Blind Landing (Flipped #1) (14 page)

M
y feet
just hit the cool spot under the covers as I hear a door slam violently at the end of the dorm hall.

Two seconds later, that violent slamming happens upon my door. Jumping out of bed, I find the slamming coming from Spencer’s fists, which are whacking against my door so hard, his knuckles are red.

I swing open the door, glaring at him before he launches himself into my room.

“What the fuck?”

Spence’s answer is his lips, crashing down against my mouth in a bruising kiss. His hands roam my skin furiously, pulling at the tank top and shorts I’d planned to sleep in. He pulls the top off and over my head, throwing it to the floor before I can even register what is happening. My heart ricochets in my chest, a bomb of lust detonating in my core.

Reason is fighting hard to puncture my skull. I need to be in bed, to get rest. I told him no sleepovers for the next two days, not until Trials are over. But his fingers and body fight harder, distracting me from anything else.

When he goes to pull the tie holding my shorts up, I finally snap back to reality. “Stop!”

I back away, the wild look in Spence’s eyes scaring and alarming me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He turns from me, pacing the small room while his body vibrates with tension. It hits me that he might be hurt. That something might have happened to his parents.

“Oh God, Spence, has something happened? Is everyone all right?”

Finally, he turns to me, wiping his hands down his face like he’s in agony. “Everyone is fine. Well, I’m not … but nothing fatal happened.”

“So then tell me what is going on?”

His eyes hold something. Pain? Apology? “Novak found out about us.”

My entire body freezes. My veins go cold as ice, my heart frigid and cracking like an unstable pond in winter. For a few moments, I can’t feel anything, my senses and mind numb to anything.

And then it all comes rushing up, like a tumbling pass not completed. Crashing. Tumbling from the sky. Dumbstruck. A blind landing, something I never saw coming.

“Wha … what …” I can’t even talk.

This will ruin me. Surely, it will end my career.

“Melinda, she saw us in the beam gym this morning. Took a picture. You can’t make us out, but … they would spread the rumors anyway. It has nothing to do with you.”

Rage prickles at me. “THIS HAS EVERYTHING TO DO WITH ME!”

I end my scream on a sob, the warped cry threatening to crack my chest wide open. Shame and fear heat my skin, the mix of hot and cold making me feel sick.

“It doesn’t! He doesn’t give a shit about your involvement in this. It’s me he wants … he’s always wanted me gone. He isn’t going to touch you so long as I leave.”

Panic is the next emotion to wrack my body. “You’re leaving?”

Spence’s face sobers. “I have to. What other choice do I have? I would never do anything to hurt you. Unless …”

I wait for him to finish, unshed tears marring my vision. “Unless?”

“Unless we say fuck that abusive prick! We can go public, declare to the world that we’re in a relationship. That we know it might be complicated, but that we’ve been together for a few months now. My parents will back us, they’ve met you and love you. Sure, we might get some criticism, but the gymnastics community loves you. Hell, I know they love me. This could work! Fuck Novak.”

His eyes hold so much hope and enthusiasm. It’s breathtaking, and almost enough to convince me.

But the lead stone of doubt and fear weighs heavy in my gut. I’ve worked so hard to get here. Me. Alone. I’ve done this, and I’m on the precipice of glory. Just a couple more days, just another month until my every dream comes true.

So I tell him the truth. “I can’t, Spence.”

It’s as if I’ve slapped him. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

What he’s asking of me is ridiculous, and he should know that. As someone who claims they love gymnastics more than life, Spence should understood why I wouldn’t want to go public, at least not until after Rio. His temper and anger at Filipek is making him foolish. What he wants me to do is irresponsible for my career. If he wasn’t blind with rage and hurt, he would get that.

Annoyance suffuses my system. “Don’t start this with me. You know exactly why I can’t afford to define whatever we’re doing!”

“We’re still not defining it?! Jesus fuck, Nat … we’re in a relationship. Call it whatever the fuck you want, but we’re only fucking each other and we spend every spare minute we have with each other. We’re dating. I’m your boyfriend and you’re my girlfriend. We’re past the step of defining whatever we’re doing, I just humored you so I didn’t spook you before Trials.”

His outburst has me firing back.

