by Jesse Gordon
“What’s that about?” asked Lisa.
“Beats me,” said Monica.
“He looks pissed.”
Britney ground her teeth nervously. “And right before lunchtime, too.”
“Ten ameros says he makes us do a hundred extra push-ups this afternoon,” said Kristen.
The girls watched as Hades pulled out his cell phone, punched in a number. In a moment he was juggling a conversation between himself, Tracie, and whomever was on the other end of the line. The result: a nod from Tracie, something whispered in Hades’ ear. Then she approached the team.
“Britney,” she said, “you’re going to work on the balance beam with Hades for the remainder of this session. The rest of you will be doing bars with me.”
“Is everything all right?” asked Monica.
“Petty details,” Tracie said, looking none too pleased. “Back on task, please.”
The matter was dropped until afternoon training, when, upon the girls’ first stepping onto the lot, it was announced that Tracie would be handling Britney, Lisa, Kristen, and Alana while Hades and Monica practiced alone.
“What for?” asked Monica as she and Hades parted from the group, Kim following several paces behind.
“Today we’re going to work on your falls,” Hades offered.
“My falls?”
“Yes—how to fall without hurting yourself. Jackie didn’t seem to think it was worthy of her time. I hope you’ll be more enthusiastic.”
At first Monica thought he was talking about proper reactive techniques, lessening the chance of injury whenever she knew she was going to fall during a routine.
“Not exactly,” Hades said after she’d pressed for further information. “What I have in mind involves a more…proactive approach.”
He led her across the lot and to a large shed—a spare gym, Monica realized as soon as they stepped inside and flicked on the lights. It was just large enough to accommodate a balance beam and some mats. And it was completely private, no windows, no straggling athletes watching on the sidelines.
She set her bag down, unzipped her jacket. “Cozy, isn’t it?”
Hades had Kim stand outside. He closed the door. “Concentration is a virtue, Monica. Not that I’m in any way doubting your mental disciplines, but I’m going to need your undying attention for the next few hours. No teammates chattering between drills, no boys waiting to gossip with you every time you have a drink of water.”
Monica blushed, finished stripping down to her leotard. She’d thought John and herself had been discreet about their various interactions during training time, but obviously Hades had caught on. She wondered if he was at all aware of their blossoming relationship outside of the gym. If Kim had tattled, or if one of the security cameras had caught them during a make-out session…
“Help me out,” Hades said, ducking under the beam and motioning for her to assist him in dragging one of the mats forward. Once they’d positioned it just right, he dusted off his hands and said, “Now, before we begin, know that anything that goes on in here is strictly between you and me. You will not discuss the skills you learn here with anyone. Not your teammates, not your family or friends.”
Monica nodded, a silent thanks echoing in her head that he wasn’t going to confront her about her love life. “Yes, sir.”
“All right, up you go,” Hades instructed.
Monica complied, mounting the beam, still not exactly certain what was going on as Hades had her do a run-through of her tumbling abilities. After a handful of passes, he began giving instructions—and suddenly Monica knew what he was after. He didn’t just want her to protect herself during a fall, he wanted her to learn how to fall on cue—to fake a mistake and make it look absolutely convincing without damaging herself in the process.
During a break, she asked, “This is what Jackie was whining over?”
Hades nodded. “This is what she was whining over.”
“Fake-outs?”
“It’s how we’re doing things this season.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but unless we’re playing, like, golf, isn’t it pointless to cheat by lowering my score?”
“Who says we’re cheating?”
Monica shrugged. She sensed a scheme in the works, but she had no proof, only circumstantial evidence, an instinct. “I don’t know. It just seems kind of sneaky, training out here alone, learning to fall on purpose—and with you yelling at us all week not to fall.”
“I don’t yell.”
“Sure you do.”
“I give instructions, I offer critiques—”
“At the top of your lungs.”
“I coach.”
Monica raised her hands. “Okay. You coach—but that still doesn’t explain why I’m learning to do fake-outs.”
A sigh from Hades. He’d been standing beside the beam, arms folded, but now he came to sit beside her. “You’re learning to do fake-outs because it’s what I need you to learn. During the course of a normal season I’d have a larger pool of athletes. I’d have the ability to manipulate the roster in order to better suit respective meets. With six girls locked in through Heroes’ Day, that option is lost to me—adjustments have to be made in other ways.”
“Sounds like you have your hands tied,” said Monica.
“The NPAA pulls my strings, I pull yours. We’ll manage.”
“By teaching me how to fall?” Monica shook her head—the idea was still a level or two above her.
“By teaching you how to adjust. Sometimes you fall, sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you keep in the full-twisting dismount, and sometimes you take out the twist. It’s all adjustments, Monica.”
“But—”
Hades held up his hand, pointed at the beam. “No buts. Let’s continue.”
Monica’s stubborn side urged her to refuse, to demand further details, though it occurred to her that Hades hadn’t chewed her out over her dating John (despite having briefly mentioned the fact). He knew—she was certain he knew—and he’d let her off without the obligatory lecture. Trust? she wondered. Or an eye for an eye. I keep his secret, he trusts me not to do anything irresponsible with John. No premarital sex, no getting pregnant.
