Chapter Twenty-One Ella
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ella
I don’t know if I should text him, ask if he’s coming to Skyline again soon. Or if I should wish him good luck for his game tomorrow. Or, in the meantime, if I should just pretend nothing happened at all.
I’m new to this stringless thing. I want him, but I don’t know how to say that without sounding desperate.
Gabi says I need to carry on with business as usual. And when I have the urge to meet up, I simply ask him—no expectations, no complications. It sounds easy enough, like shifting gears to detach emotions from actions.
I shake off any lingering doubts to refocus on the here and now.
The familiar scent of the gym, the sound of squeaking trainers, and the rhythmic thud of bodies hitting mats—it’s grounding.
I’m mid-stretch when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls me back.
I don’t need to look up to know who’s joining me.
“Hey, El.” Ash grins, plopping down on the mat beside me. “How’s it going?”
“Peachy,” I say, managing a small smile as I reach further into my hamstring stretch. “How about you?”
“Excellent. I’ve been plotting for Daytona,” he announces, his grin widening.
That gets my attention. I pause mid-stretch, intrigued. “Oh? Tell me more.”
“Yeah, already cleared it with Coach Morgan,” he says, clearly pleased with himself. “We’re officially entering.”
“We are?” A bubble of excitement mixes with my nerves. “I’ve been biting my nails over the deadline.”
He chuckles. “January fourteenth. Got it memorized?”
“Like the back of my hand.”
Here’s the kicker, though—to qualify means to submit a video for partner stunts by that date.
It’s a big deal, a slice of the competitive spirit I thrive on.
For those forty-five seconds of tape, we have to be flawless.
And while the full team will gear up after winter break, partner stunts need a sharper, earlier focus.
“Morgan said four pairs from Whitland are throwing their hats in the ring,” he says. “Claire and Evan, of course. But also Paige, Tailor, Cove, and Malik. We’ll start doing extra practices to make sure we’re ready.”
The thought of competing, of performing partner stunts on a stage like Daytona’s, pushes some of the fog from my mind. There’s something concrete to focus on, a welcome distraction from everything else.
Channeling my energy into this is just what I need, I think, to regain my footing.
“And us?” I ask, glancing at him.
“And us,” he confirms, his smile growing. “We’re in this together. It’s my first time doing partners, too.”
“Brilliant,” I say. “Two rookies.”
“Luke said he’d spot for us.”
“Perfect.”
“You want to stay after and talk with Morgan about the routine?” he asks. “Get some things clarified so we know what to focus on at Skyline later?”
“Yeah, it’s a deal.”
The rest of our regular practice goes by rather quickly. Another workout that leaves me achy and satisfied, the fullness of my muscles betraying how much I’ve pushed myself today. Not to mention the buzz of competition season that’s already building in my veins.
After everyone else clears out, Ash and I make our way into Coach Morgan’s office. Trophies gleam from overloaded shelves, flanked by teetering piles of strategy notes and dog-eared training schedules, each item telling a story of victories hard-won.
Morgan looks up from her desk, her eyes sharp but her Southern drawl smooth as molasses when she speaks. “Ash, Ella, come on in. Shut the door behind you.”
We comply, and it’s a bit like we’re stepping into the principal’s office, despite being here on a completely voluntary basis. Morgan gestures to the two chairs in front of her desk, and we sit.
“Now,” she starts, steepling her fingers and fixing us with a look that could command tides, “I’ve been hearing good things. Ash, your lifts have gotten stronger, and Ella, your aerial flexibility is top-notch.”
Pride flutters in my stomach but I stay silent, knowing there’s always a “but” coming.
“However,” she continues, “we need to sharpen those transitions. Make them seamless. For Daytona, judges will be looking for fluidity just as much as they’ll be eyeing your stunts.”
She turns her computer screen towards us, showing us a list of stunts.
“Here—” she points at several marked sections, noting a double up and one-arm rewind.
“These lifts—I want you two to focus on them. Perfect these first and pick a few more stunts to incorporate. Nail them down individually so, when we put it all together next month, they’re second nature. ”
“And Ella,” she adds, turning her gaze directly to me, “I want you to focus on your dismounts. They’re good, but I want them flawless. No hesitations. You need to land like you mean it, every single time.”
Her intensity is as daunting as it is motivating. “Understood,” I say, nodding earnestly.
“Good.” She leans back in her chair, her demeanor softening just a touch.
“I know you can do it. Both of you have the potential. Don’t just reach for it—grab it and make it yours.
We start putting it all together next month, but for now, focus on these key pieces in order to qualify.
I’d like to see at least two pairs from Whitland on the roster this year. ”
“Yes, Coach,” Ash says.
As we leave her office, Ash nudges me playfully, his smirk all mischief. “Better work on those dismounts, huh?”
Rolling my eyes, I bump my hip against his, mocking irritation. “Be quiet.”
“Come on, El,” he says. “You gotta land like you’re not just flirting with gravity but committing to it.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not much for commitment these days.”