“You don’t just get to decide that!” I grab my shirt from the floor, pulling it on disjointedly. I feel too exposed even with it on.

“Oh God, fucking grow up Nat! For a woman who acts so mature, you’re so naïve when it comes to certain things. You’re mine. That’s a fact. And you’re scared shitless to tell people about it because what? You see me as some sort of distraction?”

I explode. “YES! You are a distraction! You may not have anything to lose Spence, because you’re not in a position to lose anything! You’re not going to the Olympics! You’re a coach! ME?! This is my fucking life, my dream! Everything I’ve ever worked for! If this goes badly, this ruins my entire life, my career! I will not risk that for a relationship, and you knew that going in.”

“Oh, so because I got hurt and never made it to the Olympics, I have nothing to lose? That’s what you’re saying? I got hurt and my life ended?”

“Th … that’s not what I meant! You know what I’m saying!”

Spence holds up his hands, cutting me off. “No, really I get it. What you’re saying is that you like me, just not enough to ever take a chance on me.”

We go silent, the emotion and tension in the air enough to choke a horse. I can feel the tears threatening to fall, the situation spinning out of control like an off-kilter ballet turn. We used to be so graceful, so easy … the friendship was good and the sex was even better. But then we added in new elements; parents, emotions, expectations.

“I told you not to start this. That we should just be friends.” My heart feels like it’s falling into a foam pit with no end. Past all of the blocks, not catching or settling on anything, down into the layers of the earth where it would never be recovered.

“Then I guess I’ll be the one to end it,” He can’t even look at me as he heads for the door.

My chest radiates with pain, like my ribcage is snapping in two, my heart trying to follow after him. But I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping the words I know I’ll regret saying from coming out.
I love you. I do want you to tell everyone I’m yours. Just wait one more month.

“Good luck in Rio, Natalia.”

And then he’s gone.

H
ollow
.

That’s how I feel. Which I guess is a good thing, seeing as how I can go through Trials without feeling an absolute thing.

Around me, the other gymnasts titter and focus, their faces playing it up for the camera zooming around Madison Square Garden. They’re fake stretching, jumping in place or just talking to themselves with scowls on their faces; they’re trying to let the audience in the arena and at home know how serious they are about this competition.

My blank stare probably accomplishes that too, but it’s not intentional. I just feel nothing, so empty and broken that I’m sure if you cut me right now, I wouldn’t even bleed.

“You okay?” Julia comes up beside me, her cheekbones looking extra pronounced with her hair pulled up in the signature gymnastics bun.

I refuse to do the bun, opting for a side French braid into a ponytail instead. My answer is an unenthusiastic, “Sure.”

“You don’t seem like yourself. It’s all I can do usually to get you to stop jittering at a competition. These huge, international meets, you love them. Usually.”

“Guess I’m just ready to get this all over with. Get to Rio,” I lie.

“You and me both, sister.” She jogs in place, bending over to stretch her hamstrings.

Looking up into the historic arena, my eyes land on the New York Knicks and New York Rangers jerseys hanging in the rafters. Moving down, I search the crowd, registering the thousands of little girls fangirling over the competitors warming up on The Garden floor. Gymnasts of all ages and levels, who have dragged their parents and teammates to be here today. This is their Super Bowl, and my stomach flutters just the tiniest bit. I used to be one of those girls, setting up in front of the TV for hours every four years. Watching the gymnasts I worshipped. It was surreal that I was one of
them
now.

The audience ebbs and flows like it’s a living, breathing life force. Usually, I’d be feeding off of that force, using it as fuel to drive me at a hundred miles per hour through this competition.

I survey the floor around me. The state of the art equipment, new and shiny, with only one layer of chalk on it rather than the typical thousands. The fluorescent lights make the metal of the bars and legs of the beam shine. Photographers and broadcasters litter the media corner, the two announcers who cover gymnastics for NBC giving their pre-meet commentary while sitting over by the floor platform.

Staring down at my own leotard, I’m happy with the one I chose. An almost all-white number, the top boasts a single navy stripe running under my breastbone and around my body. The only other design is a single solitary red star on the top left, right over my heart. I worked with the designer I use to make a Magnificent Seven inspired leotard. I remember watching those women win in Atlanta in 1996, and I wanted the same vibe today. While other girls chose to go flashy in neon pink and sheer designs, I wanted to be patriotic and simple. Classic, the epitome of an American Olympian.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 2016 USA Gymnastics Olympic Trials!” The announcer booms over the MSG sound system.

