Stick Your Landing (All In #3)

7. Zach

7

Zach

“You have got to be shitting me!” The voice booms too loudly, like a ball from a cannon.

The woman across the gym walks toward Finley, her short black hair that barely reaches her collarbone sways as she approaches. She bounces with each step, more energetic than me. And that’s saying something.

“Finley Harris, did you bring Zach Briggs to my gym?”

Finley doesn’t break stride. “Not the first time.”

The woman clutches her chest as if she’s been struck. “Bold of you to start your sass before practice. The first since you blew off your workout.”

“That’s my fault,” I say, stepping up beside Finley. “I don’t know if you caught the game Friday—”

“Phoebe—my girlfriend—and I were there . The sound when you hit the ice.” She cringes over the hit I still haven’t seen. I’ll watch it tomorrow when my screen ban lifts.

I let out a sigh. “Fucking brutal.”

“And then Volk smashed Ward’s face in,” Veronica continues, her tone filled with glee. “I loved seeing the ice painted with his blood. He’s such a dick.”

Finley’s mouth gapes.

Her coach holds out a hand, which I shake. She has a nose piercing—a stud in one nostril—and a single freckle above the piercing. “Damn, man, it’s fucking fantastic to meet you. I’m Veronica Lee. I’ve been coaching this one since summer.”

“Veronica was a collegiate gymnast,” Finley chimes in. “She holds, like, every record at UPC.”

Veronica flicks a wrist at Finley, then promptly changes the subject. “So are you going to explain why you’ve brought Zach Briggs to my gym?”

Finley walks toward the bike she uses for warm up. “He’s recovering and has nothing to do, so he’s following me around.” She flashes me a goofy smile when she turns back to us. “Honestly, I can’t get rid of him.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Which of us has lived in Palmer City longer?”

She pops her hip, resting one hand there. “Are you trying to say I moved here for you?”

“You said it.” I shrug, biting the inside of my lip to keep a smile from blooming across my face.

Finley tilts her head, studying me. What is she trying to figure out?

Being around her cranks the voltage on my nerves, but the longer I’m with her, the more comfortable I become with the sensation. And the more comfortable I become, the more I’m my true self, which so many people find to be too much but also not enough.

I want to be enough for her.

Instead of retorting, Finley slips her sweatpants down her legs, her gaze remaining locked on me. The movement strips any shred of bravado I conjured with my last comment.

I swallow hard and avert my gaze.

“Zach’s in concussion protocol,” Finley answers Veronica’s question in earnest. “And I’m his chaperone.”

“I can’t drive anywhere.” I protest Finley’s characterization, watching her swing one leg over the bike, propelling herself into the seat. “I’m supposed to be getting back to light activity, so here I am.”

Finley winks at me. “Where I can keep an eye on you.”

“If you must,” I answer nonchalantly, as if the idea of Finley watching me doesn’t make me want to simultaneously scream in excitement and vomit all over the floor.

Finley rolls her eyes, then focuses on her warm-up.

“Warm up nice and good, Fi,” Veronica calls as she walks over to me. “We’ll be doing some conditioning today to make up for lost time.” She taps me on the shoulder, head tilting toward the area I stayed in last time. “Come on, Briggsy, let’s get you settled. This is gonna be a long one.”

“Fine by me.” I follow her to the alcove. “It’s not like I have anything else going on.”

Even if I did, I’d prefer to watch Finley flip through the air and land effortlessly on her feet. I’d prefer to watch Finley, period.

“How long are you gonna be out for?”

“No clue. I’ll be reevaluated Friday.”

I can’t imagine it’ll be a quick return to the team, not with the severity of my symptoms. I've had a concussion before, but after a few days of nausea and light sensitivity, I returned to normal. This time is different. I knew it as soon as I woke up and my brain throbbed like a car stereo with its bass too loud. If it wasn’t for Finley, I’d spend all my time freaking the fuck out about what this means for my career.

Veronica moves the couch from the wall to face the gym floor. “At least Volkov beat him to a bloody pulp. Serves him right. Bastard.”

Knowing Ward’s in concussion protocol too does little to ease the inferno of anger every time I think about how he ended my season, at least for the foreseeable future.

“I never knew you were this violent ,” Finley says to Veronica from the stationary bike, where she’s pedaling faster, further into her warm-up. I didn’t realize she was listening.

Veronica winks. “The way I torture you in practice wasn’t a hint?”

I’d never dream of teasing my coach, Erik Pomroy, like this. Or I mean, I have in the past, but he never plays along. I never want to play for anyone else though. He loves the sport as much as I do. He wants a win as much as any of us. After one of his intense pregame speeches, I’d run through a brick wall if he asked.

“Hop down and show Zach your best gymnastics.”

I take a seat on the couch, resting my arms behind my head and sinking deep into the cushions. Finley’s gaze darts over to me, but she says nothing. She dismounts from the bike and walks to the floor to stretch.

Her muscles flex as she moves, displaying the strength required to compete in her sport. Finley places her hands on the ground, then lifts her legs into a handstand. She holds herself there for at least thirty seconds before slowly descending back to the ground, but instead of landing on her feet, she slides into a split. Our eyes meet again because I never stop watching her.

Finley doesn’t turn away from my stare, her bright blue eyes electric, the apples of her cheeks pink. Is she blushing ?

