Ashlei
Breathe.
Don’t forget to breathe.
Smile.
Don’t forget to smile.
Squeeze.
For the love of God, don’t forget to squeeze.
Reminder after reminder pelts me like rubber bullets as I run through my competition routine one last time. Melt by Shaed blasts from the studio speakers, reverberating off the walls and filling my soul like the sweetest drug.
I’m already dripping in sweat from running the routine full out five times before — in addition to stretching and training tricks beforehand — but I’m still far from nailing everything perfectly the way I want to.
Competition is one month away, and I don’t just want to compete.
I want to medal.
I want to win.
The beat builds as I climb the pole, spinning higher and higher.
Point your toes.
Shoulders back and down.
Core engaged.
I take a deep breath as I extend my legs out in a straddle, holding the position strong before I bring my ankles together to sit with my thighs wrapped around the pole.
One more breath and then I’m letting go of the pole with my hands, relying on my engaged thighs as I lean back and hang upside down.
Laybacks used to be one of the scariest pole tricks to me. But once I learned them, they quickly became my favorite. Not only are they gorgeous and flowy, but there’s so many combinations you can make out of them.
Of course, I maybe could have selected a slightly simpler one for competition.
But where’s the fun in that?
Reaching behind me, I grab for the pole, and as soon as I have it in my hands, I loosen my thigh grip until I’m holding on by my ankles, instead.
Iguana pose.
Smile, bitch, smile. Fight the pain.
On a steady breath, I remove my right hand from the pole, swinging it down below where my head hangs. Then, in what most would consider a miraculous feat, I free my shoulder from the pole and twist my body until I’m turned all the way around and facing it.
My hips come back away from the pole, legs extended in straddle.
And bam — just like that, I’m in my last trick of the routine, a beautifully extended and strong twist-grip Ayesha.
Nailed it.
Distantly, I hear the applause and cheers from the other girls in the studio. It’s open practice time, so everyone is doing their own thing. I asked the instructor to put on my song for the last bit of class, just to get one routine run without my earphones in.
And now, I’m putting on a show.
I come down via a shoulder dismount, crawling on the floor with as much sex appeal as I can manage as tired as I am now. Then, I lie back, arching my back off the ground and staggering my legs for my final pose as the music cuts out.
And the room goes absolutely wild with cheers.
“Holy shit, Lei!”
“That was incredible!”
“So strong!”
“You’re totally going to win!”
I’m still on the floor, propped up against the pole now and laughing as girl after girl comes up to congratulate me. I blush and wave them off, but as I try to catch my breath, I can feel it, the adrenaline zinging through my bones.
I did it.
“Well done, babe,” Karen, the owner of the studio, says to me as she extends a hand down to help me up from the floor. She’s so tall and strong that I feel like a little pixie next to her — even in my eight-inch competition heels.
“Thank you,” I pant. “I’m dead.”
“I don’t doubt it,” she says on a chuckle.
“But let me tell you this. If you can do what you just did in here on that stage next month?” She clicks her tongue.
“You won’t just win first place, you’ll scare off any girl in the South Florida area from competing in the same level and category as you ever again. ”
“Well, that wouldn’t be very fun. Then what would I do?”
“Teach.”
She says the word so easily, so quickly, that I almost think I imagined it. But when I laugh it off, she just arches a brow.
“You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack. I know I would hire you in a heartbeat. Every day I get dozens of emails from new clients. Pole fitness is blowing up, thanks to social media. More and more people want to learn. And honestly, we don’t have enough instructors to teach them all.”
She hands me a towel when we make it over to the cubbies where all our gym bags are, and I swig my water, considering the offer.
“I never thought about teaching before.”
“Well, you’re incredibly talented, and strong. You know the sport. You’ve competed multiple times. And you’ve been through hardship.” She frowns a little at that. Karen is familiar with everything that happened with my last studio.
The memory makes my stomach knot.
“I’m just saying, our clients would be lucky to learn from you. So, if you ever get tired of the competition life, you let me know. And hey,” she adds with a shrug. “You’ll always be a performer. There are shows and clubs around here just dying to book someone as talented as you are.”
I smile. “I think I’d be more apt to teach than to perform.”
“Well, I think you could do either. Or both, even, if you wanted to.”
“I would take a class from you in a heartbeat,” one of the girls chimes in from her pole, and then a chorus of agreement rings out across the studio.
I laugh, waving them off. “Thank you, ladies, but… for now, I just want to get through the competition next month.”
They smile and nod, and then get back to the last of their practice. But Karen leans in, grabbing my shoulder before she whispers, “You’re going to win.”
After a cool down, I’ve got my bag slung over my shoulder and I’m walking out of the studio. I pull my phone out to see a dozen or so missed texts — mostly from the girls checking in on me.
I know they’re worried. After all, I was completely alone on Valentine’s Day earlier this week, and I haven’t even tried to date since everything happened between me and Brandon. The truth is that I’m not ready. And maybe I will be soon, but right now, I just want to focus on myself.
Besides, the new job is keeping me plenty busy — especially with our launch event in the works.
Tucking my phone away, I dig for my keys and unlock my car in the parking lot. And just as I do, I notice a familiar car driving by.
I stop dead in my tracks at the sight of it — the sleek, pearl white Acura NSX. I’d know that car anywhere, and I’d also know just as well as anyone else that there wasn’t another one out there like it.
It’s one of a kind.
Which means there’s no trying to talk myself out of the fact that Brandon is driving by me.
I can’t move, my feet rooted to the cement as I try to see through the dark windows. I know it’s useless, though. They’re tinted so dark no one can see through them — and on purpose.
He’s speeding by, probably not even looking around him at all, just focused on getting home after a long day.
Except suddenly, he slams on his brakes.
The car comes to a squealing, smoky stop right in the middle of the road and a good thirty feet before the stoplight ahead — which is green anyway.
My breath hitches in my throat, heart racing loud in my ears.
Does he see me?
Is he going to turn around?
I’m not sure how long we stay like that — him stopped dead in the middle of the road, me rooted in place.
Both of us watching.
Both of us waiting.
But then a car pulls up behind him, and on this downtown street, it’s a one-way.
He doesn’t move at first, not until the car beeps its horn. Brandon’s car jolts forward, and then he’s speeding off again.
There’s a chance to U-turn at the next light…
But he doesn’t.
When I realize he has no intention of turning around, my stomach rolls, and I shake my head at myself for even thinking there was a chance.
For wanting him to turn around.
I finally will my feet to move, and then I climb in my car and slam the door shut, peeling out of the parking lot with as much fury as I can.
Maybe I don’t need to wait until I’m ready. Maybe the best way to get over Brandon is, as they say, to get under someone else. Maybe a little romp with a stranger would set me right.
With that theory in mind, I head for the bar.