Fuck, I miss the rink. It’s my second day without hockey, and I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. The boys play tonight, starting a West Coast road trip, and I can’t watch. I’m not allowed to send them texts either. Damn screen ban.
My life doesn’t make sense without hockey. It's as unnatural as I assume Finley’s is without gymnastics.
Her eyes light up as soon as we walk in, any worry from our conversation sliding right off her. She warms up on a stationary bike, lost in thought, her gaze sliding around the space, taking it all in.
Minutes later, she dismounts and strides to the floor. It’s about fifty feet from where I sit on a couch in an area where gymnasts can watch recordings of their performances. Who knew gymnastics and hockey had this much in common? Massive amounts of injury and hours of studying film.
“You said no one knows you’re training again,” I start and abruptly stop.
I’m having déjà vu watching Finley undress in the same room as me, like it’s no big deal. After years of putting her body on display in her gymnastics uniform, she might be used to it, but I’m not remotely adjusted to seeing her half-naked. I’ll always be tongue-tied, in awe of her.
“That’s right,” she confirms.
Finley kicks her discarded sweatpants into a pile with her sweatshirt, leaving her in a skintight, long-sleeved bodysuit, bright pink at her shoulders and collarbone, darkening to black when it reaches her arms. The elaborate silver design over her chest shimmers as she swings her legs and arms to warm up.Her leg muscles flex with the movements, strong, toned, and devastating. I’m mesmerized.
“It’s called a leotard,” Finley smirks.
“What?” I croak.
“What I’m wearing,” she clarifies. Her shit-eating grin suggests she knows exactly why I'm struggling to form sentences. She runs in place, pushing her knees into the air until they tap her hands out in front of her. “I have more on now than I did when we… went swimming.”
I look away, my heart pounding out of control at the memory I’ve had on repeat since Finley came back into my life. I wasn’t sure she remembered.
I don’t know where to take the conversation from here, especially with the way she’s overwhelmed my body—my palms slick with sweat, my tongue heavy and immovable, my face heating like a furnace.
I clear my throat. “How long have you been away from gymnastics?”
Her movement hitches, her body locking for a second mid-lunge. “Two years.”
Huh. That’s around the time we met.
Finley sinks back into the lunge, resuming her dynamic stretches. It’s a version of our warm-up, except no one is on their knees thrusting their hips in suggestive movements people celebrate on the internet.
“Because of an injury?”
It’s a subtler pause this time, but it’s there. Finley Harris has shown nothing but confidence since the moment I met her. I like this reminder that she’s human, but I hate seeing something ruffle her. Even before she answers, I decide to drop this line of questioning.
“Something like that.” She steps one leg forward and sinks into a split.
I swallow hard, turning away from her before the twitch in my pants becomes a problem.
I remain quiet for the rest of her warm-up.
5
Finley
“Do you always lookso serious?”
I glare at Zach for asking the question, but it’s more playful than angry. He’s followed me silently around the gym, watching me intently through the dark glasses protecting his brain, not interrupting. His unspoken respect for my craft tugs at the center of my chest. No one in my life ever questions the difficulty of my sport—it’s not like any of my nongymnast friends can flip themselves in the air three times and survive, let alone land upright—but they never understand my sacrifice.
Zach does. It makes me want to know him more, despite the reasons I shouldn’t.
“I’m concentrating,” I say, lifting one leg in front of me in a pike position and balancing on one foot as I do a full turn. “I have a lot of work if I’m going to have any shot at making the team.”
“What team?”
“UPC. It’s where I go to school. I’m training for next season. It’s a long shot, but my coach went there. She says when I’mready, she’ll reach out to her former coach to see if he’ll give me a tryout.”
