These Battered Hands

by Laurel Ulen Curtis

  But as her eyes lifted to meet mine, soft and warm but stagnant, I realized that was exactly what she wanted.

  A public scene meant limitations, and yelling between us was expected.

  It was our thing.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, stabbing me in the heart with one of the most brutal non-breakups I’d ever had.

  I’d never have her the way I wanted, and this was her way of delivering the blow.

  Part of me understood. I knew the world she lived in, the expectations she so painstakingly tried to live up to.

  But another part of me didn’t get it at all, the ability to resist what was happening between us, a connection so real it had formed the moment I’d taken her spit-soaked hand.

  And that was the part I would have to find a way to live with.

  I didn’t want to let her down professionally, but getting into that mindset was going to take some reflection and convincing.

  “I think I’m done for today,” I admitted, using her words from that first night unintentionally and taking a step back.

  “Nik—”

  “I just need the day, Callie. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Fighting the urge to say more, she nodded and backed away as I turned to go.

  Coaches and gymnasts alike stared as I left, but I plastered a fake smile on my face and waved as I went.

  I would never jeopardize anything for Callie based on a dredged up personal issue.

  “Nik!” Frank called as I passed the office and forcing me to a stop. He was truly the last person I wanted to talk to in that moment.

  “Yes, sir?” I forced out in a fake show of casualness.

  “Leaving early?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I admitted, lying my way through an explanation. “I have an appointment.”

  He studied me closely, and I increased the wattage of my smile in answer.

  “Callie can be tough—”

  “No, sir,” I cut in.

  He raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

  My lungs puffed a huge gust of air, forcing it up my throat and out my mouth. I used it to breath life into my answer. “I mean, yes, she can be confrontational—”

  He laughed.

  I fought the narrowing of my eyes.

  “But this isn’t about her, sir. Just an appointment. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  His eyes were curious, but he didn’t push. “Alright then. Have a good evening.”

  “Thank you. You too.”

  Air screamed freedom, and I couldn’t get out the door to breathe it in fast enough.

  My chest felt sore, and I raised a hand to rub it as I walked quickly to my Street Glide. Normally I made sure to change into my jeans before I got on the bike, but I didn’t have it in me to go back in, so I just left it.

  I felt more alone than I had in a while, the knowledge of each friend and relationship secondary to the loss of one thing when it came to Callie—

  Hope.

  It spread like an infection and tainted clean vision and dedication. It made me think about, and long for, other things outside of the one thing that encapsulated my entire life.

  The fact was, I didn’t know how to be anything other than this, I didn’t know how to strive for something other than greatness, and the prospect of the consequences forced my hand with the cure.

  Hurting Nik yesterday had physically hurt me, the figurative gaping hole in my chest lacking the ability to clot. It had taken everything in me not to go after him, to let it go—to convince myself that it was all for the best.

  I hadn’t specifically tried to aggravate him, but I hadn’t been naive enough to think it wouldn’t happen either. Part of me thought I needed the scene, the whole argument to make a clean break and go back to what practice and experience told me was important. But it didn’t heal all of the longing and wonderment in me. If anything, it made me rage to understand its unavoidable pull even harder.

  It still felt fresh to me today, and I knew he felt the same. His words weren’t bitter, but they were cutting, the struggle he was feeling apparently just as real as my own.

  Mud clouded the pristine water of his eyes, and all the ease had vanished from his posture.

  He moved with stilted agitation, and I couldn’t even blame him because I was doing the same thing.

  The difference was, he and everyone else were judging me based on mine.

  If he told me I was jerking to one skill from another in my bar routine instead of flowing one more time, I was going to punch him in the throat.

  Granted, half of my frustration came from him and the other half came from the inability to complete this stupid, godforsaken skill.

  “You’re releasing too late. There’s no way you’ll be able to grab the bar doing it like that. Look down the line of your body, when your toes point right there,” he pointed to the joint between the ceiling and the wall, “that’s when you let go.”

  “I know,” I grated, smashing my lips together and checking the tightness of my grips on my wrists.

  “If you know, do it.”

  His anger fueled mine, riling us up into a torturous circle of aggression.

  “Relax, alright?” I snapped. “This is a new fucking skill, and it’s taking me a little time to get used to it.”

  His eyes glittered and shimmered, and the line of his jaw became noticeably more compact.

  “If you’re this slow to take what you want, I don’t know how the hell you expect to take that goddamn podium.”

  I shook my head at his absurdity, knowing that the guise of gymnastics talk was just that—an emotional ruse. “The two aren’t even remotely related.”

  “How do you figure that?” he asked, slamming his hands to his hips and pretending not to know what I was talking about.

  “Because when it comes to gymnastics, I know what it takes. I know that I’m safe.”

  An outsider would have laughed at the absurdity of that statement. Gymnastics, as a sport, was anything but safe. But Nik knew exactly what I meant.

  Because he was living the double meaning along with me, and he saw inside the window to my mind like no one else I’d ever encountered.

  Gymnastics was known. It didn’t change. It was comfort.

