Burnout (The Holland Brothers Book 1)

“That one was better,” I say as Hope completes another turn almost perfectly. After only one day, she’s made huge improvements.

“Now can I work on dismounts?” Her excitement at the prospect is contagious.

“Yes, now we can work on dismounts.”

She squeals and gets into position at one of the beams and prepares for a back tuck dismount into the foam pit. She’s flawless and her smile widens each time she launches herself into the air.

I continue practicing some of my own skills on the mat: leaps and turns, mostly. My knee has been holding up, but I’ve already put a lot of strain on it today with practice earlier, so I don’t want to push it too much.

“Wow!” Hope climbs onto the beam and stops. At first, I think she is amazed by my split leap with full turn, but she isn’t looking at me at all.

I follow her stare into the viewing area just outside of the gym where parents and visitors can watch. I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, so I glance back at her. “What?”

“Not what. Who.” Her gaze continues to be glued to the same spot, so I turn and look again. Moms, dads, grandparents, siblings…and him.

Knox, the cocky motorcycle guy from last weekend, stands at the back of the room in jeans and a black leather jacket. Hope isn’t the only one watching him. More than a few moms are thoroughly enjoying the eye candy.

“What is he doing here?” I ask under my breath.

His stare is heavy and aimed right at me. He lifts a hand as I dumbly stare back at him. He’s as good-looking as I remember. Tall, medium brown hair that’s thicker on top and shaved closer around his ears. He has sharp features and the way he holds himself, it’s like he’s never completely relaxed.

“I’ll be right back,” I say to Hope before I force my legs to move toward him.

Her eyes bug out of her head when she realizes I’m going to talk to him. I try not to let that make me nervous as I weave around the gym and enter the lobby through a side door. Knox moves toward me.

It’s noisy, so I don’t speak until I’m right in front of him.

“Hi,” I say, letting my confusion bleed through in my tone. “Are you here to see me?”

His gaze roams down over my leotard to my bare feet and then back up to the messy bun on top of my head. “I didn’t picture you as a gymnast.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Can I help you?”

“I’m not interrupting practice, am I?”

“No, not really. I’m just helping a friend. What are you doing here?”

“Colter gave me your number, but he said I might be able to catch you here, so I just swung by.”

“All right,” I say slowly, waiting for more. Why in the world would Colter give him my number or tell him where I was?

“He also said he talked to you about training me, but by the look on your face I’m wondering if that’s true.”

“Training you? For what?” It’s then that I remember Colter asking about my availability. My hands drop to my hips. “You’re the new guy on his team?”

“No.” He shakes his head as he says the word, tone defensive, then backtracks. “I mean, yeah, but it’s not permanent or anything. I have a few months until the season starts back up.”

“Right. You’re a rider who races.” I make sure to use the right terminology, which makes one side of his mouth quirk up. “But you need help riding?”

“Colter said you had some strength and control exercises that you showed him.” He crooks a hand behind his head and rubs the back of his neck. It’s clear how uncomfortable he is asking for my help. So why is he?

“I mean, kind of.” He’s simplifying it down to a couple of exercises like I told Colter to do pushups and crunches, when the reality is we did a lot of different things. “Mostly we just worked out together.”

“So, you can’t help me?”

“I didn’t say that.” I’d been fully prepared to help Colter’s new team member before I knew it was Knox, but everything about this guy has me on edge. I can’t tell if he really wants my help or not. His words don’t match his behavior.

“Look, you’re obviously busy so let me just cut to the chase. If you could write out the exercises for me, I can swing by another day and get it from you, or if you’d prefer to show me, I can be available for an hour during the day. Are you free tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think⁠—”

“I’d pay you for your time, of course, and for the program.”

“It’s not about the money.” Colter never paid a dime, though he tried a few times. I never would have taken anything from him. The truth is it was fun working out with him. “It’s not really something I can write down or show you in an hour. I don’t have an official plan or anything.”

He’s still staring at me like he can’t understand why I’m not scribbling out a workout routine for him ASAP. “But Colter said…”

“Gymnastics is all about building on skills. You master one thing and then add something else,” I say, but he still looks at me like I’m selling snake oil. “I’m sorry. I don’t really know any other way.”

He has these beautiful hazel eyes that I might describe as stunning if he wasn’t shooting daggers out of them. “All right. How much time will you need to show me everything?”

“A couple hours, minimum.”

“That’s fine.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls what I’m assuming is his calendar. “How’s tomorrow from two to four in the afternoon?”

“Two hours every session. Colter came four or five times a week. If you can’t do that, I’d say three times each week minimum. I’d just be prepared for your progress to be slower.”

“You’re fucking with me.” His dark brow, the one with the scar cut through it, lifts.

My face grows warm under his scrutiny.

He rephrases. “You want me to come here every day for two hours? To do what? Some handstands and shit?”

“I don’t want you to do anything. You asked how much time it would take. That’s what it took Colter.” My spine stiffens and that heat that seeped into my face climbs down my neck. Handstands and shit, really? If he thinks it’s such a waste of time, then why is he here?

“That seems…excessive. I’m already putting in a lot of hours on the track and working out on my own.” His jaw tightens and he looks anywhere but at me. “Are you sure you can’t write a few things down and I can add it into my regular routine?” He waves a hand toward where Hope is still staring at us from the beam area. “Your other students are children, and you look like you would die if you broke a nail. How hard could it be?”

The nerve of this guy coming in here to ask for help and then insulting me and my sport.

“Really hard, actually,” I grind out the words.

“Fine. Whatever. Can we start tomorrow?”

“No.” I drop my hands and take a step back.

“No?”

“I forgot, I’m busy tomorrow.”

His handsome features twist with annoyance, but he says, “Okay. The next day?”

“Mmmm…” I tip my head up like I’m thinking. “Yeah, busy then too.”

His gaze narrows. “You were free earlier.”

“That was before I realized I might break a nail.” I gasp dramatically, bringing my unpolished, short nails up to my chest, and glower at him. “I’d rather douse myself in lighter fluid and set myself on fire than help you.”

I put another foot of distance between us. “It’s so easy, right? Figure it out yourself, asshole.”