Return to You (Letters to Nowhere #3)(4)

I hear Nina call an end to our practice, but I’ve already decided I’m not leaving until I hit a routine. Standing in front of the low bar now, feeling all the watchful eyes of kids we’ve been signing T-shirts and leotards and grips for all week long, makes it feel like the room is shrinking and the walls are caving in. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and forcing myself to focus.

This time, I make it to the layout Jaeger, near the end of my routine, before screwing up. That’s what sucks about this particular release; missing it usually means landing splat on your stomach, falling straight down from the high bar. It also means a whole different kind of gasp from the crowd. Not the kind of gasp I’d been hoping to evoke from my performance. I wait until my lungs are able to take in air again before peeling myself off the mat. My eyes stay glued to the ground while I’m rechalking, but a pair of dark-skinned arms are now invading my space. TJ’s hands cling to the sides of the chalk bowl.

I’m so not in the mood for his taunting.

I peel back my grips, wincing from the chalk hitting my stinging hands. I’ve got two new rips on each palm, one is about to get bloody, probably on this next turn. I blow gently on them to stifle the sting.

“God, that’s nasty.” TJ leans in to get a closer look. “Are your hands supposed to look like that?”

I roll my eyes. “I guess performing all your tricks on soft carpet made you squeamish when it comes to real gymnast hands.”

Stevie comes up beside me and laughs. Of course she’s fully supportive of any and all TJ bashing. I’m starting to wonder if she’s got a crush.

“I think your hands are spending more time off the bar than on, so don’t get too cocky, Campbell.”

I glance sideways and spot Jordan on the floor helping two other coaches lead warm-ups for a group of at least a hundred campers. I wonder what he’d think of TJ’s taunting? With the exception of today, I’ve mostly had fun with it.

I turn my attention back to TJ. “My hands are off the bar so much because my release moves are so freakin’ high.”

TJ snorts back a laugh. He does that a lot in the gym, I’ve noticed. “Prove it. I’ve seen lots of letting go but not much catching. I may not be a ‘real gymnast,’ but I’m pretty sure the goal is to the catch the bar.”

If there weren’t a hundred children nearby I’d totally stick my tongue out at him right now.

“Come on, Karen,” Stevie says. She’s standing in front of the low bar, chalking it up for me. She wants to see TJ shocked. So do I, but I’m not sure that’s possible today.

I place my fingers back through the holes in my grips and tighten the buckles at my wrists. My entire bar routine seems like such a daunting task, so I only allow myself to think about the very next skill and nothing more. I make it through my mount, circling skills on the low bar and my Shaposhnikova, which is a release that shoots you from low bar to high bar.

“Look at that,” TJ says, from beside the bars. “She can catch the bar.”

His comments only fire me up more, giving me energy I didn’t have seconds ago. My Hindorff release is super high and I manage to catch the bar this time, and then follow it up by hitting my transition back to low bar. Right before my layout Jaeger release, I hear TJ say, “You’re barely getting any air time, Campbell.”

I’m practically laughing inside my head as I fly way above the bar and then catch it perfectly. This is the routine I’ve been busting my ass all morning to get.

During my full pirouette on high bar, TJ’s commentary is limited to, “Girlie move.”

I’m one dismount away from the uneven bar routine of my life. I twist into a blind change, prepping for my dismount—a double front with a half turn.

“I bet Mommy and Daddy bribe you with new cars and shit like that for every routine you make.”

My stomach sinks and I miss a beat holding the high bar far too long. My momentum is headed inward and there’s not even a millisecond to process what’s happened before my forehead smacks hard against the high bar, my body is headed at a funky angle toward the mats underneath the bars. My arm is sticking out. Sensing a broken limb in the very near future, I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for the fall.

But the hit never comes.

A soft arm wraps around my waist, and the body attached to it is forced down to the ground with me, but breaks my fall.

My heart is beating like a caged wild animal. I’m dizzy from the blow to my head. I’m humiliated by the fact that I should be on my feet and yet I’m sprawled out on the mats. Again. But none of those feelings are what causes me to break down. The hollowness in my chest, the sensation of being punched in the gut is what’s causing tears to spring to my eyes.

TJ is the one sprawled out beside me. He’s wide-eyed now, both of us sitting up, and him taking in my shaking hands and legs, the tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Holy shit, you gave me a freakin’ heart attack.”

Both Jordan and Stevie are now in front of me. And yes, there’s a throbbing in my head but that’s not why I can’t breathe, why I’m suddenly sobbing so hard I can’t speak.

“What’s wrong?” TJ says, panicking. “Are you hurt?”

“She hit her head, you idiot,” Stevie snaps, “Of course she’s hurt.”