CHAPTER TWO
Pike's Gym is on fourth, a converted warehouse wedged between a hardware depot and a block of storage units. It's not in the most salubrious of locations – there's a reason Sasha won't let Payson leave by herself when they've had an evening practice – but Payson finds the old gym more endearing than inferior: the worn but scrupulously maintained equipment; the scratched graffiti on the lockers commemorating years before she was born; the shadows that blur the corners the lights don't quite reach after sundown. Two years ago, she would have scorned trading the gleaming Rock for a training facility long past its heyday; now, she finds the faded posters and puckered tiles in the vaulted ceiling sort of comforting. Perfection is not a concept she can relate to anymore, not with a back marred by scars.
Payson drops her arms from the dismount salute, brushes her hands together to dislodge some of the hardened chalk and blows the air out of her cheeks. "I swear this used to be easier."
It's a few days after World trials and Payson is trying to ignore the voice in her head jeering that with every mistake she makes, she's surely reinforcing Sasha's decision to leave at the end of the month.
Sasha's sitting at the side of the mat in a chair he found discarded in the loading bay of the hardware depot the first day they arrived at Pike's. Nursing a mug of tea, he makes a circular motion with one finger as he takes a large gulp.
"Does that mean do it again?" Payson glares.
Sasha nods as he swallows. "And square your shoulders."
Looking back at the four and a half inch piece of wood that's proving to be the bane of her existence today, Payson kneels back onto it, stands, executes a single spin, pauses, completes a double spin, breathes deep, then attempts the triple version. The first two revolutions she manages - if a little shakily - but the the third twirls her entirely off balance and she connects with the floor ass first. Slapping the mat half-heartedly and pushing herself back to standing, Payson sighs again. "Definitely used to be easier," she concludes, turning to the beam and running a finger along the beige suede covering.
"Payson," Sasha summons her attention, which she gives, turning round, hands propped either side of her waist against the beam, balancing on one foot as she lets the wood hold her weight. She's expecting to see his angry Sergeant Major Coach face glaring at her, telling her to do it again and quit complaining; instead, he looks almost bemused. "Major back surgery, remember?"
"I can't use that as excuse." Her face scrunches in disgust at herself. Maybe they should be training more? They have to share the facility with a couple of other athletes, maybe they should see if some of them would trade slots?
Sasha is shaking his head in bewilderment. Payson does not appreciate being laughed at.
"It's not funny," she snaps.
"I never said it was," he tells her, remaining patient. "Payson, your progress these past months has been incredible. Your artistry has developed beyond measure. There's no need to panic; you will get this by Worlds, I promise."
"I'm not panicking," Payson retorts, grumpily. "I'm just," she searches for the right adjective, "annoyed."
"Uh huh," Sasha says, standing up. As he does, the old metal chair groans and paint flakes flick into the atmosphere, adding to the spatter of white already littering the floor. He yawns and wipes the flakes off his jeans with obnoxious disregard for the fact he's sending them flying in Payson's direction.
"Seriously?" Payson raises her eyebrows at the piece of furniture she considers a health hazard.
Sasha shrugs, apparently confused by her warning tone. "It's comfy."
"It's rusty," Payson shoots back, hands dropping to her hips.
"It's vintage."
"It's trash!"
"This is accruing value even as it sits here." Sasha taps the arm and more paint flakes away onto his hand.
"It's accruing mold even as it sits there," Payson snaps.
"I don't think metal grows mold." Sasha's full on smirking, arms folded across his chest.
"Luckily for you, I don't have a flower pot with me right now," Payson warns, referring to the lawn ornament she threatened to pummel him with two nights ago.
"Why, you planning to garden me to death?"
The roll of support tape connects with Sasha's shoulder; not a direct hit but Payson's satisfied with her throw. "You are not funny," she tells him as he pretends to be outraged. Her heart is pulsing hard.
"Uh huh," Sasha says again as he flops down into his chair with an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction at its apparent comfort and scoops up his mug.
Adrenaline racing, Payson shoots one final glare at her coach, then climbs back on the beam. She grits her teeth, steadies her feet, raises her arms, then, on the out breath, lifts her right knee and twists into a spin, bringing her arms together over her head in ballet position. Her body reacts with the a three revolution pirouette. When her right foot connects solidly with the beam, pride bursts across her face.
From his chair, Sasha looks up at her over the rim of his mug, entirely innocent. "See? Told you not to panic."
"Shut up," Payson tells him, her smile still shining.
Training session bleeds into training session and far sooner than is welcome a week has elapsed since World trials. Payson feels a pang of dismay as she calculates there are only two and a half weeks left on her agreement with Pikes' - and with Sasha. This evening's task is not exactly providing reassurance of his intentions.
"So, I've mapped out each Worlds routine and the possible upgrades for London. I know you know these things back to front but it'll save you having to explain everything to a new coach." Sasha is flipping through a ring binder full of his chicken-scratch writing and annotated diagrams.
They're been sitting alone at the kitchen island since they got back from practice, Sasha mostly doing the talking, Payson trying to read any hint on his face of how this planning to hand her over to a new coach is affecting him.
"Makes sense," she nods, keeping her tone as professionally detached as his, or at least trying to.
