Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
MYLO
Two months later
The gymnastics center greets me with its characteristic scent of chalk and sweaty feet.
Blue mats sprawl closest to the entrance, leading to the faded carpet of the spring floor.
A vault runway angles for the foam pit, which cuts the gym like a moat, with the balance beams and bar setups on the far side.
Large windows look in from the offices and party rooms, one of which is already drenched in hot pink decorations; the gaggle of kids before me will head there as soon as I’m done tiring them out.
I deliberately keep my schedule open, which means I’m free for any audition or gig that might pop up. I make most of my money covering last minute for friends who have their own auditions, gigs, or other emergencies.
Grace, one of the first stunt performers I met in LA, texted me late yesterday about covering for this birthday party, and I’ve spent the whole morning assuring a high-strung Dance Mom type that I am in fact qualified to entertain her precious, prodigious eleven-year-old and her gaggle of friends.
When Dance Mom saw me, she caught herself just shy of sputtering, “But you’re a man.”
I think the main reason she relented is that at a slim five-foot-seven, I’m hardly larger than the kids. She watches me like a hawk from the edge of the mats, and I ignore her.
The birthday girl herself is tyrant enough. She crosses her arms, waiting impatiently for the rest of the ten-year-olds to complete their forward rolls.
“Can we go eat cake yet? I’m bored,” she says, tugging at the hem of her hot pink leotard.
I flick a glance at her while keeping an eye on the other kids. “You’re bored? Wasn’t this your idea?”
She glances toward her mother, then turns slightly away, chewing on the end of her pigtail. “No,” she says quietly, pouting. “I don’t want to do gymnastics anymore, but Mom says I have to. She says it’s my favorite, but it’s not.”
“What would you rather be doing?”
The kid’s big brown eyes flash up at me, surprised and a bit wary. I’d wager it’s the first time an adult’s asked her that.
“Riding horses,” she whispers.
“Do you do trick riding?”
Her wariness wavers. “What’s that?”
“Hm, it’s sort of like balance beam except the beam is a galloping horse.”
She keeps her arms crossed, trying to stay cool. “Really?”
I give a casual nod. “Want to learn how to do a backflip off the pommel horse?”
She purses her lips to keep from smiling. “Sure, I guess.”
I beckon the gaggle of kids to come closer now that they’ve finished their rolls. As they meander over, I glance down at Birthday Girl. She lets slip a little smile. On a hunch, I offer, “I could also show you how to throw a punch.”
Her eyes widen, excitement finally breaking through. “Whoa, for real?!”
“For real.”
“Yeah! I want—” She catches herself and clears her throat. “I mean, I guess that’s not completely boring.”
I raise a brow.
Her poker face wavers, and she puts a hand over her mouth to hide her excited giggles as I lead the group over to the pommel horse. I usually avoid showing off at kids’ parties—the kids try to imitate you and that can go all sorts of wrong—but I have something to prove here.
“Alright everyone, listen up.” That buys me a microsecond to keep their attention, so I grab the two pommels and hop, catching my weight with my arms and swinging my legs up into a handstand.
I twist and land on the end of the horse in a crouch, looking down at the gathered children. “You know gladiators?” I ask.
One boy perks up. “They have swords and fight lions!”
“Yeah, sure. Well, they were Romans, and they had some buddies who liked to do fancy horse tricks.” I slap the leather beneath my feet. “So they invented pommel horses to practice.”
A girl pauses picking her nose to ask, “You mean it’s called a pommel horse because it’s for-real for horse tricks?”
“Pommel horse.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder. “Those handles are the pommels. And yeah. That’s what it was invented for. So, anyway. Y’all wanna do a backflip off this thing?”
Screeching cheers erupt from the group of kids, and I plug my ears until they’re done. “Alright, it’s gonna look like this.”
I stand and turn my back to them, then jump from the horse, throwing my head back and pulling my legs in tight.
It’s as easy as walking, finding my mark on the floor and tugging my feet under me at the last second, landing on bent knees. The kids cheer again, and I turn to offer a hand to Birthday Girl. She takes it, and I hoist her up onto the horse.
“Alright, all you gotta do is swing your arms up over your head, jump up, then tuck your knees in. Got it?”
She gives a determined nod. “Got it.”
Birthday Girl stands on the pommel horse and turns her back to the rest of her party. Nerves flicker on her face, and she hesitates as she smooths her palms against her thighs.
I know that feeling. No matter how much chaos is around you, it all fades away. It’s just you, the leather under your feet, and the knowledge of what you’re about to do.
