Chapter Sixteen Ella
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ella
I slide into a seat in the front row of my anthro lecture.
Today, we’re diving into the role of language in shaping urban identity, a topic that overlaps with my History and Modern Languages course back at Oxford.
I’m particularly keen on the topic, as my dissertation explores how language policies influence social integration in European cities.
When Hudson finally strides in, my heart does an unexpected little leap.
I offer him a small, hopeful wave, silently wishing he’ll choose the seat next to mine.
After all, he’s the one who initiated this budding friendship, joined me at my gym session, and reached out last night when I found my ex waiting at my place. He even called me when I asked him to.
Instead, he just smirks—a flash of mischief in his eyes—and heads to the same spot he claimed on Monday, directly behind me. Disappointment settles in my stomach, but I force my focus back to the front of the room.
Professor Myles launches into his lecture. I’m furiously jotting down notes, intent on catching every minor detail. And I’m doing a damn good job of it until a slight tug on my hair interrupts me. I stiffen, brush it off, and try to refocus.
But when it happens again—a gentle yet unmistakable pull—I can’t overlook the distraction. I half-turn, my heart stuttering—not from irritation but from a desire to confront him.
“Stop it, will you?” I ask quietly.
Hudson’s voice is low in my ear. “Just making sure you’re still awake.”
I roll my eyes, slightly amused. He’s got some nerve. He’s the one who rocks up late, and then he starts messing with me during the lecture. I should be annoyed, but instead there’s a warm tingle spreading through my body.
“Would you kindly stop fucking around, and actually pay attention?” I hiss.
“Got it, boss,” he whispers back with a two-finger salute, that familiar deep baritone sending another unwanted shiver down my spine.
Everything is peaceful for a while. But then, not surprisingly, he does it again—this time more gently, twirling a small strand of my hair around his finger. It’s distracting, disarmingly so.
The soft motion pulls me out of the lecture and down a memory lane lined with the scenes of my childhood bedroom, where my mum would spend ages brushing my hair. I remember begging her to do it again when I was a bit older, but she’d only sigh and say, “I don’t have time, Ella.”
Now, as Hudson’s fingers gently twist through my hair, it’s unnerving how much I find myself enjoying it.
The lecture continues, but I’m barely registering the words. My mind is caught between bittersweet nostalgia and the present. The tendrils of hair fall softly back into place as Hudson finally withdraws his hand, and a part of me mourns the loss.
So, when Professor Myles shifts gears, directing us to break into discussion groups, I’m embarrassingly unprepared. I turn fully now, facing Hudson with mock exasperation. He’s grinning, handsome as ever, totally aware of the mischief he’s caused.
“So, what do you think?”
I stumble over my words. “I, uh …”
His smile widens. “You have no idea what he asked us to discuss, do you?”
“I do know,” I say sharply, trying to salvage some dignity.
“So, you don’t need me to tell you, then?”
I shuffle my papers, buying time, then finally cave. “Okay, fine. What do we have to do?”
He leans closer, his voice dropping. “We’re discussing the personal impacts of urbanization. How cities change us, inside and out. Kind of like … how this place might be changing you.”
“Right, well, thanks,” I murmur. I turn back to the classmates beside me who are already engaged in the discussion, and try to join in. But my mind is elsewhere—on how I’m sitting here in Nashville, an ocean away from home, with a boy who twirls my hair during class.
Once the lecture wraps up, I shove my notebook into my bag, my brain still buzzing.
As I rush for the door, Hudson easily catches up.
He brushes against me, his hip bumping mine, a lazy grin on his face.
“See you tomorrow night,” he murmurs, his voice a low promise.
He’s talking about Skyline, and the thought of that alone is enough to bring a smile to my face.
“Sure,” I say. “Don’t waste my time, Fox.”
His gray eyes sparkle. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I turn, trying not to betray how much I’m looking forward to it. How I’ve been dying to see if he can still land a basic roundoff.
A lot of tumblers would argue that the skill is simple, a basic, anyone-can-do-it kind of move. But in cheer, especially at the competitive level, the truth is a world apart.
A perfect roundoff is the gateway to more advanced tumbling.
It sets the stage for everything that follows—the transition into back handsprings, tucks, layouts.
Without a solid foundation, you can’t expect to have good technique.
It’s about feeling the movement through every muscle, understanding how a slight change in hand position or a firmer push from the legs can alter your entire flight path.
This focus on details, on getting the basics down to an instinctual level, is what separates a good tumbler from a great one.
When you’re flipping through the air, trying to pull off a double back tuck, it’s that ingrained knowledge, the muscle memory of your body in motion, that lets you adjust midair, correct a poor takeoff, or tighten your form for a clean landing.
I’ve never considered myself to be one of the greats, but I know what it takes to get there. My focus is, and always has been, on being the best flyer I can be. And while tumbling isn’t my primary role, I can certainly perform when I need to.
Once clear of the anthro hall, I head towards my world history class on the opposite side of campus. The brisk walk helps clear my mind, and by the time I slide into my seat in the lecture hall, I’m ready to switch gears.
After class wraps up, I grab a quick coffee and head to cheer practice at the athletics building.
There’s a certain buzz in the air as the regular season picks up momentum, and I’m instantly swept up in the excitement of it all.
Back home, being part of a team was where I shone brightest. I wasn’t just a member; there were moments I led, developing new routines and rallying spirits.