His laughter bounces off the walls, filling the empty hallway with its echo. Then, leaning in, he gives me another nudge, this one loaded with implication. “You know what she meant by two pairs, right?”
I feign ignorance, adjusting the strap of my gym bag as if it’s suddenly the most complicated task. “Spell it out for me?”
“Claire and Evan, and then us,” he says, eyes alight. “She thinks we’re up there—same level.”
“That seems a bit presumptuous. This will be their third year competing,” I say, though I feel a flutter of pride at the thought.
He shakes his head, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely contained glee. “Nothing presumptuous about it. We’re solid contenders.”
The implication hangs between us. It’s one thing to participate; it’s another to be considered among the best, expected to perform at the level of seasoned competitors like Claire and Evan.
“But we’ve only been training together for a few months.”
Ash just shrugs his broad shoulders, as if it’s no big deal. He’s always so calm and collected, even when I can feel my heart thumping like a drum in my chest. “You’re a natural.”
I roll my eyes at the compliment, though inside I’m glowing. The idea that Morgan—our hard-nosed veteran of a coach—thinks we have a shot at qualifying for Nationals is both thrilling and totally bonkers. Last year, only the top twenty-two pairs from across the country earned a spot at Daytona.
Somehow, in the short time I’ve been here, I’ve managed to stand beside one of the best bases in the college circuit, surrounded by the most talented team I’ve ever been a part of. I swallow hard, trying to push down the lump forming in my throat.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I finally manage to say, adjusting the strap on my bag again. Ash grins at me, his eyes twinkling with confidence. For a moment, it’s infectious.
And then there’s a noise at the far end of the hallway: the sound of sneakers against a polished floor.
We both turn to Hudson emerging from the gym, dark hair clinging to his damp forehead.
He’s in workout gear, muscles outlined in sharp relief against the tight fabric of his clothes.
The sight has me taking a quick breath, the anticipation tugging a smile onto my face.
“Hey, Davies,” he calls out, his voice echoing through the empty corridor. He has a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, slate-gray eyes focused on me.
“Ella,” Ash nudges me lightly with his elbow, a knowing smile dancing on his lips. “Looks like Mr. All-American is headed our way.”
I haven’t had the chance to tell Ash about our little tryst. Nor have I had the nerve to fully address it with Hudson, either. Ash seems to catch on quickly, though, and, with a chuckle that suggests he knows more than he’s letting on, claps Hudson on the shoulder.
“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” he says before he saunters off down the corridor.
Hudson watches him go, then turns back to me. He lightly kicks at the toe of my shoe, a playful gesture that elicits a quick, nervous laugh from me. “Good to see you outside of class,” he says.
“Mm-hmm. Big game tomorrow?”
“That’s right.” His voice is low, a hint of something more lingering in the undertone. “I was thinking I might need to destress beforehand.”
I swallow, something heavy lodging itself in my throat. “Hence the gym.”
“Hence … me approaching you right now,” he counters, stepping a little closer.
“Ah, I thought that was just the gentlemanly thing to do.”
His eyes twinkle with amusement. “Well, that’s true. I’m not allowed to ignore you, nor am I allowed to use your first name.”
“Excessively,” I correct.
He tilts his head, studying me with a curious intensity. “Right, and who determines that?”
“I do,” I assert, lifting my chin slightly.
“Ah, of course. You make the rules here,” he says, still smiling. “Like with most things in life.”
“Sure do.”
“So, what do you say, then? You want to come over after I get cleaned up?”
“Depends,” I say, drawing out the word.
He lifts an eyebrow. “On?”
“Will Sourdough be around?”
His grin widens. “Well, he lives with me, so …”
“Right.”
“Moreover, he depends on me to live and breathe and eat.”
I pause, pretending to consider. “I’m not one hundred percent on this, but I’m fairly certain he could breathe without you.”
His grin fades into a gentle smile. “Maybe, but he’d be so damn lonely,” he insists.
“True,” I say. “A boy without his dad? What a tragedy that would be.”
He scratches the back of his neck, wets his bottom lip. “Must be why I’m so fucked up.”
I don’t want to, but I snort a laugh at his self-deprecation, his raw honesty.
I didn’t realize how much growing up without a dad affected him, and his unexpected openness sharpens our light conversation.
I can relate. My parents never physically left, but emotionally?
They’ve been checked out for as long as I can remember.
It’s a different kind of absence, but it probably leaves similar scars.
I search his face, looking for signs of the boy who shaped himself into the man before me—often guarded, always charming. It’s a jolt, this vulnerability from him, even if cloaked in humor.
“Okay, I’m sold,” I tell him, ignoring the twisting knot in my belly. “Could you pick me up later to bring me to your place? I don’t have a car here, or else I’d drive myself.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Sure thing. But just to see Sour, right?”
“Yeah.” I lightly graze my fingers across his shoulder, press a thumb to the pulse point at his neck. “To see Sour.”