She takes a deep breath, squeezes her eyes shut, and jumps. Her arms carry her momentum backward, and I catch her a bit higher than the horse, smoothly flipping her over and placing her feet on the mat.
Her eyes flash open, and a smile breaks across her face. “Whoa.”
I nod and offer a cool smile. “Well done.” I raise my palm and she slaps it in a high-five.
“I want to go again! Don’t help me.”
I chuckle as I boost her back onto the pommel horse. “I gotta spot you or I’m gonna be in trouble with your mom, but if you practice in the pool, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. This time, keep your eyes open.”
There’s no hesitation before her second jump, and I carefully track her flip, ready to grab her at any point. She’s going to land on her knees—and I make the split-second call to let it happen.
As her legs quietly slap against the mat, she gasps. Out of the corner of eye, I see her mother rushing toward us, and I hold up a hand. By some miracle, Dance Mom hesitates.
Birthday Girl jumps up to her feet, grinning ear to ear. “I did it!” She whirls. “Did you see, Mom? I did it! I did a backflip! All by myself.”
Dance Mom’s expression softens. “You sure did, honey. I just… wanted to bring your water bottle.”
There’s a tug at my sleeve as the next kid jostles for their turn, and I direct the kids into a line.
That keeps them busy for a good half hour, which I more or less spend catching kids and flipping them over.
Few of them have enough skill to do anything but jump and flail, and I take a few slaps to the face, but it’s an easy day by stunt work standards.
Half the battle is being brave enough to try; these kids may go home a bit too brave for their parents, but that’s not my problem.
Birthday Girl reminds me of my promise to show her how to punch, and I grab a loose mat to use as a target.
I guide the kids through some karate basics, which a couple of them already know, proudly bragging about their belt colors.
They have a grand ol’ time punching the mat, and then for the finale, I call Birthday Girl back up.
“Alright, let’s see how strong your punch really is.” I point at my stomach.
Her eyes widen. “For real?”
“Yep. Hard as you can.”
She doesn’t need to be told twice, and her fist lunges at me.
My abs are already tensed, ready for the impact.
I let the hit connect, and she packs a pretty good punch for an eleven-year-old.
I reward her with a dramatic fall, pushing off my feet to jerk backwards, landing on my shoulders and toes to protect my spine.
I wheeze, pretending to have the wind knocked out of me, and hold up a strained thumbs-up.
Birthday Girl absolutely glows, and the other kids shower her with praise.
“I wanna turn!” a kid cries.
“Yeah, I wanna punch you too!”
Over the cacophony of cheering and jumping, I shake my head.
“Sorry guys, you’ll have to come back on your birthday.
” I pretend to shake off the blow, staying on the ground for now.
“Alright, you filthy animals. We’ve got some free-play time.
You can use the spring floor, mini trampoline, and vault. Go crazy.”
The gym’s manager and an assistant come out to help supervise the spread of kids.
Dance Mom comes over as I watch kids launch themselves into the foam pit.
“I have to say… your methods are a bit unorthodox.”
I glance over at her. “Too late for refunds.”
She laughs too hard and shakes her head. “Oh, no no, I definitely got my money’s worth. You have an impressive way with children.”
“I just listen to them,” I say, making a point of keeping my eyes toward the foam pit. “It’s not rocket science.”
“I’m not entirely sure how I feel about exposing my darling Mary Anne to a boys’ event, but… I suppose the skills are transferable. Do you think she has potential?”
“Sure. She’d make a great trick rider. Or boxer.”
Dance Mom purses her lips to hide a frown. I see where Birthday Girl got the tick. “You misunderstand me. I mean as a gymnast. She’s very ambitious, you see; she’d love to be in the Olympics… And she’d need a tutor…”
I internally sigh. I’m not your pool boy, lady.
“Ma’am, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m going to be blunt. She’s a few years behind to be a competitive gymnast even at the local level, and she’s already too tall for the Olympics.”
Dance Mom huffs. “Well, that’s hardly fair—”
“Exactly,” I cut in. “There’s nothing fair about competitive gymnastics. It’s not a good environment for kids. Let her have fun; let her do what she wants. Then maybe she’ll still talk to you when she’s my age.”
Dance Mom stares at me, flabbergasted.
Shit, I shouldn’t have said that.
Then the worst possible thing happens: Dance Mom’s expression goes too friendly, and she bites her lip. “You know, it really is refreshing to meet someone so honest—”
There’s a sudden blood-curdling screech from the foam pit.