It’s probably from the exertion of her warm-up, but dammit if I don’t want her to blush from knowing that I’m her audience.

Two hours later, Veronica leaves Finley to work on her routines alone so she can focus on other aspects of her job. I’m sitting on a mat next to the bars where Finley swings in ways that shouldn’t be possible, but she makes it look so easy.

She’s a shooting star of dark blue today with flashes of gold and silver jewels on her chest and abdomen and sheer sleeves that reach her wrists. Every time she releases the bar and grabs it again, an explosion of chalk rains through the air.

“Ready to see something cool?” she shouts.

As if everything I’ve already seen doesn't fucking mesmerize me.

Finley propels herself around the bar, body straight as a board, again and again until she lets go, twisting and turning before her feet smack the mat. Her face breaks into a devastating smile, full of the same joy that floods me when my team scores a goal. My breath catches, seeing her face light up like this.

So often, she seems subdued, but not here in this gym. Gymnastics might be my new favorite sport because of how happy it makes Finley.

“Do you not want to meet cute college girls because you have a girlfriend?”

Her voice jolts me from my stupor, and I’m a little stunned by her question. She asks as if it were a logical extension of a conversation we were most definitely not having.

When my blank stare goes on for too long, she adds, “Earlier, you said you didn’t add the experience college thing to the list to meet girls. So are you already with someone?”

Finley fiddles with the grips on her hands while I try not to let my mind run wild with reasons why she might be asking. She walks to the bowl of chalk—clearly, there isn’t enough floating in the air around us—and drops her hands inside, concealing whatever prep she does for bars.

I clear my throat, and hopefully all my nerves with it. “No girlfriend.”

“Because you’re not a relationship guy?”

I’m not following her jumps in logic, but I’m also not entirely sure she’s making any. Finley’s incredibly skilled at getting answers by rephrasing questions.

“Not for the reasons you’re implying.” Or for the reasons I think you’re implying, if only I could tell where the hell this is coming from .

Her gaze snaps to me, and her nose wrinkles. “And what reasons are those?”

I push myself to my feet because it’s too strange to talk to her about this while looking up from the ground. “I know what people think when they hear hockey player. It’s the same for any young athlete—”

“Young, dumb, and full of cum?” Finley raises an eyebrow, a half smile on her lips.

I laugh, slowly shaking my head. “No one would know how crass you are just by looking at you.”

“But you know,” she says, her half smile turning mischievous. “After all, I’m the girl who let you come on her chest, remember?”

Fuck me. Like I’d ever forget.

I gulp, hard, and it’s audible in this empty, quiet gym. My gaze hits the ceiling, as if looking up will stop gravity from sending my blood south.

Finley takes mercy on me. “I grew up with three hockey-playing brothers and their friends. I had no chance to be a delicate little flower.” She jabs her finger in the air. “But stop distracting me... you’re not in a relationship, and you’re not trying to meet cute college girls. Care to explain?”

She jumps to the lower bar, legs out straight, feet pointed. When she catches it, she folds her body in half while raising herself. In a flash, she’s perched there, stomach pressed into the bar, legs dangling below her, hands wrapped so tightly, her knuckles turn white.

I cross my arms over my chest and lean against a set of bars beside the one Finley is on. “Because being in a relationship means I can’t think only about myself. And right now, I need to be selfish. I want to be selfish.”

I leave out my uncertainty about dating, period. It’s become both easier and harder since I’ve become a professional hockey player. Growing up short, scrawny, and a total goofball never meant girls scribbled in their notebooks about me. They took more notice as I got older, especially when recognition of my hockey skills increased, which put me in the tough position of judging people’s intentions.

I’m not smooth. I stumble and crack weird jokes and overshare. I wish I could skip the dating-around phase and fast forward to living with someone who doesn’t mind my idiosyncrasies, who likes them.

Finley jumps from the low bar to the high bar, performing the same maneuver that allows her to rest her stomach on the bar. “Maybe you need someone who understands?”

“That they’re less important? Sure, yeah, what a great sell.”

My eyes won’t leave her, my stomach swimming with nerves while she’s so high off the ground. It’s ridiculous, coming from a hockey player whose brains were mushed into the ice last week. Still, I can’t help but blurt out, “Should you talk while doing that?”

She smirks. “What? This?” She pushes off the bar, swinging her legs for momentum, before rising to a handstand above the high bar. One moment, she faces me, and the next, she switches her grip and turns one hundred eighty degrees. “Maybe you need someone with the same priorities as you.”

Finley swings out of her handstand, then does a quick flip off the high bar, and flawlessly catches the low bar. Well, flawless as far as I can tell. I don’t know much about gymnastics, but I’m aware perfection is hard to come by in this sport.

“I need a girl who loves hockey and napping and video games as much as me?”

Finley drops off the low bar and turns to me. “Something like that.”

“Is that what you’re waiting for?”

She barks out a laugh, her head falling back from the force of the apparent hilarity of my statement. “Someone who likes hockey and naps?”

I shake my head, trying to navigate back to serious ground. Jesus . The realization that this girl makes me want to be serious knocks me on my ass. “Someone who understands you.”

“If I were, I’d be waiting a long, long time.” She looks away as she brushes errant strands of hair out of her face with the back of her hand.

I don’t tell her it wouldn’t be so long, not with the way I’m making study of her my main focus. Instead, I say I need water and walk away, putting distance between us before I scare her away.