Burnout (The Holland Brothers Book 1)

When I reach the end of the beam, I raise my hands over my head and spin around on the balls of my feet. This is it. The final combination of my routine. I could do it blindfolded. When I sleep, all I dream about is this routine. It won me a silver medal at the last Olympics nearly two years ago, so there’s no way I’m ever going to forget it.

I visualize this routine all day, every day. While eating or showering or daydreaming in class. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than on top of the balance beam.

I inhale as I prepare for my dismount. A full twisting double pike. It’s one of the most difficult dismounts. Few people perfect it because it’s so hard to land cleanly without getting hurt. It requires speed and power, twisting and somersaulting off the end and landing square with the beam, chest high. No one in collegiate gymnastics even attempts it. Having a clean routine is more important than difficulty. But I love the challenge.

I’m not a risk-taker by nature, but gymnastics has always let me be someone I’m not outside of the gym.

Or it did.

I haven’t done this dismount in months. Sometimes when I’m feeling exceptionally sorry for myself, I wonder if I’ll ever do it again.

I push that thought away and stand taller.

“You’ve got this, Avery.” The cheer comes from my left where my teammates are watching. Their eyes feel like pinpricks along my skin. My breathing shifts and my right knee locks.

I go into my round-off slower than I’d need to pull off the tricky dismount and instead of risking reinjuring myself, I do a simple layout onto a mat next to the beam.

I don’t look up as they clap because I’m afraid of what I’ll see on their faces. Poor Avery with the bad knee. Poor Avery who still isn’t back to where she was before the injury. Poor Avery, poor Avery.

“Next up,” Coach calls as I walk off the mat. My knee twinges in pain as I cross over to get my water bottle.

A few of the guys from the men’s team are still practicing on the parallel bars in the corner. Tristan flips and tucks and spins into a dismount as I get nearby. Breathless, but with his ever-present smirk, he swaggers toward me. “And that’s how it’s done, Ollie.”

He always calls me that because my last name is Oliver. It’s my least favorite nickname of all time.

Tristan Williams, two Olympic gold medals to his name, and widely regarded as the number one collegiate male gymnast in the country. Widely regarded by me as the most annoying person in the world.

“How what’s done? How to be an asshole or hop on the dismount?” I ask with a fake smile.

“At least I’m doing dismounts. What the hell was that beginner shit?” He waves a muscular arm toward the beam.

I avoid him, leaving a wide berth between us as I continue to the side of the gym where my stuff is stashed. I swipe my water bottle off the floor and take a long drink before I turn around. He’s still standing there, hands now on his hips, as he waits for my answer.

“What?” I ask with all the sass I can muster. I drop down onto the floor and remove the wrap from my knee.

“Why aren’t you practicing?” He enunciates each word carefully.

“I am practicing.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been hobbling around for the past hour doing half-assed routines and flaking out on dismounts like you injured yourself yesterday instead of months ago. How much longer are you going to blame the knee?”

I narrow my eyes at him. His expression morphs into barely contained glee at riling me up. I swear he enjoys pissing me off.

“I’m sorry, did you get a medical degree over the summer that nobody told me about?”

After an exaggerated eye roll, he asks, “What are you doing tonight? You want to hang out?”

“Who, me? The girl doing half-assed routines?” I ask in a sugary sweet voice, then drop the act. “Pass. I’d rather watch paint dry than listen to you talk about how awesome you are all night.”

I’m half kidding for the sake of this game of trading insults we like to play, but he does have a really high opinion of himself. And I definitely don’t want to spend my Friday night with him.

He huffs a short laugh. “I’m always going to tell it to you straight, Ollie. You’re better than this.” He waves a hand to the floor as if to indicate everything I’m doing out there. “Get out of your head.”

I swallow the lump forming in my throat as he walks off to rejoin the guys. Tossing the wrap to the floor, I bend my right leg and stare at the red and slightly swollen skin around my knee. The vertical scar just below is still raised and ugly. I extend it back in front of me and stretch forward. It’s still a little weaker than my left leg, so it’s hard to tell if the pain I’m feeling is from that or if I’ve pushed it too hard.

The doctors thought I would be completely healed by now. I thought so too.

We’re a month into the new school year. Full practices began this week, but all summer I was in the gym, rehabbing my knee and keeping up with my skills as best I could with one leg.

After the disaster that was last season, I need to come back stronger than ever.

A few minutes after six, Coach calls practice for the day. I grab my bag and slip my bare feet into my slides. Before I can get out the door, my name is yelled from across the gym.

I pause, but don’t glance back, hoping I heard wrong.

“Avery,” she repeats, still yelling. “Can I see you before you leave?”

I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know it’s Coach Weaver. The dread filling my stomach tells me, as does the thick German accent. When I do make eye contact, I nod and backtrack across the gym to the beam corner.

She’s talking with a couple of freshman girls when I approach, so I hang back. The way these girls look at her, all awe-inspired with a heavy dose of fear, makes me smile. I remember feeling that exact way last year. To be honest, she still terrifies me, but she’s a great coach. I like her style. She says little, but it makes everything she does say feel that much more impactful.

“Hi, Coach,” I say when the others go.

“Avery.” Her voice lowers and she takes a step closer, gaze traveling down to my knee before returning to my face. “How is the knee holding up?”

