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“Yes.” Of course I had more grips. I just liked this pair because they were worn in.
“Good. You should know better than to use this.” He dropped it to the floor, along with the worn out wrist guards before moving onto the tape.
“There is no need for so much tape,” he said, more to himself than to me. “No one even does this anymore. Then again, if you were doing it right, you would not need this.”
As much I loved removing the tape after a long, rigorous bar training, I wasn’t very happy about it coming off since I still had practice time left on this apparatus. It took time to cut the holes and place my fingers through them properly. There were layers upon layers of athletic tape to protect my hands from rips and tears. He pulled off each strand until my hand was bare.
Turning my wrist over to inspect it, Kova hissed at the sight before him. His fingers gently ran over my tender flesh, like feathers dancing erotically over me. Even though I used pre-wrap to prevent the adhesive from sticking to me, my skin was still as bright as a tomato with indentations and outlines. I wrapped it tightly every time, and once my wristbands were on, I wrapped more around them. I used an insane amount, but it got the job done. It helped to keep my wrists straight and locked to give me support. It’s what I’d always done in the past and no one had ever said anything.
Kova held my wrist in his hand while he laced his long fingers through mine with his other hand. His palm kissed mine, his long fingers draping over my knuckles. Our hands locked together for a moment before he tenderly pulled on my knuckles, squeezing them as he did. He repeated the gesture and my heart skipped a beat at his skilled touch. God, it felt good. Incredibly good. My hands were overworked and dried out, they ached on a daily basis, but the feel of him massaging my fingers was heavenly and I almost sighed out loud. My entire body relaxed and I almost prayed he wouldn’t stop.
There wasn’t a part on my body that wasn’t sore on a continual basis since I started at World Cup. I ached in places I didn’t even know possible. A full body massage was something I needed to consider after this.
Glancing up from our entwined fingers, I found Kova observing me. I couldn’t decipher what he was thinking as he stared down through thick lashes, his eyes unwavering. I focused on his lips, the fullness that begged me to wonder how soft they would feel pressed to mine. Heat rose to my cheeks and I flushed before him. His hand was much larger than mine, his fingers showing dexterity. He knew exactly how to manipulate my wrist and how to stretch my hand out gently, but with force, pulling on my fingers and then rotating my wrist, making it feel damn near euphoric.
Carefully, he bent my palm back, working it out in circles, flexing it. I stepped closer to him and my fingers curled around his fisted knuckles, lightly holding on to him. His presence dominated the air surrounding us. Why that made my heart race faster, I wasn’t sure. Taking a chance, I naturally added a little more weight to my fingers so I could feel him move under my touch.
There was a slight pop and I swallowed, hiding the twinge of pain.
“Did that hurt?” he asked.
“A little bit, but it’s nothing I’m not used to.”
“Pushing through the pain is a sure fire way to sustain an injury.”
Kova moved my hand to the side, but this time, he held my elbow so I couldn’t bend my arm. His fingers pressed into my skin. I dipped to ease some of the pressure,
but he shook his head.
“You are straining your wrists hanging the way you do. Since you are not gripping the bar properly, all your weight is balancing here.” He shook my wrist with his thumb and forefinger. “It makes complete sense now why you use so much tape, you are trying to avoid excess movement. If we do not train you the correct way to hold the bar, you will retire much sooner than you want. Just another bad habit I need to break you of.”
“Of course I’m gripping the bar properly. How else would I hold on?”
He shook his head. “You do not understand. You are holding on, but not completely. It is like a lazy hold, you are resting your fingers on the dowel instead of gripping it. When you swing and pivot around the bar, you are pulling and tugging on the ligaments inside your wrists, and the bones are under a lot more stress than needed. We need to rectify this fast.”
Coach removed my other grip and tape and worked out my left wrist just as he did with my right. He was gentle with me, his face softening to concern as he worked.
After a few more minutes of tending to my sore muscles, Coach said, “Get back up there.”
I reached down for my grips but he stepped on them.
“I need my grips.”
“You will do it without them.”
My mouth popped open in shock. “But, I’ll get rips.”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “Then you will learn real fast how to grip the bar correctly. Trust me, you will perform better in the long run.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Never, had I ever, heard of a coach training like this. No one took away a gymnast’s protective gear.
No one except Coach Kova.
His mesmerizing eyes bore into mine, his features turning hard, showing me just how little he was kidding. I got the impression he was going to enjoy the pain he knew I was about to endure. The only thing I could figure was he learned it from his previous coaches in Russia.
I was starting to understand just how unconventional Russian coaching could be.