Here at Whitland, it’s different. I’m not leading, but I’m absorbing—learning new dynamics and techniques altogether.
Yet, it’s the open gym sessions at Skyline that really capture my imagination.
They’re less structured, more experimental, a place where the thrill of cheer isn’t just about the performance but the practice, the gritty, sweaty work that happens away from the crowds.
Still, being here with the squad has its charm.
I’m gradually getting to know everyone’s attributes—Gabi’s relentless optimism, Sammy’s sharp wit, Ash’s focused intensity, and Luke’s easygoing charm.
They’re a good group, and even though some either stare a bit too long or avoid eye contact completely, I respect their talent.
Claire, despite her standoffish ways, is undeniably one of the best.
As I settle next to Gabi on the mats, Coach Morgan calls us to attention.
“Alright, everyone, today we’re going to focus on cleaning up our formations,” she announces, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space of the gym.
“I want sharp movements, tight lines. Remember, precision is just as important as power.”
I nod along with the others, mentally preparing for the grueling session ahead. No longer relegated to the spirit squad, I’m now switching between competition practice and game-day routines, which definitely keeps things interesting.
Right now, we’re laying the groundwork for the competition season, which will ramp up during the winter once football and basketball seasons wind down. It’s a shift I’ve been eagerly anticipating.
Once warmed up, we break into smaller groups to focus on specific elements of our game-day routine. I join some of my teammates, including Ash, to work on a basket toss. There are three groups of us—three flyers, three bases, and three spotters working on synchronizing our row.
I’m on the right, Claire’s in the center, and another flyer, Hannah, takes up the spot on the left. Coach Morgan stands to the side, clipboard in hand, her voice carrying clearly across the gym.
“Timing, everyone! We lift on three,” she calls out, her eyes scanning our alignment. We nod and take our starting positions, the tension palpable as we all focus on perfecting this move.
“One, two, three!” I lift myself into the basket, and then Ash and the other bases thrust upward for a toe-touch basket toss. My feet leave the mat a fraction too soon, my ascent slightly off from Claire and Hannah’s, and I land just ahead of them. Claire flashes a look of disdain my way.
Brushing off her glare, I reset for another attempt. “Let’s clean it up,” I murmur to Ash and our spotter, tightening our huddle. “We’ve got this.”
We line up again, the count starts, and this time my lift feels more in sync—at least until the peak. I didn’t ride the toss long enough and hit the toe-touch too early. The moment we’re back on the mat, Claire shoots me another sharp look, frustration written in the knit of her brows.
There’s a beat of silence as we regroup, and then Coach Morgan’s voice cuts through, firm but encouraging. “Again, team. Focus on the count. Everyone goes up together.”
Ash leans in, his voice low and supportive. “Just breathe, Ella. You’ve got the strength. Let’s sync it up.”
Nodding, I take a deep breath, finding a moment of calm despite the pressure. We huddle briefly, our heads together, sharing a quick strategy. “Stay tight,” our spotter whispers, and we break, ready to nail it.
“Ready? One, two, three!” This time, our timing is flawless. We rise and fall as one, each flyer riding the toss, hitting the toe-touch at the peak, the execution nearly perfect—except for a slight hitch in Claire’s landing, though it’s subtle enough that only the sharpest eye would catch it.
Despite the improvement, neither Claire nor Coach Morgan seems satisfied. Coach Morgan motions with her hand, rolling it forward. “Run it again. It needs to be second nature,” she says, her gaze stern but fair. Claire’s lips press into a thin line, and she doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes as we reset.
As we prep to go again, and again, the determination to get it right settles over us.
We launch repeatedly, each attempt trying to smooth out the last’s imperfections.
The work is hard, the corrections constant, but with each throw, we’re honing our routine into something sharper, something we can be proud of.
Finally, after what feels like the hundredth toss, Coach Morgan gives a short nod, her expression softening just a bit. “Better,” she concedes. “Remember this feeling, this precision. That’s what we need every time.”
We move onto the next skill, and it’s more of the same. Drilling it in until it’s second nature. By the time practice winds down, I’m exhausted but exhilarated. The intensity of the session, the focus it demanded, are reminders of why I love this sport.
It’s not just the physical challenge, but the mental one, the need to be constantly aware, always adapting and improving.
Gabi catches up to me as we gather our things. “Tough session, huh?”
“Definitely,” I agree, offering her a tired smile. “But good. It always feels good to push through.”
“Yeah, it does.” Gabi grins, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You still want to go to open gym tomorrow night? Or do you want to skip? We have conditioning before, so it’s gonna be rough.”
I shake my head. “Can’t skip.”
“Oh, right,” she murmurs. “Ella Davies, always a hard-ass.”
“It’s not that.” I twist my fingers beneath the strap of my bag. “It’s er—it’s because Hudson’s coming along. He used to cheer competitively. Did you know that?”
She sighs. “Yeah, I was wondering when you’d bring that up.”
“So, you did know?”
“Just since last night. Do you really think Luke and Ash could keep that on the down-low? They texted me pictures as soon as they got home. You had already gone to bed, all solemn and shit, so I thought I’d just wait for you to tell me yourself.”
“I wasn’t solemn because of Hudson , if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No?”
“Definitely not,” I say. “But that’s a story for another time.”
She raises her brow. “Mysterious. I like it.”
A bubble of laughter spills out of me. “Yeah, thought you might.”