  That didn’t stop him from refuting my logic.

  “I’ll make you a promise right here,” he swore, his words a conviction and a truth and a vow that he’d do anything to keep. “There are a lot of things you may never be with me, but you’ll always be fucking safe.”

  I wanted so badly to give in, to cave to his line of thinking and believe that what he said wouldn’t only be a promise, but an irrefutable fact. But I knew better. Years of not getting my way reinforced that it would never change.

  “Gymnastics is safe,” I told him in an effort to distance him. I needed him to back off from this argument, to let it go. Unless he did, I wouldn’t be able to. Not unless he was gone.

  “Gymnastics is not supposed to be your entire life,” he insisted, his face imploring. “You’re allowed to have more than this.”

  He poked and poked the bear inside me until it was cornered, and my only option left was to growl.

  "Jesus Christ!” I threw my hands in the air. “What do you think you are, some kind of life coach?! You coach gymnastics," I spat, feeling the chords in my throat stand out with each rage filled syllable. "You're here to improve my gymnastics. That's it.”

  If I'd been expecting an apology or concession, it was nothing but my fault. People were reliably predictable, and Nik wasn't any different. He never apologized or lived regret. He lived that moment, breathed that reasoning, and answered every irrational outburst of mine with a rational calm that blew my mind. I kept to myself, so it was easy to fool people into believing I was low key, but I had never been an even keel kind of person. I blew up and I did it hard, whether it lived completely in my mind or splattered all over everything just depended on who I was dealing with. Every moment with him was infinitely messy.

 
Those words had drawn what I considered to be a line in the sand. But Nik…he wasn’t afraid to cross it.

  His chest blew back as if I’d struck him, but it wasn’t because he was contrite. It was because he was winding up for a punch that would be anything but physical, but would leave its mark all the same.

  “Gymnastics isn't a self contained sport. It's not only the training, only the skills, only the work you put in. It takes mental toughness and adaptability,” he annunciated, tapping his temple with rapt precision. “Neither of which work cohesively with a hothead or simmering unhappiness. The more fulfilled your life is, the more your gymnastics will improve.”

  The corner of his mouth just barely hitched as he rounded the corner of his speech and settled into his exceptionally made point. “So I am coaching you at gymnastics. But for you, the area you're lacking in isn't skill or dedication. It's goddamn life.”

  Without apology or hesitation he was gone, time for a rebuttal completely off the table of accessibility.

  I watched numbly as he left, not even slowing for the rain that beat an unrelenting rhythm on the metal roof of the warehouse.

  Anger seared hot all over my skin, and as a stroke of worry for the safety of riding his motorcycle in this weather came over me, it burned all the way through like acid.

  How dare he come into my life and mess everything up?

  Until he rammed his bossy way in, the only person I had to worry about was myself. My safety, my opinions, my feelings, and my goddamn wants.

  His words bounced like ping pong balls in my head, catching slightly in the net and making me doubt my own serve. I didn’t want to get lost in his fucking speeches and look forward to his smiles. I didn’t want to have to worry about him in the rain or the wind or any other godforsaken showing of mother nature.

  I hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t prepared for it, but the bastard had done it all the same.

  Unwilling and unable to stop myself, I took off at a run for the door, not pausing to look into the eyes of anyone else as I went and ran straight out into the blinding rain. It pounded my skin like a hammer, the drops were so big, but I fought through the beating in order to wipe my eyes and scan the parking lot. His motorcycle sat untouched, soaked in its spot, and the roar of the rain overwhelmed the rest of my senses.

  I looked first to my right and then to my left, but the driving sheets of water almost made me miss him.

  White material clung to his chest like a survivor to a life raft, and the unruly scraps of his ugly hair clung to the sides of his face like a wet mop.

  Barefoot and broken, I moved my feet toward him, one in front of the other until there was no holding back my run.

  His head lifted at the last second as my body crashed into his and my desperate hands grabbed at the side of his face.

  Water streamed over the lines of his cheeks like river rocks, and vitality surged into his eyes as vibrantly as a flash of lightning.

  My lips attacked his, eating at their softness and rushing to cover the entirety of each surface. He tasted like sin and chocolate and the forbidden dream of a stronger-minded woman.

  I lived inside that dream, savoring the feel of his hands as they grasped at my hips and molded my soaked body to his. His mouth grappled with mine until I finally ceded control, and for the first time in my life, I moved in the same direction.

  Letting him lead the moment and the kiss, I blocked out the sound of the rain and instead listened to the pound of his honest heart.

  One second bled into the next, the threat of discovery only heightening my passion and driving me to grab at his shoulders and chest with ferocity and impatience. He maneuvered me by lifting me up and swinging my bare legs around his hips. I felt him move, but focused on the feel of his advancing lips. Each step only strengthened his fervor, and leached directly into me through the connection of our mouths.

  My back hit the side of the building after he rounded the corner out of view, and even if I wasn’t cognizant of it in that exact moment, I knew I appreciated his proclivity for discretion.