Usually, my heart would start pounding right now. Today? I can barely get it to keep my body running. It’s pissed at me; the last time it functioned properly was three days ago, before Spencer left.

He’s not here today. From what I heard through the Filipek campus grapevine was that he resigned and left the same day. Novak has been spreading rumors that he couldn’t take the fact that he wasn’t able to compete in Rio this year. I wanted so badly to disprove them, to tell everyone what really happened.

But I couldn’t. Again, my self-preservation won.

“First up on vault, Julia Traplin!” The announcer cued Julia to step up onto the event platform, which was raised about three feet off of the arena floor. Meaning we had to climb steps each time we needed to go compete.

Because I’d won the Opposite Day meet for the girls, I not only got to compete in Olympic order, but I got to perform last on every event. There were two upsides to this, the most favorable spot in the rotation. One, you always wanted to compete last in terms of scoring. The judges would never admit this, but they always scored based on how your routine compared to the other gymnasts. Sure, if you fell or had a horrible mistake, the tenths taken off there were always going to be the same. But if you kept your toes a bit straighter? Smiled a bit more? Threw an extra twist into one of your tumbling passes? It
could
raise your score. Subconsciously, you had a better routine than the person in front of you. It was just common sense.

The second benefit of going last in the lineup was that you could also see what your competitors scored. Not that I would ever slack off in competition, but say if the gymnast who performed ahead of me had a total screw up in her routine. If her score was awful, and I knew I only needed a specifically low score to cement my place in the standings … well, it takes some of the pressure off.

Julia presents to the judges, letting them know she is going to compete now. Her vault score is decent, a fourteen point five. Not amazing, but not awful. Just good. I wait until the rest of the girls in my rotation group compete, and then it’s my turn to mount the steps to the platform.

After getting the go-ahead flag from the judges, I present. Breathe. Take a minute to adjust my footing on the runway, making sure I’m at the right tick on the measuring tape running along the side. I start with my big toe lined up at seventy feet exactly, but every gymnast is different.

After my habitual flick of my wrists, I’m off, sprinting full speed at the sedentary object at the end of my run. I don’t even think about vaulting, my mind shuts off and my muscle memory takes over. Flipping, my hands connecting with felt and then leather and then pushing off. Soaring, twisting, not even attempting to focus my eyes because that won’t work. Sight is not possible in gymnastics, not in most skills. It’s all feel. Giving in to your body and what feels natural, practiced, right.

My feet connect with the mat, my toes digging in and my knees absorbing the entire shock.
You better stick this. No wobbles.

Once I realize I am not going to take any steps, that I’ve nailed my landing, my arms shoot up, presenting to the judges with a huge smile on my face. The crowd goes wild, ecstatic about my nearly flawless Yurchenko.

My joy is all surface as I walk off, waving to the audience, acknowledging their praise and thanking them for their support with some modest head nods and smiles.

Inside, I’m still hollow.

My body, mind and heart are on autopilot through the rest of the meet. I kill it on bars, perfectly executing every release move, giant, pirouette and even sticking my impossibly hard dismount. When I get to beam, I don’t even feel a twinge of fear. I’m a robot, one designed simply to rock every gymnastics event with no mistakes. Floor is much the same, but with a fake, performer’s smile plastered on my face.

It’s only at the end of the meet, as the gymnasts gather on the floor exercise to hear the announcement of the Olympic team, that I start to feel something.

More specifically, I start to feel anger. Bubbling up, threatening to spew out at Novak, who is beaming in the middle of the floor like he’s just competed for all of us. Like he has any right to claim that he got us here.

I hate him with such a blinding rage, it hurts.

I’m so busy plotting the diatribe I’d scream at them if I ever got the chance that I almost miss the balloons raining down around me, the bundle of flowers being pushed into my arms.

“And your 2016 U.S. Women’s Gymnastics Team, the women who will represent us in Rio, are … Julia Traplin, Grace Jenkins, Anna Carson, Quinn Erold and Natalia Grekov!”