“Everyone or just Brie?” Molly whispered under her breath.
I shot her a smile as I rechecked my grips.
“Who’s up?” Erik asked, clapping to get our attention.
“Brie,” Lexi volunteered.
He nodded and took a step back. “Let’s go.”
It was as close to a direct order as I’d get from him. I clapped excess chalk off my grips and walked up to take the bars, trying to catch his eyes. He wasn’t watching me. His attention was on the high bar. How can he coach me if he can’t look at me?
I shook my head and jumped to the lower bar to start my routine. My hands hit the wooden bar, skimming across the surface as I transitioned my kip, split my legs, and tightened them together over my head in a handstand. I rotated around and around, feeling the strength in my arms. My first release move was simple, transitioning from low bar to high bar, but midway through my routine, I had a release on the high bar that required a spot. I half expected Erik to ignore me, but he stepped up onto the mat just before I finished my giant. I released the bar, finished a full twist, and reached back for the bar. I could feel him under me and when my hands made contact with the high bar again, I sighed with relief. I didn’t want him to have to catch me if I fell.
After that, my routine was nothing but smooth sailing. I dismounted, twisting for a double front with a half turn, and took a baby step on the landing. It was hardly a deduction, but I knew Erik wouldn’t let it slide. My gaze shifted to him. He nodded, no smile present on his stupidly handsome face. “Now without the step.”
I rolled my eyes and brushed past him. If that’s all he was going to critique then I was wasting my time. I loosened my grips and walked off the mat. If I’d competed that routine in the Olympics, I would be walking away with gold and he knew it.
Through the rest of practice, Erik did his best to avoid me, so I followed his lead and did my best to ignore him as well. I was content to work on my skills, relaxing into a rhythm I hadn’t found since arriving in Seattle. By the time the lower level gymnasts started to trickle into Seattle Flyers, the rest of my team was ready to go home. Practice was officially over and we were all sweaty and tired, but I wasn’t quite ready to pack it in for the day. I was working on my standing full on beam and I hadn’t landed enough to satisfy me.
“We’re going to head back to the house,” Molly said, heading over to where I was resting near my beam.
I nodded. “Would you mind coming back for me later? I just want to stay for a little while longer.”
She told me to call when I was ready to be picked up and then I went back to practicing on my own. Another few hours passed. By the time I was confident in landing the trick, the sun had already set; I hadn’t realized how long I’d been working out alone. I just needed to stick one more and then I’d call Molly. One more and I’d feel good.
I knew better than anyone that gymnastics was about repetition. I didn’t compete a skill until I’d stuck it a million times in practice. If I could land it when I was bone tired, covered in sweat, and ready to collapse, I could land it in any circumstance. Solid practice and repetition was the only way to feel confident when a thousand pairs of eyes were focused on you, and the Olympics wouldn’t just be thousands. I’d have to compete this standing full in front of millions.
My coach back in Texas had lent me his copy of Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers after a particularly frustrating practice. After reading about the relentless intensity of Mozart sweating at the piano bench, the Beatles grinding in Hamburg, and Bill Gates programming at Lakeside, most people take away the notion that one must spend 10,000 hours practicing something before greatness can be achieved. My coach commended me for taking it a step further: it doesn’t matter how many hours you put into your craft if you’re staying in your comfort zone. Gymnastics is an evolving sport. Skills that earned gold medals in the 90s would get you laughed off the competition circuit today. I had to keep pushing myself further, defying the odds by competing skills that had seemed all but impossible only a few years earlier.
I had to continue to push myself if I wanted to be the best, which is why I was still at the gym long after my teammates had gone.
I pushed up onto the beam and took my position in the center. My left foot was positioned a few inches in front of my right. My toes were pressed into my left arch. I rooted down through my legs, reached my arms overhead, and just then, the lights flickered overhead. On, off, on, off, on.
I paused and glanced up to see Erik standing against the far wall near the entrance of the gym. His arms were crossed over his chest. His inky black hair was messier than usual, as if he’d spent the day tugging his fingers through it in annoyance.
“Let’s go. I’m locking up.”
I’d been so ensconced in my own training, I hadn’t realized the entire gym had completely emptied out. How late is it?
“Just one more,” I said, holding up my finger.
He flicked the lights off again, leaving me in darkness. “No. You’ve done enough. The beam will still be there in the morning.”
I wanted to argue. How does he know if I’ve done enough? He hadn’t been watching.
He flicked the lights back on—as I knew he would—and without missing a beat, I bent my knees, whipped my arms behind me, pushed off my toes, and pulled through for one more standing full. My feet hit the center of the beam for a perfect landing and I smiled.
The lights flickered out again.