  “Callie—” he gasped through a breath, moving his mouth from mine to my jaw and working it to the line of my neck.

  I couldn’t pull him close enough fast enough.

  It felt like I’d been waiting forever.

  Like this was as natural as breathing.

  And, swaddled by the protection of the rain and a frozen moment in time, I allowed myself to savor it.

  To squeeze the grip of my legs tighter and pull his body closer to mine.

  Our wet clothes stuck to one another, and my leotard and what was left of his t-shirt left little to the imagination.

  But I wanted what little there was.

  I pulled at the hem of his shirt as he kissed from my collarbone up my neck and back again, sinking my fingers into the skin above the waistband of his pants and scratching.

  He groaned into my mouth, and I moaned into his as we worked together toward the thing I found myself wanting more than anything in that moment—

  Connection.

  I wanted one with her almost more than I wanted my next breath, but I had no intention of taking it there pressed up against the cool metal of her family’s gym. Not in the rain, not in the sun, and not within five miles of her peers.

  We’d already been gone long enough that someone should have noticed, but I guess the rain had kept them from actually looking.

  “Callie—” I called, prying my lips from hers and trying to move her hands away from the growing bulge in my pants.

  I know. It sounded crazy to me too.

  “Nik,” she cooed back, still lost in the moment. I took the opportunity to pull back and look at her, covered in water and flushed from her nose to her ears and all the way down her exposed chest.

  Her eyes were closed, and a droplet of water clung to the long, curled line of her lashes. Stretching to reach me, her lips parted and pursed just slightly, and her hips shifted even closer to mine.

  The skin of her thighs felt smooth and creamy, the now wet chalk forming a thin film of paste that made my hands harder to move.

  I didn’t mind, the feeling of my hands attached to her in a more powerful way than normal only deepened the need in my gut.

  Her eyes opened as a result of my lull and looked questioningly into mine. Security fled and nerves started to encroach, her body language changing minutely in preparation for rejection. She thought this was it, the definition of catch and release.

  Before she could retreat, I flexed the fingers of one hand deeper into one thigh and moved the other to cup the side of her face. My fingers mingled with the wet, straggling hairs of her ponytail that fell around the sides, and my thumb sought the supple corner of her lips.

  I forced it up when it wanted to curve down and reassured her with actions as well as words.

  “I’m in this, Cal. I’m not backing out, I’m not running away, and I’m not giving it up. I don’t know what it is about you, but I couldn’t forget this happened if I tried.”

  I’d been shocked as shit when her lips first met mine and momentarily mystified that my life had taken a path that somehow ended in this moment—fully enthralled mentally and physically with an athlete I’d been charged to coach and mentor—but at the feel of her and I together all of it faded away. The only thing left was awareness. A distinct recognition that something existed between us that neither one of us could manage to deny.

  She seemed surprised that I could read her so well, but with me she’d always been a crystal clear page. No smudges to impede the context or fancy emotional language to get caught up in. Just smooth, simple prose that read true to her every emotion.

  If other people had trouble reading her, they weren’t very good at context clues.

  “But we can’t do this here any more than you can admit that I’m right.”

  “Hey!”

  I smiled at the return of her fire. Anger or passion, it didn't matter to me. Just as long as it burned, I’d tend to it
with care. Poke and nudge and rearrange when necessary. And any time she started to die out, I’d just add more fuel to the pile.

  “How many people watched you leave?”

  “Oh my God,” she squeaked, the realization of consequences and aftermath slapping her on the cheek and leaving it red with embarrassment. “I can’t go back in there. Not like this…”

  She looked down at herself, the sopping material of her leotard, her hair mussed from the rain and my hands, and the paste-y chalk evidence of my touch plastered over nearly every inappropriate surface illustrating her point. “Not after leaving like that.”

  “We don’t have to go back in,” I assured her, running my thumb from her lips to her ear and back again just because I could. Just because she wasn’t stopping me from touching her, wasn’t fighting me on the validity of what had happened.

  I took a moment to soak it in and tried to telegraph the feeling it evoked in me right back to her.

  “But we can’t stay here.”

  “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here? Are we at a bar?” Her head thunked back into the metal of the building behind her. “That’d be handy actually. I could use a drink.”

  “Callie,” I called, asking for attention by pulling her face back toward mine with two soft fingers at her chin. “This is big. I get it, I feel it, and I’m just as confused about how it happened as you are. But I need you to calm down…and focus. We cannot stay here right now. Especially not, as much as I enjoy it, with your sexy as fuck bare legs wrapped around my waist and my hard dick crushing you into the building.”

  “Crushing me?” she teased with a tilt of her head. “You sure think a lot about your—”

  “Cal!”

  “Okay! I get it! We need to leave.” She rolled her eyes playfully. “Then take me somewhere for crying out loud.”

  Regretfully, I unwound her legs from me and set her bare feet on the ground, steadying her swaying body as it lurched toward me in unbalance. Her body’s lingering physical reaction gave me some clue as to why her mental realization of our scenario was delayed as well.