before we make it to Ocean City.”

She flicked her violet hair over her shoulder and I couldn’t help the infectious grin that took over my mouth. My mom was a child at heart, which had made her a terrific schoolteacher. After nearly twenty years of educating first graders, she’d retired a year ago and had taken up several hobbies. Hannah Russell was the best volunteer at the local library, helped out with meals at the homeless shelter in the county, ran the firehouse bake sale, drove a commuter van for children whose parents couldn’t get them from school to daycare, and so much more. If anyone deserved sainthood, it was my mother.

“Maybe I’ll take a day and come down to Ocean City. It’s only a half-hour drive or so. I miss it down there.” I meant that. I missed my childhood summer home more than I realized.

My parents had bought a small shore cottage about twelve years ago, and spent every free moment they could bringing our family down there each summer. But for the past couple of years, I’d been trying to give them their space. Give them their relaxation time together.

“You should, we miss you. A mother needs time with her baby, you know. We’ll spoil you; buy you Brown’s donuts, take you to Oves for dinner. We can play mini golf and you can buy your Mother a Christmas ornament from Mia’s.” Mom’s face and voice are wistful while remembering all of our favorite places.

The waitress finally comes over, refilling Mom’s coffee and asking for our orders. A vegetable omelet for Mom, and basically the entire menu for me. French toast, scrambled eggs, a side of bacon and some hash browns.

Mom sips her coffee as the waitress walks away. “Glad to see your appetite is still the same as always. They feeding you at that prison camp?”

She’s never liked Filipek’s, or anything that dictator stood for. She put up with his methods when it meant I was going to reach the Olympics. But now … she hardly put up with it. She downright despised him and the things he stood for, the things he allowed those coaches to do to the gymnasts, and she didn’t hide it. It was the only point of contention between us.

Well that, and my lack of a girlfriend.

I sighed as I brought my orange juice glass to my mouth. “Yes, they feed me. They even let me out of my cage every once in a while.”

She rolls her eyes and clucks her tongue. “I just don’t understand why you’re still there. You are so smart and capable, my beautiful son. You could do anything in this world. And I know you love gymnastics, I know it makes your heart beat. But my boy, you don’t have to stay there. I know what your bank account looks like, you know that if you ever asked, your father and I would help you in any way.”

Mom and Dad had hinted in the past that they’d help me bankroll my own business if I ever wanted to do it. That they’d put up their own money to help me open a gym of my own. And I’d always thought about it, but the idea and the planning just seemed too out of reach.

“Thanks, Mom. I’ll think about it.” It was the answer I always gave. But now that we were coming closer to the Olympics, being at Filipek’s felt wrong. I felt like an outsider. And I really did hate their methods too. I was only there because they were the best; the greatest achievement a coach could attain was to be hired by Novak.

The waitress came back out with our order, and the smell of all of the delicious breakfast food made my mouth water. I tucked into the French toast for a couple of minutes, savoring the sweet syrup and the carbs. We ate in silence for a little, sipping coffee and just having a genuine, relaxing moment with each other. Now that I was older, I enjoyed these quiet times with my parents.

Mom broke the silence first, a devilish gleam in her eyes. “So … what about any girls? Are you seeing anyone?”

Of course. She’d addressed Novak and had moved on to her other favorite topic, my love life. I shoved another bite in my mouth, hoping she’d drop it. Because as much as I didn’t want to talk about my job, I
really
didn’t want to talk about women with my mom.

Especially since the minute she brought it up, I thought about a certain blonde gymnast with a great ass and a sassy mouth to boot. And I had no idea why.

“You know me, Ma, I love women. Several of them.” I smirk, her hawk-like, wise gaze assessing me.

She laid her fork down and reached across the table, searching for my hand. I gave it to her, and she patted it with her soft skin. “One day, my boy, you are going to be completely blindsided by a woman so spectacular, she’ll knock you on your ass and give you a run for your money. You’re going to meet a woman who is everything you are and more, someone who meets you stride for stride. I can’t wait for that day, Spencer.”

She smiles like she knows something I don’t. Maybe she does.

All I can think is that maybe she’s right. And maybe that woman has already punched and stumbled her way into my life.