than to allow those words to hold more water than how he used them, but I couldn't help but hear the double meaning. When he said things like that, I think he meant it.
"Okay Kova, I'll stay." I'll do whatever you want.
For the next few hours I stayed by Kova's side. I found it difficult to walk away. When I did, he'd look for me. The thing was, I liked being near him. Not because I was insanely attracted to him, but because he knew what he was talking about when it came to gymnastics and I loved that so, so much. I wanted to see from his point of view. I became enraptured with being on the other side of the fence, watching him coach instead of taking instructions from him. I pictured myself on the greener grass wondering if I could be like him one day.
I liked watching him coach my teammates on what they needed to do at the last minute. I could hear it in his voice how much he believed in them, the way he bent at the hip and clapped his hands when a skill was executed perfectly, or when he made a fist and whispered joyous words to himself. I got a thrill out of it because he got in the zone and his true passion and colors came to life. This was his reason. His eyes lit up, and it in turn made me happy. I watched closely and I listened to everything. I’d followed his gaze and started noticing little things, things I may not have noticed before, and wondered if I made the same mistakes myself. And not just the small wobbles either. The little jerks or bends in the knees of the perfect body line required in elite gymnastics. The hips out, shoulders too low. I thought I executed it right, like I was sure they did. Now I was curious if I looked like them.
Observing them made me more aware of myself.
I started paying attention to other gymnasts warming up and picked at their routines. Every little thing mattered. Something as stupid as an undergarment showing could cause a slight deduction. I saw split leaps not reaching exactly one hundred and eighty degrees. Legs separating when transitioning to the high bar. Knees separating in a double back tuck. And sometimes there were deductions for the legs not parted enough. Missed connections on the beam where the gymnast is required to complete a series of skills without breaking between them, no step or stopping or balance check. And another mistake I noticed was taking a long pause before attempting another skill.
An over-the-top, angry voice jolted me from my observation. I leaned over and glanced down the runway, spotting a coach bent over with his hands on his knees as he yelled at a gymnast just inches from her face. Spit flew from his mouth when he spoke and she flinched. Her eyes dropped to the floor, color filled her pasty white cheeks. I was embarrassed for her. I'd been yelled at in the gym countless times, but never at a meet. She nodded her head and walked past the coach.
The young girl, who looked no more than twelve at most, mounted the low bar. I scrutinized her routine while her coach shouted from the side of the bars. Her shoulders were closed when they should have been opened, her posture was horrible, and she struggled to extend her handstands. Her amplitude was low, easily a deduction, and it made my stomach drop because I freaked she was going to hit the bar on her way down. This was not the kind of emotion one looked for while watching gymnastics. This terrified me. She cast to a handstand and completed two giants before tapping so hard on the second swing that she used her hips to gain power for the dismount. It's not something easy to spot by the untrained eye, but it was obvious to me when she dragged her toes coming down and whipped her hips hard.
The bar ricocheted as she released, echoing throughout the gym. She completed her dismount but took a huge step, her knees dropped to the floor. I sucked in a breath at how awful her landing was and the fact that her coach was no doubt about to lay into her. But those knees hitting the mat was a massive deduction, and all because she didn’t get enough power and height when she