AN: We've taken a buttload of artistic liberty with what life is like at the Olympic Training Centre, so just keep that in mind if something seems wildly inaccurate!
Emily did nothing to disguise the fact that she wasn't paying attention to the French lesson.
With a razor blade, she pared down the ragged edges of her palm where the skin had ripped away after parallel bars practice, leaving bloody red rips.
The boy in the seat next to her wasn't paying attention either – but mostly because he was too busy watching her.
Feeling his eyes on her, she glanced over at him, one brow raised pointedly, before she returned back to the painstakingly precise routine of preparing her palms. She took out a nail file next, smoothing and sanding the remaining skin with more care than she'd ever shown to her actual nails which were perpetually short and uneven from chewing them in pre-meet nerves.
Finally, she squeezed a small amount of numbing gel onto the tender pink skin. She would never use it before a meet when every little nerve in her palm mattered, but she had enough time before her next practice that she wasn't worried. It was the only way she was going to be able to hold a pencil for her biology test next period...
Her hands wouldn't be in this condition if she would just use grips like the rest of the girls on the team, but she had trained without them in Russia and now she couldn't quite make herself trust them. She much preferred the feeling of skin to fibreglass, no leather separating her hands from the surface beneath. She couldn't make herself trust that the bars were still there when the sensation was dulled by a leather barrier – it was illogical, she knew, but it had gotten her this far and she was far too superstitious to change anything now.
As she began the process all over again on her other hand – just as ripped and bloody as the first – she could still feel the boy's eyes on her. She turned back to look at him, this time whispering, "There a problem?"
"That's gross," he informed her.
She gave an unladylike snort of laughter. He was right, but she wasn't about to tell him that. "Gymnastics isn't all ribbons and revealing leotards," she informed him.
"Touche," he agreed. "Your hands look worse than mine." He held up his palms to prove it – they were blistered and calloused, but nothing like her own. "Rugby," he explained.
She gave him a nod of respect. "Emily," she offered by way of introduction. She didn't offer a hand to shake (uncertain whether he'd actually want to touch her mangled hands anyway).
"Derek," he replied, flashing her a million watt smile.
Before either of them could say anything further, the teacher approached, speaking in rapid French about how they weren't paying attention.
Emily barely managed to restrain herself from rolling her eyes, retorting in equally advanced French that Derek didn't understand a word of because he actually hadn't been paying attention.
Miffed, but unable to reprimand any further, the teacher wandered away, leaving Derek staring at Emily, mouth hanging open slightly. "How did you do that?" he asked in awe.
"I lived and trained in France for several years," she said with a shrug.
"Oh... Cool," was the only reply Derek could manage that wouldn't have made him sound creepy and weird.
"I guess," she said with a shrug. She flexed and unflexed her hands, testing the tender pink newly exposed skin on her palms. A little stiff, but it would have to do for the time being...besides, they'd just be shredded all over again after practice that night.
Anything else he might've said was lost as the bell rang, indicating the end of class. Like a shot, Emily had crammed all her possessions into her backpack and joined the wave of students flooding the hallways and he was quickly losing his excuse to talk to her further.
"Emily," he called after her, pushing people out of the way, perhaps a little too roughly, "Hey, Emily..." When that failed to catch her attention, he shouted, "Hey, Princess!"
At that, she stopped in her tracks, turned, brow raised in a way that was half irritation, half amusement like she couldn't quite decide which emotion she should be feeling at the moniker. "Excuse me?"
It occurred to him then that he didn't actually have a plan and he stammered awkwardly for a few moments as he struggled to think of something. "Oh, I, umm... I was wondering..."
"Yes?" she prompted, impatient.
"What class do you have this period?" he asked.
"Biology," she replied, turning her back to him and spinning the combination lock on her locker. "And I have a test that I'm going to be late for..." When that failed to prompt further response from him, she sighed rather dramatically. "Is this going somewhere or...?"
"Right," he said, wincing at his total lack of tact. "Could you, umm...could you tutor me in French?" he asked, using the first reasonable excuse he could come up with to spend more time with her. At the unimpressed look she flashed over her shoulder, he explained, "Obviously, paying attention in class is not my strong suit and if I don't keep a B average, my mom won't hesitate to pull me out of here in a heartbeat..."
She turned back to him, biology textbook in hand. "I can't."
"Why not?" he asked, frowning in disappointment.
"Because I can't."
He groaned. "Come on... Give me one good reason," he wheedled.
"Ian won't let me," she said, giving in to him with an impatient expression.
"Oh," he said awkwardly. "I didn't... Umm, I didn't realize you..."
She rolled her eyes. "Ian is my trainer. And he has a very strict rule about extra-curriculars. Especially ones with boys."
"Sounds like a real tyrant," he declared. "You're a kid, you should be allowed to have some fun..."
Emily scowled. "Maybe you have time to have fun, but this is the last year I have any chance of making the Olympic team, so you'll have to excuse me if fun is the last thing on my mind," she snapped.
With that, she turned on her heel and stomped off to her biology class and, he was certain, out of his life forever.