Two thorough scans later, I didn’t find what I was looking for.

She’d said she was leaving, and I’d been in her father’s office for enough time for her to do it unnoticed. I guess a part of me just expected I’d get to have another word with her. Something less toxic. Less heated. Less judgmental—on both ends.

One of the coaches I’d met earlier—Jim, I think—waved goodbye with a smirk on his face.

“See you tomorrow,” I called out in reply. He just shook his head in the affirmative.

Done being watched, I headed for the exit instead of hanging around. My bag was in my bike anyway, and I wanted to be able to change before I left tonight.

The new metallic charcoal paint of my Street Glide sparkled under the parking lot lights as soon as I opened the door. Crickets chirped in the field across the street, and the glow of the nearly full moon cast a shadow on the windshields of all of the remaining cars. Approaching ten PM, a slight sheen of dew had settled on every surface and pebbled tiny drops of water on the leather of my seat.

I’d always been a bike guy, and it had never been much of a weather issue this far south in Georgia. At least not where temperature was concerned. But now that I had a steady schedule and responsibility, I figured I’d need to look into a form of backup transportation when the rain got to be too much.

I lifted the saddlebag open and pulled out my bag, setting it on the seat so that I could focus on the bottom.

I kept a picture of my parents there, young and in love and fresh off the boat from Russia. My father was a dancer and my mother a gymnast. They worked incredibly hard from the moment they got here until the moment they died in a car accident six months ago. Tragic as it was for me, I always took solace in the fact that they went together—for them. A shining example of what made a good team, my father often pushed and pushed until my mother pulled and bent him to her will. He went willingly because it made sense. They were both trying to go the same direction.

There was nothing my father would have wanted more than to follow her to Heaven.

Expelling one shuddering breath, I shoved one hand through my overly shaggy hair and pulled the top of the saddlebag closed with the other.

Grabbing my bag, I headed back for the door and scooted into the bathroom while the remaining stragglers were making their way out.

I changed into shorts and wrapped both ankles, being sure to tape them comfortably tight. I also pulled out my thinner tape and attached my pinky finger—that I somehow managed to break all the time—to my ring finger as a preventive measure, and slipped one of those elastic headbands into my hair to keep it out of my face. Exiting the bathroom, I moved slowly, poking my head out first and finding the lights dimmed to appropriate “we’re closed” levels.

The door only squeaked a little as I let it swing shut behind me, and pulled the switch closest to me back into the on position. The light made a hum, but it was the kind of sound that faded almost immediately because I was so conditioned to its background noise.

I chucked my bag to the side, a dull thud resonating as it hit the floor, pulled my t-shirt over my head and pitched it on top, and sank to my butt on the end of the long Rod floor to do a thorough stretch before I made any passes.

Quiet. Peaceful. Homey.

This was my favorite way to be in the gym—

Alone.

Such an ironic concept for me. I constantly felt it, but I never actually was.

Not until this time of night anyway. It was my favorite time to be here, and usually I didn’t do anything. Just hung out on a mat somewhere and stared at the warehouse ceiling.

But I’d spent an extraordinary amount of time in the locker room tonight. Thinking. Fuming. Considering. And talking myself in circles.

I watched discreetly as girls came and went, grabbing their bags and heading back to a late night of hearty home-cooked food and homework. The late nights were relentless in the life of a gymnast, but so were the early mornings. I couldn’t for the life of me remember a day that I’d slept past six or fallen asleep before midnight. Not one. In twenty-six years.

And I didn’t see it changing.

Pulling my lavender, terry cloth pants out of my bag, I didn’t bother to clean the chalk from my legs before pulling them on. I shut my locker quietly, but the sound of pounding on the rod floor made me jump.

I thought everyone was gone, and my parents normally locked me in on their way out. Creeping around the bench in the middle of the narrow room, I peeked out the door and sank down into a squat so I could see under the beams.

A tan, muscular back stood out against the bright blue waistband of his shorts, and his ankles faded into one big, white blob thanks to the tape. His right hand twitched minutely, the fingers curling into his palm softly, and he bounced on his toes just once before taking two long strides into his hurdle. His round off just barely skimmed the floor, the rods rippling with the force of his whip backs, and he ended with one of the highest, most explosive full-twisting layouts I’d ever witnessed.

It wasn’t a simple pass for the layperson, but he certainly made it look that way.

My earlier words haunted me as though they were an actual ghost.

Maybe you’re the lazy one.

Good one, Callie.

Walking with his head down, he followed the white line down the center of the thin strip of floor on his way back down to the beginning, and the ends of his too long hair flopped forward from the binding of a pretty girly headband.

Nik needed a haircut like I needed an attitude adjustment, but his abs did more than make up for it. Perfectly defined and well-honed with the muscle of a seasoned athlete, I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. They weren’t the kind of muscle a guy got from being in a gym and lifting weights.

They were the kind that actually helped lift stuff.

For him, that meant his body.

For me, it meant I was an even bigger fool for hitting him with the old “those who can’t do, teach” jab.

As quietly as I could, I crept out the door and behind the beams, across the mat in the pit, and settled into the corner created by a standing mat and the wall just next to the bars. It afforded me the perfect view without disclosing my location to him. He didn’t seem to know I was there, and I had no intention of changing that.

I just wanted to watch. To have my moment and let him have his, but spy on him all the same. I wanted to see someone else do the work for my enjoyment, and I wanted to do it in peace. And my hormones didn’t mind the view either.

Disappointment flooded my veins fast and furiously as he stepped off the end of the rod floor and walked over to his bag.

He couldn’t be done, could he?

He’d made two passes for shit’s sake.

That’s more than you did tonight, an evil (read: obnoxiously right) voice chided inside my head.

But, no. Two seconds later the evidence of his intent to continue rang out from his hands.

A slow beat filled the otherwise silent air, and then scratched to a halt as he changed the song. His head bent forward, and that went on a couple of times until he found the one he wanted, gently lobbed his phone on top of his bag, and turned back to the floor.

Panicked, I slid back into my hole and closed my eyes, like that could somehow prevent him from seeing me, and held my breath until I heard the telltale sounds of his feet starting his pass mixed with the harsh melody of a fast and furious Metallica song.

Just the frenzy of the music had my heart ready to beat out of my chest, and I wasn’t even doing anything. I had no idea how he managed to tumble to it. Too scared to look soon enough, I missed that pass and had to wait for him to walk all the way back to this end to start a new one.