“Good,” I say cheerily. Too cheerily. “It’s a little swollen, but the doctor said that was to be expected.”

“And how are you holding up?”

The question surprises me enough that I don’t try to sugarcoat my answer. “I’m frustrated. I thought that I’d be back at one hundred percent by now, but my knee is still locking up on me.”

“When you’re tense, your body is tense.”

I nod, letting her words wash over me with the shame.

“One day at a time. Next week, I want you to work exclusively on floor.”

“Floor?” My brows pinch together.

“Yes. No beam, no vault. Nothing risky. You can practice your skills on the floor.”

It feels like ten steps backward, which, for the record, is not the direction I want to be going.

“But, Coach⁠—”

“That’s all. Enjoy your weekend. Ice that knee tonight.”

The walk back to my dorm does little to clear my head, but as soon as I push into the suite I share with my roommate, Quinn, I find myself smiling at the scene in front of me. She’s in a backbend, which wouldn’t be all that odd if she weren’t wearing a black leather miniskirt, white tank top and platform boots, and watching an old episode of Friends.

“How can you watch TV that way?” I ask as I toss my bag into my room on the right side of the suite and then drop onto the couch in the shared living area.

She lifts one leg and then the other, kicking over to stand upright. “I’ve seen this one so many times I can recite it by heart.”

Quinn drops back onto the ground in the splits, facing me. “How was practice?”

“Not great.” At the reminder, I get up and pull an ice pack from the mini fridge, then sit back down and prop up my leg to ice my knee. “I froze on beam again.”

“Is your knee hurting?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. It still feels off and it’s swollen from the little bit of tumbling I did this week.”

“I think that’s normal. It’ll take time, but it’s only September. You have plenty of time.”

I thought that too. Right after the surgery, then this summer when I was cleared to work out, but I feel years away from competing and the season is looming.

“Coach told me that next week she wants me on floor only.”

My roommate’s dark brows rise, but she’s slow to speak, like she’s considering her words carefully. “Maybe that’s best.”

My face heats and my expression must show my outrage because she quickly adds, “For now. A-babe,” she says, using the nickname she gave me. It’s way better than ‘Ollie.’ “You’re the best gymnast on the team. She isn’t worried about you perfecting routines, she just wants to make sure your knee is good to go and your head is on straight.”

It’s logical, or maybe I just want to believe it so I don’t have to think of it as another setback. But it annoys me that it’s basically what Tristan said too.

“Maybe you’re right. I think I’m just cranky because I ran into Tristan.” I groan as I think of his stupid smirk. “I can’t believe I kissed him. Bleh.”

“You were drunk and fresh off a breakup. And he is really hot, so it’s forgivable.”

I shudder at the memory. Tristan is cocky and entitled. He’s a great gymnast, I’ll give him that, but his personality sucks.

“Where did you run into him?” Quinn asks, moving out of the splits and into a handstand. She’s the only person I know that could manage to still look cool and collected with her skirt bunching up like a belt around her hips.

“At the gym. Some of the guys stayed after their practice.”

“Of course they did, what else do they have to do on a Friday night?”

“You mean like us? You’re tumbling in party clothes and the only place I’m heading is to the shower and bed.” For not going all out at practice this week, I still feel like I got run over by a bus.

“Not true. We are going out. And I’m just making sure I haven’t lost all my skills. I might not be competing anymore, but dropping into the splits or busting out an aerial are great party tricks.” She drops back to her feet and fixes her clothes. Somehow, she still looks fab, not a lock of dark brown hair out of place.

I laugh at the big smile on her face. She’s one hundred percent serious and I love her for it. Quinn and I joined the Valley U gymnastics team together as freshmen, but at the end of last year she quit so she could have more of a life. It’s hard to blame anyone for wanting more free time. I spend two to three hours at the gym every day, and most days even more. Add school and studying to that, and there isn’t a lot of time for anything else.

I love it too much to quit, but I understand Quinn’s decision.

“We are?” On a scale of one to ten, my desire to go out is hovering around negative five.

“Yes. Colter’s performing tonight and I promised him we’d stop by.”

“Oh.”

“He wants you to see how much you helped him,” she clarifies.

“Yeah, of course. It’s just…can’t you take some video for me? It’ll take me at least an hour to get ready and I’m not really in the mood.”

She shakes her head slowly from side to side. “You said that last weekend.”

I open my mouth to protest.

“And the weekend before.”

My lips clamp closed. Dammit.

She laughs and places both hands on her hips. “It’ll be fun.”

Quinn and her boyfriend Colter are the cutest couple ever. She’s all petite and sweet-looking (even in her leather and boots) and he’s this wild and crazy freestyle motorcycle guy. I adore them, but the last time I went out with the two of them I felt like a third wheel.

As if she can read my thoughts, she says, “Colter will be busy, so it’ll be like a fun girls’ night with great eye candy.”

I laugh when she sticks her bottom lip out in a hopeful pout.

“Okay. Okay.” I hold my hands out. “Help me up and find me something to wear?”

“Done,” she says, gripping me and tugging with more force than her little frame looks like it’d be capable of. “I laid out two different outfit options on my bed for you.”

“Are either of them sweats?” I ask hopefully.

“Go.” She points toward the bathroom with a laugh.