He chuckled again. “All the people watching you?”
I nodded.
“They were probably startled to hear her voice, she hasn’t spoken to anyone in so long.” Excitement clashed with the context of his next words. “Hell, she yelled at you!”
“I noticed, sir.”
He winked, and it put my earlier ill-feelings at ease. At least about him.
Today as a whole felt like a foreign, jumbled-up mess. Everything I’d learned about myself in the last twenty-eight years was being overruled and replaced by a newer, completely opposing emotion.
At least, that’s what it felt like right now.
God. I needed to clear my head. Start over. Recalibrate or something.
“Keep up whatever you’re doing. It may not feel right now, but it will in the end.”
The weird thing was, it did feel right. Natural. It felt like we’d been ribbing each other for years.
“She may not ever like you—”
Well, that was inspiring.
“But I have a feeling she will learn to listen. And that’s what’s important,” he stated resolutely.
Was it?
I wasn’t so sure.
Instead of commenting directly, I shook it off and asked about the one thing I knew would help me the most.
“Is it still alright if I tumble here after hours?”
“Of course.” He reached behind him, leaned over the desk, and pulled open one of the drawers. With a bang, he slid it shut and reached to pass me something. “Here’s a key. Just lock up when you’re done.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded. “You shouldn’t have to wait long. Everyone should be clearing out pretty soon.”
His grip was strong as I shook his hand and stood to leave. When he smiled genuinely again, I started to feel silly. I was compelled to understand everything in every new situation immediately by an innate desire to be liked and do well, but in this case, it wasn’t doing anything but cocking the gun aimed straight at my own foot.
I didn’t need to know every detail about Callie or her father right now. I just needed to settle in and be myself. I had a penchant for hard work, and this effort would be no different. The rest would work itself out in time.
When I stepped outside and the door closed behind me, I unintentionally surveyed the room and the people in it.
Two thorough scans later, I didn’t find what I was looking for.
She’d said she was leaving, and I’d been in her father’s office for enough time for her to do it unnoticed. I guess a part of me just expected I’d get to have another word with her. Something less toxic. Less heated. Less judgmental—on both ends.
One of the coaches I’d met earlier—Jim, I think—waved goodbye with a smirk on his face.
“See you tomorrow,” I called out in reply. He just shook his head in the affirmative.
Done being watched, I headed for the exit instead of hanging around. My bag was in my bike anyway, and I wanted to be able to change before I left tonight.
The new metallic charcoal paint of my Street Glide sparkled under the parking lot lights as soon as I opened the door. Crickets chirped in the field across the street, and the glow of the nearly full moon cast a shadow on the windshields of all of the remaining cars. Approaching ten PM, a slight sheen of dew had settled on every surface and pebbled tiny drops of water on the leather of my seat.
I’d always been a bike guy, and it had never been much of a weather issue this far south in Georgia. At least not where temperature was concerned. But now that I had a steady schedule and responsibility, I figured I’d need to look into a form of backup transportation when the rain got to be too much.
I lifted the saddlebag open and pulled out my bag, setting it on the seat so that I could focus on the bottom.
I kept a picture of my parents there, young and in love and fresh off the boat from Russia. My father was a dancer and my mother a gymnast. They worked incredibly hard from the moment they got here until the moment they died in a car accident six months ago. Tragic as it was for me, I always took solace in the fact that they went together—for them. A shining example of what made a good team, my father often pushed and pushed until my mother pulled and bent him to her will. He went willingly because it made sense. They were both trying to go the same direction.
There was nothing my father would have wanted more than to follow her to Heaven.
Expelling one shuddering breath, I shoved one hand through my overly shaggy hair and pulled the top of the saddlebag closed with the other.
Grabbing my bag, I headed back for the door and scooted into the bathroom while the remaining stragglers were making their way out.
I changed into shorts and wrapped both ankles, being sure to tape them comfortably tight. I also pulled out my thinner tape and attached my pinky finger—that I somehow managed to break all the time—to my ring finger as a preventive measure, and slipped one of those elastic headbands into my hair to keep it out of my face. Exiting the bathroom, I moved slowly, poking my head out first and finding the lights dimmed to appropriate “we’re closed” levels.
The door only squeaked a little as I let it swing shut behind me, and pulled the switch closest to me back into the on position. The light made a hum, but it was the kind of sound that faded almost immediately because I was so conditioned to its background noise.
I chucked my bag to the side, a dull thud resonating as it hit the floor, pulled my t-shirt over my head and pitched it on top, and sank to my butt on the end of the long Rod floor to do a thorough stretch before I made any passes.
Quiet. Peaceful. Homey.
This was my favorite way to be in the gym—
Alone.
Such an ironic concept for me. I constantly felt it, but I never actually was.
Not until this time of night anyway. It was my favorite time to be here, and usually I didn’t do anything. Just hung out on a mat somewhere and stared at the warehouse ceiling.
But I’d spent an extraordinary amount of time in the locker room tonight. Thinking. Fuming. Considering. And talking myself in circles.
I watched discreetly as girls came and went, grabbing their bags and heading back to a late night of hearty home-cooked food and homework. The late nights were relentless in the life of a gymnast, but so were the early mornings. I couldn’t for the life of me remember a day that I’d slept past six or fallen asleep before midnight. Not one. In twenty-six years.
And I didn’t see it changing.
Pulling my lavender, terry cloth pants out of my bag, I didn’t bother to clean the chalk from my legs before pulling them on. I shut my locker quietly, but the sound of pounding on the rod floor made me jump.
I thought everyone was gone, and my parents normally locked me in on their way out. Creeping around the bench in the middle of the narrow room, I peeked out the door and sank down into a squat so I could see under the beams.
A tan, muscular back stood out against the bright blue waistband of his shorts, and his ankles faded into one big, white blob thanks to the tape. His right hand twitched minutely, the fingers curling into his palm softly, and he bounced on his toes just once before taking two long strides into his hurdle. His round off just barely skimmed the floor, the rods rippling with the force of his whip backs, and he ended with one of the highest, most explosive full-twisting layouts I’d ever witnessed.
It wasn’t a simple pass for the layperson, but he certainly made it look that way.
My earlier words haunted me as though they were an actual ghost.
Maybe you’re the lazy one.