“You know I know what you mean?”

“Stop repeating everything I say!” she snapped, throwing her grips bag to the ground and cinching her ponytail tighter before slamming both angry hands to her trim hips.

“Sorry,” I fake-apologized, leaning slightly toward her as I spoke for emphasis. “I was just making sure you understood what you were saying.”

The gap between her eyebrows narrowed meaningfully.

Settling my hands into my pockets, I felt my smile reach all the way up to my eyes. “Looks like you think we know each other just a little bit after all.”

“Great,” she mumbled to herself, turning back in the direction of the floor, jerking her bag back off of the ground, and talking as she walked. “An observant smart ass for a coach. Just what I’ve always wanted.”

“Better than a clueless dumb ass, no?” I called to her back as she dropped her grip bag at the side of the floor mat and walked to the far corner. Other coaches and gymnasts looked on with curious eyes, prompted by the volume of my voice, but I ignored them, focusing solely on the slight curvature taking shape at the corner of her mouth.

That tiny change in shape, that small token of humor gave me hope. I’d have her liking me before long.

Surprised at the intensity of the feeling, I jumped when the warmth grew in my chest at the prospect. I hadn’t thought I would care if she liked me, one way or another, as long as she got the training she needed and I kept my job as her coach. But only one conversation in, I found myself wanting it a lot.

And I wasn’t quite sure why.

Waiting her turn in a line of much younger gymnasts, she watched as they took turns tumbling in a cross pattern. It was one in a long list of rarely spoken rules in the world of gymnastics. Put into practice informally at every gym across the country and national competitions alike, each corner took a turn tumbling diagonally from one corner to another. Staggering back and forth from opposite corners gave ample time for a gymnast to clear their corner after completion of their pass with little to no downtime.

Glancing occasionally at the sloppy form of a newly seasoned, almost unbearably young Level Eight gymnast on their full twisting layout, I focused primarily on Callie and the way she watched and waited.

Gymnastics was largely a young person’s sport, and it was that way for a couple of reasons. Not only did the unmarred minds of the youth recognize and react less to innate fear, they also vibrated with unconfined energy. Their bodies drove their young minds to complete each task.

Conversely, Callie’s practiced mind forced her largely uncooperative body.

Leg extended and toe pointed with precision, it reached out in front of her tapping the ground in preparation before her pass.

Her steps were that of ease, but the power of her thighs did undeniable work as she lunged into her round off, whipped through her back-handspring, and set high and tight with her elbows by her ears for an easy and over exaggerated layout.

She was fun to watch, but I could tell she moved in half measures.

I called her over with a flick of a finger, smiling at the answering roll of her eyes. I’d never gotten quite so much enjoyment out of annoying someone before. In fact, I usually bowed down to the unbearable urge to people please.

I couldn’t figure out how this could be so different and yet feel so good.

“What?” she asked when she arrived. Her tone wasn’t one of excitement or avidity for learning. It was one of annoyance.

I felt a flutter in my gut.

Obviously something was wrong with me. Maybe the Chinese food I’d had for lunch was bad.

I shook my head internally, carefully constructing the points of my advice to make sure it came out simple and organized and easy to follow.

“You’re not harnessing the power from one skill to use in another. You need to drive through your toes more, use the energy from your back-handspring to drive you up, rather than wasting it all through your flat feet into the ground.”

She shrugged her shoulder, waved me off.

“It was a warm-up pass.”

She turned to leave, but I wasn’t done, so I interrupted the movement with a gentle touch of my hand to her smooth shoulder.

Her eyes jumped to mine as though zapped by the contact, and a corresponding tingle ran all the way from my fingertips to the depths of my stomach.

I had to mentally coerce my eyes back to normal size and fight for concentration—forcibly remove my hand from her shoulder.

“It doesn’t work like that. Each pass you make forms a habit, and the amount of passes only grows over time. You’ve got a lot of both.”

She looked even more miffed, and at first I didn’t understand.

Then, I did. And I was the one rolling my eyes.

“I’m not saying you’re old. Jesus. I’m saying you’re experienced.”

“Experience is a good thing.”

“It is,” I agreed, which seemed to satisfy her. For about a second. “It can also work against you.”

“How’s that?” she demanded.

“Not all habits are good ones. In fact, a big fucking heap of them are the exact opposite—”

“Get to the point,” she interrupted.

Foregoing any further explanation and succumbing to the fact that she wasn’t going to let me cushion anything with pleasantries, I gave it to her straight. “You’re talented, but you’re completely wasting it.” She started to protest, so I threw up a hand. “Stop being lazy and put some power through your goddamn feet!”

Indignation fired her veins and reddened the brown of her irises. “You watch one pass and you think you have the right to call me lazy?” she nearly shrieked.

Heads turned in our direction. We both ignored them.

“You’re not lazy. Your tumbling is.” She drew in a quick, fury-filled breath, no doubt gearing up to let me have it. I didn’t give her the chance. “And I’ve watched you more than one time. I’ve been watching you since you were a seventeen year old kid competing in your first World’s. Your feet have been lazy the entire damn time.”

“You know what? I think I’m done for today,” she fumed quietly, grabbing her bag from the ground behind her and sparing only one look to the now-gawking crowd as she stormed away.

Unwilling to let a little public confrontation end our first day on a sour note, I followed her, only managing to catch up at the entrance to the locker room.

“Callie! Wait!” I grabbed her shoulder to turn her again, but this time, there was no zap—only a shake to knock it loose.

“I said I’m done for today.” Her face was serious and unrelenting. End of discussion.

I softened my voice and my eyes and tried to understand why she was so averse to advice. Granted, I hadn’t exactly executed the smoothest of deliveries, but when it came to tumbling I knew what I was talking about.

“I’m just trying to help.”

Her face broke slightly, but the words she spoke next didn’t have so much as a crack.

“You said it yourself. I’ve been doing this my entire life—at this level since I was a seventeen year old kid.” Locking her body tight, I watched as she forced the words to clear her throat. “Where were you?” She paused for the briefest of beats and then answered her own question. “Watching me. Maybe I’m not the lazy one after all.”

Then she was gone. Around the corner and into the locker room, safely ensconced in a place where I couldn’t follow her.

I wanted to. But I couldn’t.

Nearly numb from the unexpected encounter, I turned on my heel and stalked across the gym toward the office. Her father, Frank, had requested a meeting after I finished with Callie for the day. An assessment of sorts to see if I was really going to work out.

He had a personal hand in Callie, and despite what I’d told her, the decision to keep me as her coach wasn’t exactly final.