19. Act Nineteen
ACT NINETEEN
I am sweating.
Not the sexy sweat that glistens with a thin beautiful sheen—if that’s even real. I’m starting to question television and movies and humanity. My red Ohio State shirt is soaked.
In two hours—I’ve done pull-ups, sprints, kettle balls, curls, a plethora of weight lifts, dead lunges, jump rope, and now I’m staring at a vertical beam that resembles a stripper pole, but it’s ten times higher and covered in rubber. I already know I’m going to have to climb the pole, my muscles shrieking at me to stop now.
Nikolai breathes heavily like me, hands on his sides, his bare chest glistening with sweat. He joined me on the torture-filled workout. It’s a hellish version of what I would’ve done this summer for gymnastics conditioning.
He really is the devil.
But he claims this is his normal routine, only modified for my height and size and discipline.
“When do…we practice…” I pant and gesture to the aerial silk light-years away from me. “…on that?”
His rolled red bandana collects his sweat, damp strands of hair hanging over it. “When you’re strong enough.”
I’ll be soaring forty-feet in the air without a harness, so I understand his concern. But… “You forget that I do an aerial hoop act every night, and I’m strong enough for that.”
He takes two lengthy strides near me and seizes my bicep. He lifts up my arm and points at the reddish burns that mar my skin, from armpit to elbow. “If you were strong enough, you’d be able to support your entire body weight to avoid this.”
“Hoop burns are normal.” I think. The friction of the metal and my skin is like a version of a rope burn—not the most pleasant sensation. “The other girls at Phantom have them.”
“The other girls at Phantom aren’t trying to join Aerial Ethereal.”
He makes a lot of sense.
“No complaining,” he adds, dropping my bicep. “Rule number one.”
“I was just kindly mentioning …something.” My mind travels away from me, especially as he rests a firm hand on my shoulder. My chest falls more deeply than before—and he seems to notice, eyeing my ribcage. Yet, he keeps that hand in place.
“Use your core.” He rests his other palm on my abdomen. “And climb halfway up. If you can support your entire body weight with just your hand, extending your body away from the pole, we’ll move onto aerial silk.”
I blow out a breath. I can do it. Even though I’ve never done that before— I can still do it. My cheerleader sounds less assured than usual.
When his hands fall, I near the pole, clasping it firmly. One more breath and I make the ascent, using the tips of my toes but mostly my arms, my muscles pulling tight.
Up.
And up.
You can do this, Thora. It’s the lamest mantra in the history of mantras. I know this. But it’s the best one I have. It’s the one I always use, clearly. And still, the overuse doesn’t diminish its effect.
I keep my swift pace, the ceiling closer.
And closer.
Then halfway up, my quads spasm.
No. I try to block it out.
Don’t think about it.
I climb a bit higher, and the spasm clenches my entire muscle, spindling towards my ankles.
A cramp.
Two cramps. They’re not the little ones that I can shake off. It’s the crippling kind—from too much strain and maybe not enough hydration.
“Thora!” Nikolai calls.
I’m hugging onto the pole, my legs wrapped around it. “Just give…me a second!” I shout back, a wince contorting my face. You can do this, Thora James. Climb this fucking pole.
I use my hands to pull my body higher, my legs worthless beneath me. One handhold extra and I stop. There’s no way I can support my weight with one hand. My body is out of commission. At least until the cramping ends.
“Climb down!” Nikolai shouts, his voice pitching in worry, but the severity—the strictness, chills my bones.
I inhale. “One more—”
“ Now ,” he forces. “I’m not playing the fuck around, Thora.”
When I glance at him below, he braces a hand to the pole, standing right underneath it like he’s prepared to catch me if I let go and accidentally drop. His whole no-nonsense demeanor sways me. And I slide down the pole like a fireman or little kid in an indoor playground.
My feet hit the mat, and my knees instantly buckle beneath me. I thud on my ass, and while I stifle the heat of failure, Nikolai towers above my small frame.
“Do you want to be an AE artist?” he asks in a growl.
