Out of Bounds (The Summer Games #2)(40)

He stepped closer, bending low to level me with a dark gaze. “Thin ice, Watson.”

I clenched my jaw and tilted my chin, showing him how little he intimidated me. Sure, my entire body was shaking like a live wire, but I prayed he didn’t notice.

“Get back up on the bars.”

My hands stung; I knew a few of the rips were bleeding. I needed Neosporin and ice. He knew I was at my limit and he didn’t care. He wanted me to look down, avert my eyes, and offer up a submissive yes sir. I would have eaten my own tongue before I gave into him then, but if he wanted another routine, I’d give him another routine.

I put my grips back on and chalked them while my team stood off to the side, watching our exchange with wide eyes.

There were certain elements an Olympic uneven bar routine had to consist of: a transition from the high bar to the low bar, a release move, the dismount, etc. The entire routine needed to flow from one movement to the next without any pauses or extra swings. Exact handstand positions were expected and large deductions were given for even minor deviations. Bent knees, piked hips, even a slight gap between my feet and I could kiss my chance of winning gold goodbye.

The routine I planned to compete in Rio was the hardest routine I’d seen in competition. It was packed with difficult transitions and release moves, and if I could compete it with a clean finish, there was no question I would outstrip every other gymnast there.

That day in the gym after Erik chewed my head off, I didn’t perform my routine for Rio. Instead, I pulled from the skills I’d learned in my early tween years: easy giants, kips, hip circles. A five-year-old could have done the same routine. I released from the high bar with a soft push, not bothering with a release move. When my feet hit the ground, I swiveled toward Erik and held my arms out in an exaggerated V to signal the end of my routine, but it was less of a finale and more of a Go f*ck yourself.

I could feel the tension emanating from him as I walked away, but I tore off my grips and threw them behind me, too exhausted to care.




Molly: Wow. That was…

Lexi: AWESOME.

Rosie: Are you okay? I’ve never seen you like that before.

Brie: I’m fine.

Molly: Where are you?

Brie: In town.



After storming out of practice, I’d gone back to the guesthouse and showered, trying to calm my temper. A night of baking—flour, sugar, and freshly baked bread—would have helped, but I didn’t dare approach Erik’s house after my tantrum in the gym. No. Instead, I slipped on a soft sundress. It was an old favorite that was a bit too short for Seattle’s cool weather, but I didn’t care. I liked the feel of the cotton against my skin. It was a small comfort, and after the day I’d had, I knew I’d take anything I could get.



Lexi: Where? We’ll come join you.



I glanced around the bar and tried to find a name plastered somewhere. The place was small and dark, a real hole-in-the-wall I’d stumbled into by happenstance. I’d been walking around downtown Seattle, trying to find a distraction far away from the world of gymnastics. I needed a place to hide out for a few hours so when I turned down East John Street and found the door to the bar unmanned, I walked in and found a spot in a secluded booth. The place was perfect. It had low lighting, loud music, and was all but deserted.

I felt bad not ordering anything, but there was no point in trying to get a drink. For one, I couldn’t afford it, and two, I didn’t want to get kicked out once the staff realized I was underage.

The young bartender—who’d been eyeing me from behind the bar since I’d first walked in—came over to my booth and offered me a small smile. He dropped a glass of water on my table and the coaster beneath it had the bar’s name printed around the edge in big bold letters: Paul’s Ice House.

“Figured you could use some water.”

I smiled. How polite.

“Thanks,” I said, grateful.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked, tilting his head to get a better view of my downturned head. I glanced up and offered him the smile he was after. He was cute, with blond hair, kind eyes, and an affinity for the color black. He looked to be around my age, maybe a year or two older.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“We don’t usually have girls come in here alone,” he said, eyeing the group of men sitting at the bar, griping about a baseball game playing on the TV.

“Should I leave?” I asked, testing him.

His smile widened and he leaned closer. “Not until my shift is over in a few hours.”

I smirked and glanced away, indicating that he could go back to work. I wasn’t leaving.

When he went back behind the bar, I unlocked my phone to reply to the group text.



Brie: I’m at a place called Paul’s Ice House. I’ll just call when I need a ride home. I don’t feel up for company.

Lexi: Whatever emo girl. Just don’t yell at the bartenders like you yelled at Erik. We might not be able to pool enough bail money to save you.



I rolled my eyes and pocketed my phone, annoyed at her for bringing Erik back to the forefront of my thoughts.

I’d had a terrible day at the gym and I couldn’t pinpoint where the stress was coming from: Erik or the Olympics. Most of the girls on my team were veterans. This was their second time competing in the games and they knew how to handle the pressure. Rosie and I were the only rookies, though there was one glaring difference: Rosie was young. She had at least one more Olympics to compete in after Rio, but for me, this was it. At twenty, my body was at its peak, but it was also tired. I could feel the ache in my muscles, the need for a break. My tendons and cartilage wouldn’t survive four more years of wear and tear. Maybe that was why it was hard to breathe at times. The pressure of having one chance at changing my life grew to be too much to handle at times.