Burnout (The Holland Brothers Book 1)

When I show up to the gym on Monday evening, Avery silently leads me to a back area where no one else is working out. The floor is purple, and every step feels like I’m walking on a springboard.

“I’ve already warmed up, but I’ll walk you through some exercises that you can do on your own when you get to the gym.” She takes a seat and then waits for me to do the same.

While we do some stretching, she talks continually. And she is all business. I don’t understand half the exercises she outlines for our warm-up, but I follow along, all the while admiring her toned legs and the ease with which she can move her body.

I’m not out of shape by any means, but my movements aren’t nearly as graceful as hers. Caterpillars, duck walk, bouncing with our hands raised—I got some looks from people around the gym while doing that last exercise so I’m sure I looked awesome. For twenty minutes, that’s all we do. Then she shows me a handstand. I’m trying to keep an open mind, but my session is winding down and this is all shit I could have done (but definitely wouldn’t have) at home.

“You wanna try?” she asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear.

I drop my hands to the floor and kick my feet up in the air above me. I hold it for a few seconds, then let my feet fall back and stand upright. “Next.”

“You’re strong enough to hold yourself in the position, but let’s work on controlling it as you enter and exit.”

“Enter and exit? You mean kicking my feet up into the air and down?”

“Watch when I do it.” Her movements are slower, more fluid, but it looks exactly like what I think I did. “Try again.”

I do the same thing, holding it longer. My T-shirt falls up around my armpits so I can’t see shit. I’m wobbly, but strong enough to stay in the position for a while. I’m about to drop back when her fingers wrap around my calves. Her tiny fingers are cold. Like her icy heart.

“Use your hands to balance,” she says.

“Yeah, no shit,” I mutter.

I can’t see it, but I’m pretty sure she rolls her eyes.

“I’m serious. Focus on pressing your fingers into the floor and gently shift your weight until you find it.”

She continues to hold on to me while I play around with my hand position. “How does that feel?”

“Uhh…fine I guess.”

When her touch is gone, I drop my legs and stand tall.

“Take off your shirt,” she says, staring across the gym and waving to someone.

“Excuse me?”

Her gaze lazily comes back to me. “Take off your shirt. It’s getting in the way.”

Amused, I pull it off and ball it in my hands. “If you want to see me naked, all you gotta do is ask, princess.”

“Skinny guys don’t really do it for me.” She turns on her heel.

The fuck? I toss my shirt to the side. “I’m not skinny. I’m lean.”

Her eyes peruse my chest with an almost bored expression. “Have you ever done a handstand press?”

“Let’s say no.” I hold in a sigh. How is doing a handstand on the floor going to help me get better at flipping a motorcycle in the air? I was hesitant agreeing to this and I should have listened to my gut. I really am trying to keep an open mind, and I admit I was curious about training with her after I found out she was an Olympian, but this just doesn’t seem like a good use of my time. I had to ask Hendrick to pick up Flynn after practice today so I could be here.

“It looks like this.” Her stance widens and she leans over, feet still on the ground, and places her hands on the ground in front of her. Slowly, her legs come up and together as she gets into the traditional handstand position. She comes out of it the same way. “Got it?”

I mirror her position and attempt it. It’s harder, but I manage to do it. Or at least I think I do. When I drop back and look at her, she doesn’t look at all impressed.

“The best way to practice is against a mat.” She takes off toward the back wall. A large blue mat is pushed up against the wall. She faces it and then goes into the handstand the same way but using the wall as a guide. “Work on that. I’m going to say hi to a friend.”

With a flip of her ponytail, she leaves me in the dark corner of the gym. The place is busy tonight. Lots of kids about middle school age, some younger, a few that look around Flynn’s age, and then others that I’d guess are older like Avery.

She stops at the beams where a group of girls are practicing cartwheels on the skinny bar. They can’t be more than six or seven years old, but they whip their little bodies through the air and somehow land without falling off like they’ve been doing this since they could walk. Their skill levels vary, but they’re all damn impressive.

Except one little girl. She’s practicing on the lowest beam. It can’t be more than a foot off the ground and there’s a mat below it. The child is in tears as she tries over and over, foot slipping off every time she tries to land the cartwheel. The other girls are staring, and the coach is trying to console her.

Avery approaches slowly, talks to the coach for a moment, then walks over to the crying girl and squats down in front of her. I can’t read her lips like Archer would be able to, but the soft smile she offers tells me she’s encouraging, maybe soothing her. When the little girl nods her head, Avery stands. The little girl tries again, and this time Avery spots her, realigning her legs as she comes down. They do that a couple times. The coach starts instructing the other girls and soon they all get back to work on their own cartwheels.

I keep working on my handstand, but in between each one, I stop and watch how Avery helps her. She’s up on the beam with her now. The little girl watches as Avery does the simple cartwheel.

Her movements are so fluid and graceful, so controlled, I realize as I wobble through another handstand.

I drop down to the floor and give up all pretense of practicing. Avery looks over from the beam and arches a brow. I smile back.

She really is sexy. Today she’s in a royal blue leotard. It cuts up high on her hips and makes her legs look about ten times longer than they are. Every inch of her is made of steel.

After Avery assists the little girl with a few more cartwheels, the class breaks up and heads toward the door. The girl hugs Avery around the stomach before darting off behind her peers.

I glance up at the giant clock on the wall, noting the time, as she walks back to me.

“Sorry, that took longer than I thought,” she says.

“It’s fine.”

She glances at the clock. “It’s been an hour.”

“Yep.” Sixty minutes and all I’ve learned is that Avery likes super muscular dudes and is surprisingly good with little kids. Neither of which is going to do a damn thing to help me improve my freestyle skills.

“Do you have a few more minutes?”

“I’ve already wasted an hour, what’s another few minutes?”