“You know I do…”
“Then listen to me,” he seethes. “If I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you to get the fuck down, you get the fuck down. Without question.”
I nod tensely, my calf cramping so cruelly that I can’t do much else but cringe and wish for it to stop. I imagine my muscles constricting to the point of snapping, band by band. It’s illogical, but it’s the feeling, most definitely. Pulling and snapping.
With a heavy breath, Nikolai sits and splays my leg across his lap. My quads visibly spasm, and he applies pressure to my thigh muscle, massaging the area. He watches my reaction and my muscles like he’s accustomed to cramps of this nature. I’ve had them, maybe once. When I forgot to stretch. But not this extreme.
He digs his fingers a little deeper in my thigh. I wince and instinctively reach behind me, gripping the pole. I rest my spine and head against it.
“Relax,” Nikolai says huskily.
It’s hard. For multiple reasons. My whole body wants to lock by his closeness, my nerves flapping. “I’m trying,” I whisper.
His brows knot as he concentrates on my legs. My hamstrings suddenly tighten, and a literal cry breaches my lips.
His eyes flicker up to me, just once. And I see something different in those grays—something that causes his Adam’s apple to bob. Without much falter, he massages underneath my thigh, and I reach out and hold onto his forearm.
“Wait,” I say, unsure of whether he’s making it worse or better.
“Breathe normally,” he instructs. “It’ll help.”
I blow out like I’m in a Lamaze class.
With my hand still clasped to him, he kneads my muscles. They slowly begin to uncoil, the pain lessening with his rhythmic movements. My next breath is almost a relieved sigh. “Thanks,” I manage to say.
“You need to drink more water,” he tells me. “And how much are you eating?” His eyes find me again, and they carry this real concern. It’s a new look from him.
“I was on a twenty-five-hundred calorie diet in college,” I say softly, watching his hand move back up my thigh. The gymnastics team had a nutritionist that gave us tips about healthy eating.
“You used the past tense.”
“Well…since I’ve been here, I haven’t been able to really eat…as much.” My voice trails off at his glare.
“When you work with me, you’re on a three-thousand calorie diet,” he demands. “No exceptions. And I’ll start you on a few supplements, the ones that the female artists take in AE.” He pauses before he adds, “I’ll get a copy of their nutrition plan for you.”
Three-thousand calories. I try to add up the cost of eating that much a day.
Plus the cost of new costumes.
Plus rent.
And the down payment.
I already feel sick.
But I have to make it work, somehow.
“I’ll help you stretch and then we’ll call it a day. I don’t want you to pull a muscle.” His hands no longer apply pressure, but they remain on my bare skin, on my thigh. His intense gray eyes graze the length of my legs.
My lungs collapse as silence stretches for an extra moment or two. “…sounds good,” I say to break the quiet.
He turns his head some, like he’s lost in thought.
I lick my chapped lips. “I’m sorry, for before. I should’ve listened to you and come down.”
“It’s not all you. I have a lot I’m dealing with, and I’m just trying to be more cautious.”
I wonder if he’s referring to his old partner or his new one. I haven’t asked about his training with Elena because it’s never surfaced until now. Curiosity overpowers me. “How’s Elena?” I put it out there.
His hands run down to my knee, resting there. “She’s decent.” He chooses his words carefully. “A fast enough learner, but she’s young and not as emotive as…” He stops himself, shutting down some, like he’s drawing up the bridge of his fortress.
“Tatyana?” I wonder.
He nods. “It’s not fair to compare anyone to Tatyana. She was a third generation acrobat and one of the best in her discipline.” He shrugs, unbendingly. It’s probably still raw—her injury and dismissal from Amour. “I shouldn’t tell you this. It’s not important to your training.”
“But it’s important to you,” I say under my breath.
He flashes a weak smile. “Which has no business in the gym.”
Right. “You forget,” I point out, “that we’re already unprofessional.”
He smiles, a real one this time. “I never forget, myshka.” He rises and holds out his hand for me. Without hesitation, I take it, and Nikolai helps me to my feet.