Out of Bounds (The Summer Games #2)(8)

“Right. Coach Winter,” I said with a small smile.

“No, I haven’t, but he’s the best coach in the country now that his father is on medical leave, and I for one don’t plan on taking my time here for granted.”

With that, she bit into her apple and walked out of the kitchen.

“I think that went well,” Molly said once June had trotted upstairs and slammed her bedroom door closed. A second later, loud classical music spilled down the stairs.

I laughed. “Despite the fact that I just rolled my eyes so far back into my head I’ve gone blind, yeah, I think it went well.”

After I regained my sight and Molly stopped laughing, we got to work heating up a lunch of chicken and asparagus. I was starting to crash from my early flight, so I rooted around the kitchen for a coffee pot, confused by the prehistoric model sitting in one of the cabinets. I brushed off the dust and plugged it in; it took me nearly thirty minutes to figure out how to turn the damn thing on, and once I had two cups of coffee, they had the consistency of burnt mud.

“Cheers,” I said, clinking my mug against Molly’s. “Don’t actually drink it though.”

She sniffed the top of the mug.

“Just inhale deeply and hope you get some caffeine through your nasal passages.”

“It doesn’t seem so bad.” She tipped back a sip and promptly spit it out all over the table. Most of it landed on our food (thanks Molly) but a few ambitious drops landed on my face.

I wiped my eye as she collapsed into a fit of laughter. “That’s the shittiest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“I told you not to drink it!”

After cleaning up her mess, I pushed our coffee mugs to the other side of the table and took a bite of chicken. It tasted like cardboard, but I was too ravenous to care.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go pick up a better coffee pot,” she said.

I nodded. “Sounds good. When do you think Lexi and Rosie will get he—”

I’d barely formed the question when the front door of the guesthouse whipped open. Luggage flew inside the door, followed by a few duffel bags, a pillow, a jacket, and then finally, like a tornado, our final two teammates arrived: Lexi and Rosie. Yin and yang.

Lexi led the way into the house wearing bright blue spandex yoga pants and an off-the-shoulder tank top that read, “I’m too sexy for my shirt”. Her black hair was piled up on her head in a messy bun, her bright red lipstick looked as if she’d just reapplied it, and she was wearing enough rings on her fingers to cut off circulation. In sharp contrast, Rosie followed after her with wide eyes and nervous energy. She wore a white polo tucked into ironed khaki shorts. Not only was she the shortest girl on our team, at seventeen, she was also the youngest. Even beneath her dark brown skin, I could make out her flushed cheeks.

“Guys, first off,” Lexi said. “Our coach is f*cking hot.”

She dropped her final bag by the door and blew a stray piece of hair away from her face.

“Second, how far do you think we are from the closest nightclub?”





Chapter Three


Brie





My career in gymnastics started in ballet. At the ripe age of three, my mom enrolled me in my first class. She said it was because I already had an affinity for dance, though I actually think it was because the ballet studio had free classes for toddlers on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

For four years, I danced my little heart out, and for four years, I walked out of my ballet class and passed the gymnasts practicing on the other side of the building. A glass partition separated me from them, but I’d lean close and smudge the glass with my nose. Whereas the ballet studio was quiet and stuffy, tinted in a pale pink hue, everything in the gym was loud and painted in color—bright leotards, bright mats, bright smiles. I’d watch the girls tumble across the floor, tipping into back walkovers and back handsprings. They’d finish and get back in line, giggling with friends, and I found myself longing to be one of them.

I was seven before I yanked on my mom’s hand and pointed through the glass.

“I want to do gymnastics.”

She laughed. “But Brie-bear, you’re so good at ballet!”

I shook my head as I watched another girl tumble across the floor.

“Yeah, but…” I pointed again, hitting the glass with my finger. “I want to do that.”

It had taken major convincing. My mother had dictated that if this was truly my decision, I would need to walk into Mrs. Perry’s ballet class all on my own and announce to everyone that I was quitting. She assumed I wouldn’t have the nerve, but I called her bluff. Even to my young ears, the word “quitting” sounded abrasive, which is why I ended up marching up to the front of the class and announcing my formal retirement from the art of ballet.

I wished my dance mates au revior, shed my ballet skirt, and took the mat for my very first gymnastics class. It took five minutes for me to fall in love with the sport.

By gymnastics standards, I’d started late. At seven, I might as well have been a ninety-year-old geriatric taking the mat. For reference, Dominique Moceanu competed in the Olympics when she was fourteen. FOURTEEN. Some kids are still wearing Velcro shoes at fourteen and she was winning gold for her country at the Atlanta Summer Games.

I didn’t let my age stop me though; I worked harder than every girl at my gym, and by the time I rang in my fourteenth birthday, I was competing at the elite level. An injury kept me out of the 2012 Olympic games in London, but two years later, I won all-around gold at nationals and then went on to place first at the World Gymnastics Championships in 2014 and 2015.