Hades was waiting.
“All right,” she said, getting to her feet and approaching the balance beam. “Let’s continue.”
CHAPTER 24
“You know how I can tell you’re a gymnast?”
“How?”
“You’re always just out of the shower.”
Monica stirred in John’s arms, opened her eyes a crack. They were curled together on one of the plush sofas in a corner of the NAU lounge. Several other athletes were hanging out as well, talking, reading, doing homework, watching the newsfeeds, playing video games. Every now and then a security guard walked by, glancing, surveying.
“You know how I know you’re a gymnast?” Monica asked.
John put his hand over hers, brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “How?”
“The palms of your hands are tougher than the soles of your feet.”
John chuckled. “Okay. You know how I know you’re a gymnast?”
Monica waited.
“You use chalk more often than soap.”
“Eww…”
“I’ve got more.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“The noise your ankles make while walking alerts people that you’re near.”
“I’ve got one.”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve actually used the words ‘virtuosity’ and ‘amplitude,’ and you know what they both mean.”
Gentle laughter caused John’s abdomen to ripple. “Lots of syllables there.”
“I have another. When you raise your hand in class, you have perfect form, arm straight, fingers pointed and together.”
“You know how I know you’re a gymnast?” asked John. “Your P.E. teacher tells you to do twenty pull-ups; you finish and ask what to do now that you’ve warmed up.”
“I
think I’ll write that one down.”
“In your circle of friends,” John continued, “five feet is considered tall.”
“Humongous.”
“You do your homework in a straddle split.”
“Do you?”
“It’s on my list of things to try before I die.”
Monica closed her eyes again. Across the way, Dean uttered a guttural moan of disappointment as he lost another round of whatever game he was playing.
“So, where did you disappear to today?” John asked after a while.
“My coach had me do some extra credit,” Monica replied.
“I hope it wasn’t anything too humdrum?”
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“You wouldn’t kill me.”
“Well, maybe I wouldn’t, but Mr. Tompkins…he might.”
John said, “He doesn’t strike me as the cold-blooded killer type.”
“No, he doesn’t. I mean, he’s huge—he could off someone with his bare hands if he wanted to—but he’s more like a pro-bodybuilder who’s serving as a night watchman on the side.”
“You think he’s ever killed anyone?”
“What, like this year?”
“Sure,” John said. “A place like Olympus is great and all, but it only works if you have the military infrastructure in place. That includes big, hulking night watchman-bodybuilders armed with guns and the guts to pull the trigger.”
“Do you think he’s ever killed anyone?”
“Probably.” John shrugged. “He wouldn’t kill me, though.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m going to make it a priority not to piss him off in any way possible. In fact, I’m going to start baking him muffins on Wednesdays.”
“You bake?” asked Monica.
“When absolutely necessary—my father’s the cook in the family.”
“How come you’ve never baked me muffins?”
“I’ve never had to bribe you.”
“How rude!”
“Hey, there’s still time.”
Dean shouted in triumph.
“Looks like he finally scored,” said John.
“Yeah,” murmured Monica.
CHAPTER 25
If Hades’ initial lack of interest had been alienating, his absolute, undying attention during the weeks leading up to the Pre-Season Assessment was utterly unbearable. Eight-hour work days were not uncommon, and that wasn’t counting school time. On any given occasion, if Monica wasn’t in the gym, she was, just as in John’s cliche, fresh out of the shower, her hair always wet, her gym bag always slung over her shoulder. Her uber-busy training schedule left her too tired, even, to argue with Hades or Tracie; from eight till noon, three till seven every day she perfected her routines, did her homework, went to bed on time. The few private moments she spent with John involved very little in the way of making out. It was just too much work to train full-time and simultaneously indulge her burgeoning teenage passions now that the attention she’d so adamantly sought was hers and hers alone. Jackie and Britney were no longer the pets; she was, and it was wearing on her, no more so than it would have had she been gearing up for the new season under the Keenes’ direction—but, then, they’d been stewards of their own little niche in Wisconsin.
This, however, was Olympus.
One of Those Days, a week into December: Hades had taken her to the private gym to work with her on her fake-outs—and nothing was going right (or wrong, as was more appropriate). Monica’s body simply refused to mottle the skills drilled into it all morning; Hades’ coaching instinct kept him from accepting defeat even when lunchtime was imminent.
“This isn’t going to work,” Monica said at last, hopping off the balance beam and wiping the sweat from her brow. Her left ankle hurt; there was a smidgen of blood streaking her right shin—a souvenir from a fake-out that hadn’t been quite fake enough.
“It’ll work if you keep at it,” said Hades.
Monica glowered. “I’m going to split apart at the seams—arms, legs, and bits of hair and teeth everywhere!”
“We take a break, then continue until you get it.”
Monica’s stomach grumbled loudly. In the enclosed silence of the gym, the sound was even more pronounced than it might have otherwise been. “It’s lunchtime. I’m starved. I can be at the cafeteria and back in half an hour.”
