Chapter 13
HANNAH
“You’re fucking with me,” Kinsley says the next day while we’re warming up before practice.
I just finished my retelling of the night that I got drunk and married my neighbor who I couldn’t stand until forty-eight hours ago. It’s been twenty-four hours since I found out I’m Mrs. Travis Bennett. To say it’s been a rollercoaster of emotions is an understatement.
“I wish.”
Her brows lift and her eyes widen as she slowly realizes I’m not kidding.
“And you didn’t think to mention this yesterday?!” she screeches. “Holy shit. You’re marr—”
I glance around and she takes the hint and lowers her voice.
“You married him?!” she whisper-shrieks.
I’d said nothing yesterday during our ride to the airport or while we waited in line at security.
Then I’d been saved from an interrogation because we had to run to our gate to make our flight where I sat in the back again next to a tired mother and her screaming baby.
To be fair, I wanted to cry right along with the little, adorable screaming thing but I figured I didn’t deserve to have a public fit.
Kinsley knew something was up, but she assumed I was just spinning about hooking up with him, not that I’d married him.
But this morning, after ignoring her texts all night, she demanded an explanation. I told her everything. Everything I could remember that is.
“Maybe he was just messing with you. The bouquet could have been from anywhere,” she adds.
I trashed the flowers in the hotel on my way to meet up with Skylar and Kinsley before I could examine it too closely, hoping the same thing—Travis was being his usual playful self and messing with me. If only.
I reach for my bag and pull out the paperwork I must have read a thousand times since yesterday.
“I found this in my purse. Plus, there were photos on my phone.” Kinsley’s eyes widen as she takes the paper from me, scans it, likely zeroing in on the same key details I had.
Marriage certificate. State of Nevada. Lawful wedlock.
It’s undeniably my handwriting scrawled neatly in the space next to Travis’s.
I might even be impressed with how legible I was able to sign for someone who doesn’t remember it, under different circumstances.
“Holy shit. You really did it. You married your hot hockey neighbor!”
I deepen the stretch, welcoming the burn of my muscles as a distraction. Kinsley refolds the marriage certificate and hands it back to me.
“Wow, Walsh. I did not see that coming. Also, do I need to call you Bennett now?”
I glare at her since that question doesn’t dignify a real response.
“Wait, did you say photos?!” She’s a little too giddy at the prospect. “Show me!”
“I deleted them.” My beady glare intensifies, which only makes her laugh.
There were only two. One with us holding up the certificate and smiling, and another of us kissing. Both blurry but not so hard to see how happy we both looked.
“Oh, come on. If I didn’t get to be a bridesmaid, the least you could have done is show me a few pictures.”
I groan and place my face down against my knees. “How did this happen?”
“He’s a hot, charming guy and you were in the City of Sin.”
“You should have stopped me.” She’s already explained how Travis and I hadn’t wanted to leave when everyone else was ready to call it a night. She knew I was drunk and likely going to hook up with him, but it isn’t like she could have predicted that I would black out and get married too.
Her smile turns apologetic. “I’m sorry, babe. I had no idea you were that far gone or that you didn’t really want to go home with him. I thought all that back and forth was like foreplay.”
Was it? I don’t know anymore.
“I know. I’m just reeling. I cannot believe I did this.” I look up and into her face, filled with sympathy.
“What are you going to do?”
“Have it annulled, obviously.” Which means I’ll also have to stop avoiding his texts, talk to him like a grown-up, and figure out how to pay for the fees to make it all go away without draining what’s left of my bank account.
She shakes her head, a small smile creeping back into her expression. “You’re an old married lady.”
“Not for long.”
“We should—”
“Don’t say celebrate. Celebrating got me into this mess.”
She huffs a laugh but before she can say more, Coach Rodier enters the gym and calls my name.
The anxiousness I’ve been feeling about the whole Vegas ordeal is replaced by a fluttering excitement.
I get to my feet and give Kinsley one last look. “Wish me luck.”
“Kick some ass, Bennett.”
Coach Rodier starts me on vault. It’s never been my strongest apparatus, but with all the extra practice lately I didn’t think I totally sucked at it. The look on his face, though, tells a different story.
He nods, no hint of what he’s thinking on his face. I start for the end of the runway, but he shakes his head. “Let’s see your beam routine next.”
Confused, but eager to follow his instruction, we go to the beam. I take a few minutes to warm up and then he gives me the go ahead to do my routine.
My mindset isn’t as strong as it could be, switching between events so quickly, but I feel pretty good when I finish.
“Bars next,” he says.
Understanding what he has in mind now, I pull on my grips and chalk up. This is my best event so there’s a little extra pressure to perform the way I know I can.
