“Who needs passion when you’ve got more than enough for the both of us?” she snapped in reaction to the crack of my angry voice, stalking from the mat to me and looking menacingly into my face.
“Lower your voice, for God’s sake,” she instructed through gritted teeth.
“What’s going on with you?” I asked, lowering my volume painstakingly and pointedly.
“You’re like a different person today. Cold and detached, and it shows in every move you make.” I couldn’t stop the hurt from seeping slightly into my voice.
“That,” she accused in an agitated whisper, her pointed finger aimed directly at my face. “That right there. That’s why I can’t be open and uninhibited. You make that fucking face, and I nearly forget how to put my left foot in front of my right. And Olympians can’t afford to miss a single goddamn step.”
I tried to rein in the anger and embrace her admission instead. She felt what I felt around her in the same confusing swirl.
Calming my attack and considering my words, I tried to explain that not everything was black and white.
“Being strong doesn't mean you can't be soft. Working hard to meet your goals doesn't mean you can't live. And living a certain way your entire life doesn't mean you can't ever change. Life is fluid. The only way to run yourself ashore is to not follow the change and contour of the curves.”
She shook her head, frustrated.
She wasn’t the only one.
“Listen, Nik. It’s like this.” We’d crept incredibly close to one another at this point, the rest of the gym a memory. Her anger and mine filled the space around us, and her hands moved to illustrated her point as if playing a game of charades.
“I’m already on one high-speed boat, throttle wide open, and the steering wheel pegged. It doesn’t matter if I want to be on another fucking boat, the leap isn’t worth the risk.”
My chest blew back, and my mind reeled that the possibility that she actually thought that was how life worked. That you worked and bled and sweat for one goddamn thing, and any time you wanted anything else you had to choose between it and your fucking life.
“So, what? You’re only allowed to have one thing?” I asked, the concept completely ridiculous in my mind.
“When it takes as much work and doing as this?” Her face and nod were resolute. “Yes.”
I shook me head, resisting the urge to pull out my hair by locking my hands onto my hips. “With all you’re doing, how do you ever make time to dream?”
“Dreamers are weak-willed,” she stated, turning her head away from me and focusing out to the side rather than facing the scrutiny of my eyes. “Instead of working toward concrete goals, they get lost in the fantasy of expectation. I don't think about what I'm going to do. I just do it.”
I softened my voice and attitude, hoping to pull her eyes back in line with mine. “Weak willed doesn't mean weak-minded.” Her head turned back slowly. “Dreamers use every facet of their mind, so much so, their will can't resist.”
The weight of our conversation sagged the line of her shoulders and pulled at the length of her slim neck. Her posture changed from angry to subdued, and trapped under the watchful eyes of an entire gym full of people, I couldn’t do one thing about it.
But as her eyes lifted to meet mine, soft and warm but stagnant, I realized that was exactly what she wanted.
A public scene meant limitations, and yelling between us was expected.
It was our thing.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, stabbing me in the heart with one of the most brutal non-breakups I’d ever had.
I’d never have her the way I wanted, and this was her way of delivering the blow.
Part of me understood. I knew the world she lived in, the expectations she so painstakingly tried to live up to.
But another part of me didn’t get it at all, the ability to resist what was happening between us, a connection so real it had formed the moment I’d taken her spit-soaked hand.
And that was the part I would have to find a way to live with.
I didn’t want to let her down professionally, but getting into that mindset was going to take some reflection and convincing.
“I think I’m done for today,” I admitted, using her words from that first night unintentionally and taking a step back.
“Nik—”
“I just need the day, Callie. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Fighting the urge to say more, she nodded and backed away as I turned to go.
Coaches and gymnasts alike stared as I left, but I plastered a fake smile on my face and waved as I went.
I would never jeopardize anything for Callie based on a dredged up personal issue.
“Nik!” Frank called as I passed the office and forcing me to a stop. He was truly the last person I wanted to talk to in that moment.
“Yes, sir?” I forced out in a fake show of casualness.
“Leaving early?”
“Uh, yeah,” I admitted, lying my way through an explanation. “I have an appointment.”
He studied me closely, and I increased the wattage of my smile in answer.
“Callie can be tough—”
“No, sir,” I cut in.
He raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
My lungs puffed a huge gust of air, forcing it up my throat and out my mouth. I used it to breath life into my answer. “I mean, yes, she can be confrontational—”
He laughed.
I fought the narrowing of my eyes.
“But this isn’t about her, sir. Just an appointment. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
His eyes were curious, but he didn’t push. “Alright then. Have a good evening.”
“Thank you. You too.”
Air screamed freedom, and I couldn’t get out the door to breathe it in fast enough.
My chest felt sore, and I raised a hand to rub it as I walked quickly to my Street Glide. Normally I made sure to change into my jeans before I got on the bike, but I didn’t have it in me to go back in, so I just left it.
I felt more alone than I had in a while, the knowledge of each friend and relationship secondary to the loss of one thing when it came to Callie—
Hope.
It spread like an infection and tainted clean vision and dedication. It made me think about, and long for, other things outside of the one thing that encapsulated my entire life.
The fact was, I didn’t know how to be anything other than this, I didn’t know how to strive for something other than greatness, and the prospect of the consequences forced my hand with the cure.
Hurting Nik yesterday had physically hurt me, the figurative gaping hole in my chest lacking the ability to clot. It had taken everything in me not to go after him, to let it go—to convince myself that it was all for the best.
I hadn’t specifically tried to aggravate him, but I hadn’t been naive enough to think it wouldn’t happen either. Part of me thought I needed the scene, the whole argument to make a clean break and go back to what practice and experience told me was important. But it didn’t heal all of the longing and wonderment in me. If anything, it made me rage to understand its unavoidable pull even harder.
It still felt fresh to me today, and I knew he felt the same. His words weren’t bitter, but they were cutting, the struggle he was feeling apparently just as real as my own.
Mud clouded the pristine water of his eyes, and all the ease had vanished from his posture.