Hades shook his head. “We have to get through this, Monica.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“I’m hungry, too.”
“Well, there you go. Let’s get some lunch.”
Sighing, Hades said, “Back on the beam, Monica. We’re finished when we’re finished.”
Monica folded her arms. “What about school time?”
“There’ll be time for your letters and number later. Right now I need you on the balance beam.”
“This isn’t fair!” Monica protested. “The other girls are probably already on their way to the cafeteria!”
“Then you’d better hurry up and get your act together.”
Monica started towards the door. “I’ve had enough! Enough, hear me? Enough!”
Her own pent-up animosity caught her by surprise. Still, it was enough to get her out of the gym despite Hades’ shouting for her to stay put. She ran across the lot, to the checkpoint; the security officers waved her through. It wasn’t until she was riding a transport out of the promenade belt that she realized she was barefoot, still in her workout gear—it couldn’t be helped. She’d acted before thinking out the consequences. The immediate pressure of training with Hades had been relieved, though it had been replaced with certain dread that she would be reprimanded for trotting around the station out of uniform.
“Hello, Ms. Sardinia,” said Tompkins as she breezed into her home stripe. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Monica replied, smiling nervously. She slowed long enough to add, “Misplaced my gym bag. I feel like such a dunce!”
Tompkins half smiled, half frowned. “I’m sure it will turn up.”
Monica continued along the corridor, hastily let herself into her quarters (thankfully the girls weren’t around to ask questions). She grabbed a change of clothes and then ducked out again for a shower.
Hades was waiting for her upon her return. He’d brought her bag; he handed it to her as soon as she reached the cabin door. “I want you in uniform—now.”
Monica bowed her head, surrendering herself to the situation as she entered her quarters once again and slipped into bodysuit, boots, jacket. When she was ready, she presented herself to Hades, who didn’t say a word as he led her from the stripe. They stepped into the nearest lift. Moments later they were deposited in an area of the station Monica had never seen before. A pair of security officers screened them before letting them enter a carpeted lobby with historical portraits, a U.S. flag decorating the wood-paneled walls—
—an executive suite, Monica thought to herself as she took a seat. I’m screwed.
“There’ll be a short wait,” Hades said. “Afterward, I want you to report to Mr. McDonald’s room.” He turned and left.
Monica swallowed, waited, fidgeted, stared exclusively at the floor as she silently cursed ego, temper—every treacherous component of herself that had pushed her over the edge.
“Ms. Sardinia?”
Monica looked up.
The secretary was smiling amiably. “Commander Zor will see you now.”
CHAPTER 26
Commander Zor, Monica took it, was the head honcho aboard Olympus—or, failing that, one of the head honchos. Fiftyish, gray-haired, slightly overweight, he sat behind his desk, hands folded neatly, various emblems decorating his uniform and sparkling in a combination of lamplight and reflected sunlight that shone through the sizable viewport built into the rear wall. His appearance made Monica feel quite inadequate in her simple bodysuit and jacket. That, and he was a good foot and half taller than she was.
“Pl
ease, sit, Lieutenant,” Zor instructed after the door swished shut.
Monica sat, wondered if being referred to by her military rank was anything like when her mother called her by her full name—usually when she’d done something wrong.
“Mr. Hades tells me,” said Zor, getting right to it, “you’re having some difficulty in your training.”
It took a moment for Monica to answer. There was goose flesh on her arms, and her throat was constricted. She wasn’t shy: wearing nothing but a leotard and a scrunchie, she could twist, bend, twirl, flex, stretch, and jump around in front of 15,000 spectators and not bat an eyelash. She could not, however, face Zor for more than a few seconds at a time without her teeth chattering.
After a handful of seconds-like-minutes spent watching the Earth dance outside the viewport, she managed, “It’s nothing that can’t be worked out, sir.”
“Mr. Hades doesn’t seem to think it’s that simple. He says you walked out on him during practice.”
Pinpricks in Monica’s hands; blood rushing in her ears. “Well, um…yes, sir.”
“Is the work too demanding?”
“No, not at all. Sir.”
“Then perhaps the skills required are beyond your level of expertise?”
“No, sir.”
Zor unclasped his hands, picked up a stylus and tapped it lightly on the desktop. “Nevertheless, you left your post before being dismissed.”
Monica swallowed, thinking of protocol, responsibility. She wasn’t a gymnast; she was an officer, a lieutenant, and her time in the training room wasn’t just practice, it was her post. Her position in the United States Army. She’d walked off the job. “I…I acted improperly, sir. I was frustrated with my training and I allowed myself to act out of line.”
“I don’t doubt that the work you do is oftentimes frustrating,” said Zor, “but what I’m concerned about is recurrence. There have been a number of occasions on which you’ve demonstrated your somewhat extreme tendencies. Your coaches tell me that you’re a fantastic athlete, and that you will not disappoint during the upcoming assessment meet, but you seem to have an affinity for confrontation.”
Monica thought hard. “Some days are better than others.”
