He moved with stilted agitation, and I couldn’t even blame him because I was doing the same thing.
The difference was, he and everyone else were judging me based on mine.
If he told me I was jerking to one skill from another in my bar routine instead of flowing one more time, I was going to punch him in the throat.
Granted, half of my frustration came from him and the other half came from the inability to complete this stupid, godforsaken skill.
“You’re releasing too late. There’s no way you’ll be able to grab the bar doing it like that. Look down the line of your body, when your toes point right there,” he pointed to the joint between the ceiling and the wall, “that’s when you let go.”
“I know,” I grated, smashing my lips together and checking the tightness of my grips on my wrists.
“If you know, do it.”
His anger fueled mine, riling us up into a torturous circle of aggression.
“Relax, alright?” I snapped. “This is a new fucking skill, and it’s taking me a little time to get used to it.”
His eyes glittered and shimmered, and the line of his jaw became noticeably more compact.
“If you’re this slow to take what you want, I don’t know how the hell you expect to take that goddamn podium.”
I shook my head at his absurdity, knowing that the guise of gymnastics talk was just that—an emotional ruse. “The two aren’t even remotely related.”
“How do you figure that?” he asked, slamming his hands to his hips and pretending not to know what I was talking about.
“Because when it comes to gymnastics, I know what it takes. I know that I’m safe.”
An outsider would have laughed at the absurdity of that statement. Gymnastics, as a sport, was anything but safe. But Nik knew exactly what I meant.
Because he was living the double meaning along with me, and he saw inside the window to my mind like no one else I’d ever encountered.
Gymnastics was known. It didn’t change. It was comfort.
That didn’t stop him from refuting my logic.
“I’ll make you a promise right here,” he swore, his words a conviction and a truth and a vow that he’d do anything to keep. “There are a lot of things you may never be with me, but you’ll always be fucking safe.”
I wanted so badly to give in, to cave to his line of thinking and believe that what he said wouldn’t only be a promise, but an irrefutable fact. But I knew better. Years of not getting my way reinforced that it would never change.
“Gymnastics is safe,” I told him in an effort to distance him. I needed him to back off from this argument, to let it go. Unless he did, I wouldn’t be able to. Not unless he was gone.
“Gymnastics is not supposed to be your entire life,” he insisted, his face imploring. “You’re allowed to have more than this.”
He poked and poked the bear inside me until it was cornered, and my only option left was to growl.
"Jesus Christ!” I threw my hands in the air. “What do you think you are, some kind of life coach?! You coach gymnastics," I spat, feeling the chords in my throat stand out with each rage filled syllable. "You're here to improve my gymnastics. That's it.”
If I'd been expecting an apology or concession, it was nothing but my fault. People were reliably predictable, and Nik wasn't any different. He never apologized or lived regret. He lived that moment, breathed that reasoning, and answered every irrational outburst of mine with a rational calm that blew my mind. I kept to myself, so it was easy to fool people into believing I was low key, but I had never been an even keel kind of person. I blew up and I did it hard, whether it lived completely in my mind or splattered all over everything just depended on who I was dealing with. Every moment with him was infinitely messy.
Those words had drawn what I considered to be a line in the sand. But Nik…he wasn’t afraid to cross it.
His chest blew back as if I’d struck him, but it wasn’t because he was contrite. It was because he was winding up for a punch that would be anything but physical, but would leave its mark all the same.
“Gymnastics isn't a self contained sport. It's not only the training, only the skills, only the work you put in. It takes mental toughness and adaptability,” he annunciated, tapping his temple with rapt precision. “Neither of which work cohesively with a hothead or simmering unhappiness. The more fulfilled your life is, the more your gymnastics will improve.”
The corner of his mouth just barely hitched as he rounded the corner of his speech and settled into his exceptionally made point. “So I am coaching you at gymnastics. But for you, the area you're lacking in isn't skill or dedication. It's goddamn life.”
Without apology or hesitation he was gone, time for a rebuttal completely off the table of accessibility.
I watched numbly as he left, not even slowing for the rain that beat an unrelenting rhythm on the metal roof of the warehouse.
Anger seared hot all over my skin, and as a stroke of worry for the safety of riding his motorcycle in this weather came over me, it burned all the way through like acid.
How dare he come into my life and mess everything up?
Until he rammed his bossy way in, the only person I had to worry about was myself. My safety, my opinions, my feelings, and my goddamn wants.
His words bounced like ping pong balls in my head, catching slightly in the net and making me doubt my own serve. I didn’t want to get lost in his fucking speeches and look forward to his smiles. I didn’t want to have to worry about him in the rain or the wind or any other godforsaken showing of mother nature.
I hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t prepared for it, but the bastard had done it all the same.
Unwilling and unable to stop myself, I took off at a run for the door, not pausing to look into the eyes of anyone else as I went and ran straight out into the blinding rain. It pounded my skin like a hammer, the drops were so big, but I fought through the beating in order to wipe my eyes and scan the parking lot. His motorcycle sat untouched, soaked in its spot, and the roar of the rain overwhelmed the rest of my senses.
I looked first to my right and then to my left, but the driving sheets of water almost made me miss him.
White material clung to his chest like a survivor to a life raft, and the unruly scraps of his ugly hair clung to the sides of his face like a wet mop.
Barefoot and broken, I moved my feet toward him, one in front of the other until there was no holding back my run.
His head lifted at the last second as my body crashed into his and my desperate hands grabbed at the side of his face.
Water streamed over the lines of his cheeks like river rocks, and vitality surged into his eyes as vibrantly as a flash of lightning.
My lips attacked his, eating at their softness and rushing to cover the entirety of each surface. He tasted like sin and chocolate and the forbidden dream of a stronger-minded woman.
I lived inside that dream, savoring the feel of his hands as they grasped at my hips and molded my soaked body to his. His mouth grappled with mine until I finally ceded control, and for the first time in my life, I moved in the same direction.
Letting him lead the moment and the kiss, I blocked out the sound of the rain and instead listened to the pound of his honest heart.
One second bled into the next, the threat of discovery only heightening my passion and driving me to grab at his shoulders and chest with ferocity and impatience. He maneuvered me by lifting me up and swinging my bare legs around his hips. I felt him move, but focused on the feel of his advancing lips. Each step only strengthened his fervor, and leached directly into me through the connection of our mouths.
My back hit the side of the building after he rounded the corner out of view, and even if I wasn’t cognizant of it in that exact moment, I knew I appreciated his proclivity for discretion.