"It's important they realise everything is mapped out so you can peak at the Olympics, not in Rio, and how much it would hurt you if they forced upgrades at this point," Sasha frowns, gripping the binder tight enough that the veins in his forearms bulge.
"I wouldn't let them change anything."
"I know you wouldn't, but I don't want you distracted by having to defend yourself to some NGO idiot." He's still not looking at her but his agitation is evident.
"I'm used to dealing with NGO idiots." Payson offers a weak smile along with the attempt at a joke but it falls off her face when Sasha finally let's his rapidly moving eyes land on her.
"You shouldn't have to be, at least not by yourself."
Payson bites her lip, every instinct wanting to shout, "then don't leave me!" but she promised - both him and herself - that she would hold to their unwritten contract. She will not ask for his decision until the end of the month, even if anxiety over the answer will shred her insides in the meantime.
"So these leos are actually not bad," she announces brightly, brandishing the World's information packet that was couriered earlier. The seven official leotards selected for the national team members to wear at Worlds are pictured. "Though we will look like walking highlighter pens in this one," she holds up a photo of a hot pink leotard.
Sasha stays silent, watching her. The hanging bulbs illuminating the island cast his deep set eyes in shadow. Payson stills, waiting, the only movement her unsteady breathing.
"Oh my god, that one looks like it's been dipped in Pepto Bismol!"
Payson sits up so fast she almost bangs her head on the glass lampshade.
"Jesus, Becca!" she chastises, as her sister sweeps up onto the empty stool by her side.
"What?" Becca shrugs, "it does."
Payson risks a glance at Sasha, but there's no danger of her little sister being privy to that almost fierce expression she feels oddly protective of; Sasha's demeanour has changed completely.
"This is why I was always glad no one gives a damn what male gymnasts wear," he says, dryly, frowning at the ring binder that is suddenly open again and making some notation with a pencil he's produced out of nowhere, the epitome of calm disinterest.
"When do you get to try them on?" Becca asks, hustling into her sister's space to get a closer look.
"After national team practice next week," Payson answers, one eye on Sasha. When he continues to ignore them, she gives up and turns all her attention to Becca. "I have to have new measurements taken."
"Obviously," Becca scoffs, leafing through the pictures, "your boobs got bigger."
Payson freezes, not sure whether to kill her little sister or herself. She daren't look at Sasha but her traitorous eyes betray her enough that, in her peripheral vision, she can't help but observe he's gone as still as she has.
"They'll probably give you free sports bras if you asked too," Becca continues, oblivious to the grenade of awkward she just launched onto the table. "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you guys about. Wait here!" She drops the World's packet and jumps down from the stool, disappearing towards her room.
In the ensuing ten seconds - where all she can hear is the word 'boobs' echoing in her ear - Payson almost wishes a car would pick now to crash through their living room.
"So what did you want to talk to us about?" It's Sasha who speaks when Becca returns, laptop in hand, putting down his folder as if he's only just tuned into the conversation. Payson's certain she's the only one of the Keeler sisters who notes the spasm of his jaw.
"I've made Payson a social media action plan!" Becca taps off her screensaver and a word document appears.
At this, Payson does trade looks with Sasha, and finds the same incredulous expression she's pretty sure she's wearing.
"What's a social media action plan?" The words are awkward in Sasha's mouth as he climbs off his seat and takes up position behind Becca so he can look over her shoulder. "And keep in mind I'm an old man who remembers what dial up sounds like when you answer that."
"You're not old," Payson retorts and immediately wishes she hadn't. Luckily, Becca starts in on her explanation before Payson's forced to ponder her reaction to Sasha's age.
"So, like, loads of athletes do twitter and instagram and youtube and everything and I thought since there's so much chatter on the gymternet over what happened at trials and where you're training now it would be a great way for you to set the record straight." She scrolls the cursor, revealing lists of suggestions for account handles and content ideas.
"Ok, I understood about five words of that," Sasha admits, then peers at the screen. "A thread discussing what a bitch Ellen Beals is," he reads, coughing to mask a chuckle.
"It's the gymternet's opinion, too!"
"Gymter-what?" Sasha glances between the sisters but Payson's preoccupied with reading the - very detailed - ideas for using social media to document, as Becca has titled it, Payson Keeler: Road to 2012. Payson has never kept a diary and really doesn't want to start one now, especially one that would be accessible to everyone with an internet connection.
"You don't like it?" Becca's face, so open and bright and loyal, starts to crumble.
Payson is flexible enough to kick her own ass and she's tempted to do it now. She leans over in her seat and slings an arm round her baby sister's shoulder, raking up some enthusiasm. "It's awesome, Becca, seriously; you just surprised me, that's all."
Becca beams and snuggles into her big sister's embrace, sighing in what Payson realises - unexpectedly - is relief.
I make her nervous, she thinks, a little stunned.
"Seriously," Sasha is re-reading Becca's words, though his bewilderment shows no signs of abating. "What the hell is the 'gymternet'?"
The Keeler sisters shared laughter ripples through the kitchen and Payson tries to ignore the pang of pain at the knowledge that in two weeks, Becca's first tweet could very well be announcing the departure of Sasha Belov as her coach.
