But here in her world, she was like a solar eclipse. No one looked directly at her as we made our way across the gym. I didn’t know if it was for fear that it would burn out their retinas or something else.
She laughed, half with humor and half without it. There was acceptance in her voice, but it didn’t completely mask the bitterness and burn.
“They fan-girled between Olympics one and two. Once they knew I was hoping for a third, my appeal kind of died out. Turned into much more of a resentment cocktail.”
“Really?”
That surprised me.
She pretended to shrug it off. “I was never much of a mentor anyway.”
Self-deprecation mixed with longing.
I’d never heard the exact combination before now. It sounded eerily calm but undeniably scratchy. Like it got caught in the back of her throat as she forced herself to spit it out.
Her body turned to shut me out, her part in the conversation done.
Instead of pushing what was clearly an uncomfortable subject, I moved on.
“Where are we headed?”
“Floor,” she answered shortly without turning around.
I nodded my head from behind her but held my silence.
Eventually, it got to her.
Another thing I’d have to remember for future reference because part of my job was to get under her skin.
Irritation instigates emotion, and emotion opens the door for change. Not at first—first comes anger. But anger eventually bleeds into reflection, and reflection breeds acceptance. And acceptance—that’s what leads to change.
“What?” she asked, turning to meet my eyes.
I shook my head with a smile, completely belying my innocence. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I could hear you thinking,” she argued with a frown.
My smile deepened and my arms crossed easily across my chest in silent challenge.
“You could hear me thinking?”
Her face wrinkled slightly with contempt. “Don’t mock me. I know you know what I mean.”
“You know I know what you mean?”
“Stop repeating everything I say!” she snapped, throwing her grips bag to the ground and cinching her ponytail tighter before slamming both angry hands to her trim hips.
“Sorry,” I fake-apologized, leaning slightly toward her as I spoke for emphasis. “I was just making sure you understood what you were saying.”
The gap between her eyebrows narrowed meaningfully.
Settling my hands into my pockets, I felt my smile reach all the way up to my eyes. “Looks like you think we know each other just a little bit after all.”
“Great,” she mumbled to herself, turning back in the direction of the floor, jerking her bag back off of the ground, and talking as she walked. “An observant smart ass for a coach. Just what I’ve always wanted.”
“Better than a clueless dumb ass, no?” I called to her back as she dropped her grip bag at the side of the floor mat and walked to the far corner. Other coaches and gymnasts looked on with curious eyes, prompted by the volume of my voice, but I ignored them, focusing solely on the slight curvature taking shape at the corner of her mouth.
That tiny change in shape, that small token of humor gave me hope. I’d have her liking me before long.
Surprised at the intensity of the feeling, I jumped when the warmth grew in my chest at the prospect. I hadn’t thought I would care if she liked me, one way or another, as long as she got the training she needed and I kept my job as her coach. But only one conversation in, I found myself wanting it a lot.
And I wasn’t quite sure why.
Waiting her turn in a line of much younger gymnasts, she watched as they took turns tumbling in a cross pattern. It was one in a long list of rarely spoken rules in the world of gymnastics. Put into practice informally at every gym across the country and national competitions alike, each corner took a turn tumbling diagonally from one corner to another. Staggering back and forth from opposite corners gave ample time for a gymnast to clear their corner after completion of their pass with little to no downtime.
Glancing occasionally at the sloppy form of a newly seasoned, almost unbearably young Level Eight gymnast on their full twisting layout, I focused primarily on Callie and the way she watched and waited.
Gymnastics was largely a young person’s sport, and it was that way for a couple of reasons. Not only did the unmarred minds of the youth recognize and react less to innate fear, they also vibrated with unconfined energy. Their bodies drove their young minds to complete each task.
Conversely, Callie’s practiced mind forced her largely uncooperative body.
Leg extended and toe pointed with precision, it reached out in front of her tapping the ground in preparation before her pass.
Her steps were that of ease, but the power of her thighs did undeniable work as she lunged into her round off, whipped through her back-handspring, and set high and tight with her elbows by her ears for an easy and over exaggerated layout.
She was fun to watch, but I could tell she moved in half measures.
I called her over with a flick of a finger, smiling at the answering roll of her eyes. I’d never gotten quite so much enjoyment out of annoying someone before. In fact, I usually bowed down to the unbearable urge to people please.
I couldn’t figure out how this could be so different and yet feel so good.
“What?” she asked when she arrived. Her tone wasn’t one of excitement or avidity for learning. It was one of annoyance.
I felt a flutter in my gut.
Obviously something was wrong with me. Maybe the Chinese food I’d had for lunch was bad.
I shook my head internally, carefully constructing the points of my advice to make sure it came out simple and organized and easy to follow.
“You’re not harnessing the power from one skill to use in another. You need to drive through your toes more, use the energy from your back-handspring to drive you up, rather than wasting it all through your flat feet into the ground.”
She shrugged her shoulder, waved me off.
“It was a warm-up pass.”
She turned to leave, but I wasn’t done, so I interrupted the movement with a gentle touch of my hand to her smooth shoulder.
Her eyes jumped to mine as though zapped by the contact, and a corresponding tingle ran all the way from my fingertips to the depths of my stomach.
I had to mentally coerce my eyes back to normal size and fight for concentration—forcibly remove my hand from her shoulder.
“It doesn’t work like that. Each pass you make forms a habit, and the amount of passes only grows over time. You’ve got a lot of both.”
She looked even more miffed, and at first I didn’t understand.
Then, I did. And I was the one rolling my eyes.
“I’m not saying you’re old. Jesus. I’m saying you’re experienced.”
“Experience is a good thing.”
“It is,” I agreed, which seemed to satisfy her. For about a second. “It can also work against you.”
“How’s that?” she demanded.
“Not all habits are good ones. In fact, a big fucking heap of them are the exact opposite—”
“Get to the point,” she interrupted.
Foregoing any further explanation and succumbing to the fact that she wasn’t going to let me cushion anything with pleasantries, I gave it to her straight. “You’re talented, but you’re completely wasting it.” She started to protest, so I threw up a hand. “Stop being lazy and put some power through your goddamn feet!”
Indignation fired her veins and reddened the brown of her irises. “You watch one pass and you think you have the right to call me lazy?” she nearly shrieked.
Heads turned in our direction. We both ignored them.
“You’re not lazy. Your tumbling is.” She drew in a quick, fury-filled breath, no doubt gearing up to let me have it. I didn’t give her the chance. “And I’ve watched you more than one time. I’ve been watching you since you were a seventeen year old kid competing in your first World’s. Your feet have been lazy the entire damn time.”