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I took a minute to let the weight of his words sink in. While an outsider would think they were laced with malice, I knew they weren’t. That was the furthest thing from the truth. I knew he was pushing me to be better. Not only to prove it to him, but myself as well. Without a doubt, Konstantin Kournakova was one hundred percent right.
Slowly nodding, I looked into his eyes and said, “You’re completely right, but I never expected you to go light on me. That’s not what I wanted. That’s not why I came here. I want the challenge. I want to be better. It’s why I pour every ounce of blood and sweat into a sport that gives me so little in return. The truth is, I’ve never been challenged by a coach the way I have by you, so I’m learning to adjust to it.” I held up my hands and showed him the bloody blisters threatening to pop under my palms. “You won’t hear a complaint come from me again.”
Kova’s shoulders loosened an
d he blew out a ragged breath. His gaze openly traveled the length of my body, taking in every inch. The way his eyes pierced mine, like he was pleased with my response, made my heart rush against my chest with satisfaction.
I took more verbal beatings than any of the girls on the team. Constructive criticism at its finest. The only explanation I could think of was he was frustrated over having to break a seasoned athlete of old habits. He was always on me for something I was doing—grilling me, yelling at me.
“Good. That is what I want to hear.” He gave me a lengthy gaze. Stepping closer, he gently brushed his thumb across my cheek. “Chalk,” he said in a softer tone, and walked away.
I couldn’t explain why, but my gut said there was more than meets the eye with him, I always trusted my gut. And him calling me whatever he just said in Russian, and the speech that followed, cemented it.
That being said, he was out of his ever-loving mind if he thought I was going through another day without using my grips.
Stepping into World Cup this morning, I felt fresh and ready for practice.
Dropping my duffle bag to the floor, the fabric of the strap scrapped along my sore palms and I sucked in a pain filled breath. Looking down, my hands were tattered, the skin pulled tight, aching from working bars. Pressing down on one of the blood blisters with my thumb, I watched the fluid shift under the skin in morbid fascination.
Grimacing, I shook my head and removed my pants and top, shoving them into my bag along with my flip flops. Today, I went with a faded, light blue sports bra and black mini shorts instead of the leo. This wasn’t something I typically wore, but I’d seen the other girls do it and decided to. I pulled my hair into a messy bun and then placed my things into my locker and made my way into the therapy room.
Of course Kova was already there. His back was to me and I took the time to study him for a long moment before I made myself known. There were so many things I was curious to know about him. Like how he got started in gymnastics, what drove him to the sport. How long he’d been a gymnast, how he ended up in the States. How he and my dad became friends. I was oddly intrigued by him. I tried to picture what he’d look like competing at the Olympics. Large, muscular arms. Broad shoulders and a fit waist. Overworked hands and tight buns. Focus pouring out of his eyes. For male gymnasts, their workout consisted mostly of bodybuilding exercises, unlike ours. They couldn’t get too big and hefty, strength and balance went hand in hand for them. The rings were commonly used for straight arm work. They’d hold an Iron Cross position with weights tacked on to their feet or waist. This built an incredibly large and tight top half. Not to mention, high levels of strength. I sure as hell couldn’t hold a T position, even without the weights dangling on me.
Kova wasn’t ripped anymore like I’m sure he once was, but he was still quite built and trim. Sinuous was the perfect way to describe his body. He was definitely easy on the eyes. The muscles in his forearms rippled with strength, and if you watched closely, like I was doing at the moment, you’d see his back flex under his white shirt, along with two round mounds of steel that shifted with each step he took. I could stare at him all day long.
“Ah, Adrianna, you are here,” he said pleasantly, taking me out of my daze. I stepped into the room, the cold tile zipping through my bare feet and I shivered.
“I’m here.” I walked up to him. “What’s on the menu for today?”
Kova turned toward me. “We will work on proper breathing and more of the same stretching we did the last time.” He motioned toward the large square blue mat on the floor. “Go lie on your back, legs straight and together.”
Walking over, I got into position as Kova followed closely behind. He kneeled on my left side and looked down at me. He spread his hand out and placed it on my stomach just below my ribs.
“Along with brain manipulation, as you so lovingly called it during our last session, you have to breathe correctly, or this extra work will all be a complete waste. It works much like a jigsaw puzzle. One wrong piece and nothing will connect how it is meant to. Proper breathing gives you back and core control. You will have more stamina and won’t get tired so fast.” He tapped on his temple. “It is all a mental game of tug-of-war. You want more belly breathing, more of using your diaphragm. It will lessen your chance of spinal injury as well. Remember, no fish out of water gasping like last time either. Now, take a deep breath.”
I nodded and inhaled. He pinched my sides. “No, wrong. See how your stomach went toward your head and your chest popped up? We do not want that. We want your ribs to expand and your shoulders relaxed, not in your neck. Do it again.”
I did it again. “No, keep your hips down,” he ordered, and placed his other hand flat on my pelvis. “Again.”
I focused on his words as Kova focused on my stomach. His brows furrowed. Breathing shouldn’t be this complicated.
His hands stayed in place and pressed into me. “Good. Perfect,” he said. “Let us do a set of ten.”
I wanted to ask Kova how he knew to breathe like this, who taught him, but thought better of it and decided to wait until stretching came. I didn’t think he’d like me to talk while I was learning to breathe properly anyway. So instead I focused on his hand resting on my lower belly. Wondered at the warmth surging through me from the feel of his fingertips on my skin.
“Beautiful,” he said softly. “Yes, just like that.” He looked into my eyes, almost as if trying to make me believe his words. “It is all about training yourself and remembering it. Doing it a thousand times until it actually sticks. Like muscle memory. Think of it like this—when you flex your abs and breathe at the same time, you are using your diaphragm. It is what gives you a strong core, which is key in so many aspects of gymnastics. The last thing you want is to overexert yourself.”
Twenty minutes or so of instructional breathing skills passed, when I said, “I didn’t know how important this was. How it can hinder me in this sport. It’s very interesting.”
He clucked his tongue on the side of his cheek and winked. “Stick with me.”
Kova stood up and placed his hand out. I grabbed it and he helped me up. My belly fluttered in response and I averted my gaze. He pointed to the exam like table and said, “Go lie on your back.”
I did as he ordered and pulled my knee to my chest and winced, feeling a slight tightness in my hips at first.
“Now, when you do these stretching techniques, remember to breathe properly. It all goes hand in hand, Adrianna.”
Kova placed one hand on my leg and the other hand on my hip to steady me, pressing my knee deeper to my chest. I grunted. “All you need to do is hold this position, along with the others, for twenty to thirty seconds every time you stretch. I promise you it will make all the difference.”
