His eyes met mine with a genuine smile, but he didn’t make any moves to explain.

I didn’t really need him to anyway.

He looked back to the ocean, and I followed suit, but when the silence stretched on, I asked a different question that was still unanswered.

“So, why did you bring me here?”

He looked into my eyes again, searching them and my face with an intensity that twisted my insides and lifted my heart as if on a platter.

Another shrug lifted the line of his shoulders, but it wasn’t because he didn’t know. It was a gesture of admission.

“To share it with you.”

I felt uncomfortably cornered, the honesty in his eyes and the soft stroke of his thumb on the back of my hand lulling me into some sort of alternate universe where I was supposed to feel this way for my coach.

His eyes left mine to travel to my lips, and I could feel the pull as my body swayed in an effort to give in.

It was dangerous and tempting, and I scrambled to distract myself with questions that didn’t necessarily need answers.

“Why isn’t anyone else here? Isn’t this the sort of place that would attract a crowd?”

“Most people don’t go to the trouble to find it,” he explained, illustrating his point by asking, “How long have you lived here?”

“Point taken.” And it was. I lived a solid seven miles from here, and I’d never known it existed. I’d gone from one place to another on a plan without any attempts to wander.

“And those of us who do know, don’t ever tell,” he whispered, a wink traveling slowly through the iris of his eye like a wave through the nearby ocean.

“Shhh,” he breathed, the warm air from his mouth sending a shiver across my cheek. “Best kept secret in Southern Georgia.”

I wasn’t so sure.

Because hidden in the depths of my pounding chest, controlled by the softness of his eyes and the warmth of his larger than life smile was one very secret thing.

Something I had to fight to keep at bay, when I lay awake at night, when I watched the flare of his eyes, and under the watchful vision of my father and everyone else involved in not only my destiny, but his—

Want.

Rampant and wild and nearly unchecked, it flowed through my veins like adrenaline and only spiked as each annoying moment of this day ticked on.

The frustration of my unsatisfied longing crept into my coaching as I watched her run through her routine with the same indifference she’d been shoving on me since we’d parted ways last night.

Both things were false and contrived, and I could tell she had to actually work at not caring. Her toes only pointed in half measures, and the extension of her core was completely lacking. She sank into herself instead of pulling herself up out of the Beam¸ and the effect on her appeal was deadening.

Her. The same woman who’d enthralled and enraptured me with her movement on this apparatus for the three weeks prior.

Deep breathing before her dismount, a small line of concentration formed between her arched brows for the first time. Minimal effort put in only when needed.

I was supremely underwhelmed, and for as fascinating as I found her to watch, that was really saying something. The judges would be even less impressed if she didn’t dig deep enough to find some heat. All traces of its previous existence had vanished, the spoils of her effort nothing more than a plastic, lifeless veneer.

As soon as her feet hit the mat, I found my voice. It echoed in the mostly empty, large space, and, still used to being the only one in her world, she jumped at the first syllable.

“Great. Now how about you try doing that routine like you mean it,” I boomed. Her narrowed eyes whipped to mine and my voice turned garbled with gravel. “Like it means something to you.” I held her eyes with the contempt of a child robbed of his favorite toy, knowing on some instinctual level that this was all about me. “Because that version was completely devoid of passion. You look like you’re out for a stroll through the grocery store!”

“Who needs passion when you’ve got more than enough for the both of us?” she snapped in reaction to the crack of my angry voice, stalking from the mat to me and looking menacingly into my face.

“Lower your voice, for God’s sake,” she instructed through gritted teeth.

“What’s going on with you?” I asked, lowering my volume painstakingly and pointedly.

“You’re like a different person today. Cold and detached, and it shows in every move you make.” I couldn’t stop the hurt from seeping slightly into my voice.

“That,” she accused in an agitated whisper, her pointed finger aimed directly at my face. “That right there. That’s why I can’t be open and uninhibited. You make that fucking face, and I nearly forget how to put my left foot in front of my right. And Olympians can’t afford to miss a single goddamn step.”

I tried to rein in the anger and embrace her admission instead. She felt what I felt around her in the same confusing swirl.

Calming my attack and considering my words, I tried to explain that not everything was black and white.

“Being strong doesn't mean you can't be soft. Working hard to meet your goals doesn't mean you can't live. And living a certain way your entire life doesn't mean you can't ever change. Life is fluid. The only way to run yourself ashore is to not follow the change and contour of the curves.”

She shook her head, frustrated.

She wasn’t the only one.

“Listen, Nik. It’s like this.” We’d crept incredibly close to one another at this point, the rest of the gym a memory. Her anger and mine filled the space around us, and her hands moved to illustrated her point as if playing a game of charades.

“I’m already on one high-speed boat, throttle wide open, and the steering wheel pegged. It doesn’t matter if I want to be on another fucking boat, the leap isn’t worth the risk.”

My chest blew back, and my mind reeled that the possibility that she actually thought that was how life worked. That you worked and bled and sweat for one goddamn thing, and any time you wanted anything else you had to choose between it and your fucking life.

“So, what? You’re only allowed to have one thing?” I asked, the concept completely ridiculous in my mind.

“When it takes as much work and doing as this?” Her face and nod were resolute. “Yes.”

I shook me head, resisting the urge to pull out my hair by locking my hands onto my hips. “With all you’re doing, how do you ever make time to dream?”

“Dreamers are weak-willed,” she stated, turning her head away from me and focusing out to the side rather than facing the scrutiny of my eyes. “Instead of working toward concrete goals, they get lost in the fantasy of expectation. I don't think about what I'm going to do. I just do it.”

I softened my voice and attitude, hoping to pull her eyes back in line with mine. “Weak willed doesn't mean weak-minded.” Her head turned back slowly. “Dreamers use every facet of their mind, so much so, their will can't resist.”

The weight of our conversation sagged the line of her shoulders and pulled at the length of her slim neck. Her posture changed from angry to subdued, and trapped under the watchful eyes of an entire gym full of people, I couldn’t do one thing about it.

But as her eyes lifted to meet mine, soft and warm but stagnant, I realized that was exactly what she wanted.

A public scene meant limitations, and yelling between us was expected.

It was our thing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, stabbing me in the heart with one of the most brutal non-breakups I’d ever had.