I catch Skylar’s eye across the gym. She gives me a thumbs-up that I return before pulling the springboard in place.
I start on the high bar. From the second my fingers grip around the cool wood everything else fades away.
Each swing makes my heart race faster. I pull up into a handstand, drop out of it, then release.
It feels like flying. I move to the lower bar.
I’m unable to connect two skills together, but I continue on.
My transition back to the high bar isn’t a difficult one, but I nail it.
At this point in the routine my confidence is soaring. I finish off with the last skills and then dismount, holding on for a clean landing.
I’m ready for his nod and direction before he says, “Floor.”
Am I disappointed he doesn’t have even a single smile or nice word? Maybe. But I don’t think that’s the point today. I’m not sure what the point is actually, but I trust him.
I grab my phone from my bag to play my music.
Wren sent a text asking me to call her later.
I momentarily panic that somehow she knows I got drunk and married this weekend, but more than likely she’s looking to vent about her awful roommate again.
I type out a quick reply to let her know I’ll call as soon as I’m done at the gym, then pull up my floor routine song.
Like the other skills, Coach Rodier stands to the side and watches my routine without any comment or tells on what he’s thinking. I’m feeling strong. Ever since championships in August, I’ve put my entire focus on training. I want it so badly and I feel like I can get there.
When I hit the final pose, I feel good. Confident.
I savor that feeling and then look to Coach.
The only indication that he isn’t all together pleased is the slight furrow of his brows, but he’s not exactly sunshine-y on the best of days so I don’t worry too much until I walk over to him and he says, “We have a lot of work to do.”
He’s right but that’s always true. Being a great gymnast is a constant climb. There is no good enough.
“I’m ready for it,” I tell him honestly. Whatever he wants from me: a hundred tumbling passes, dozens of release moves and transitions on bars, improving my entry on vault, beam combinations until I can do them with my eyes closed.
I wait eagerly for the next direction. Since I joined the gym, I’ve seen what this looks like for his other gymnasts.
Typically, he works with them on one or two skills per day.
He’ll spend an hour with Hope on specific beam skills and then switch to working with Christina on vault drills and then group sessions on tumbling passes.
He doesn’t work with every gymnast every day to allow for choreography or strength and endurance training, flexibility and mobility, and even recovery.
It’s a busy week with a lot of moving pieces that he doesn’t need to micromanage.
Which is why I’m surprised when his next words are to tell me we’re done for the day.
“I don’t understand.” Did I do something wrong? Is he already regretting taking me on as a coaching client? He just said we had a lot of work to do. I want to start now. “It’s not even noon.”
“I’ve seen where you are with each of the events. Stop by Coach Liz’s office on your way out. She’ll give you a complete plan to follow for the next month and we’ll go from there.”
“But I thought…” I trail off because suddenly I wonder if taking his direction is part of the test. “Yes, Coach.”
“Good.” The first hint of a smile appears on his face, confirming my suspicion. I don’t have the heart to ask anything else, but I have a bad feeling that even though I’m following his orders, I’ve just somehow failed at everything else.
Kinsley is busy on beam while I gather my things and head out. It’s painful to leave when every bone in my body is screaming to stay and work on…everything.
Coach Liz is in her office. She smiles when I step into the open doorway.
“Hi, Hannah. Come in.” She waves with one hand as she continues walking behind her treadmill desk. She’s another coach here at Premier, but she focuses primarily on floor choreography and running the administrative side of things at the gym.
There are no chairs in her small office, so I stand to the side.
“Congratulations on working with Coach Rodier.”
“Thanks.” A flicker of the excitement I felt last week sparks to life. It’s hard to remember what a big deal it is while worrying I’m screwing it up at every turn. Or screwing up everything else in my life.
“I’m emailing over your plan as we speak,” she says, typing on her keyboard. “And I’ll print you a hard copy too.”
The printer hums to life and she effortlessly grabs the papers while still walking at a steady clip. I take them from her with a thanks and eagerly look over my new routine. And then frown.
“You’ll also be getting an invoice from the accounting office sometime this week for the added coaching fees. This month is prorated, but going forward payment will be on the first of every month.”
The reminder of the money I don’t have would cause more of a panic if I weren’t distracted by my new training plan.
“I think there’s some kind of mistake,” I say, looking up at her.
She frowns and I hand over the papers for her to look at more closely. She does and then shakes her head. “No, this is what Coach Rodier outlined.”
“But there are no gym workouts.” Not a single time slot for bars or beam or vault or even floor. It’s all general skill work. Weights, ballet, cardio, and high intensity workouts. There’s even daily visualization and meditation time.
Something like understanding settles into her expression. “Sometimes we have to go back to the basics before we can move forward.”