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A knock sounded on my door. Arty stepped in my room. “Sorina, are you ready?”
“Yes.” I stood and straightened my sundress and picked up my purse off the bed.
“We have to be there at eleven.” He checked his watch. “For an interview and a tour of the gym.”
I nodded and followed him out of the room.
How quickly my fortunes had changed in the past year. Nine months ago, Adriana passed away. Not only did I lose her, buteverythingwas lost—the house, our car, all our possessions. We never had much money growing up, but we did have food and a humble home. I never knew how good I had it until I ended up homeless and had to take shelter in the streets. I shuffled around to abandoned buildings. Stuck to myself. Tried to keep myself well-hidden from dangerous situations. I was living on a prayer, stealing money and food to survive. I wasn’t proud of it, but I guess when you’re desperate enough and have no options, you shoved that guilt aside.
It wasn’t like I woke up and thought that lifestyle was what I would be living as a young teen, but dreams got waylaid along the way when your only thought was making it through each day. The situation was dire at best…until a tall, Russian stranger was there, and he promised me a new life.
I really knew nothing about him.
Yet, I had no future ahead of me.
He promised to fulfill my dreams.
I was skeptical.
He was convincing.
So convincing, I was now here, living a life of luxury. Putting my trust in a stranger who offered me a new world…
A fresh start, I said to myself and slid into the car. Another chance to pursue the sport I’d always loved. In fifteen minutes, we were pulling into the parking lot of a state-of-the-art facility, Elite Flyers Gymnastics. Arty assured me this was the top gym in the area, with one of the most revered coaches.
It’d been almost a year since I’d trained, and I knew it would take time to get back to the elite level, but I would for the sport I loved. I’d started training when I was five. My aunt had worked a minimum wage job at a small café, and barely had enough money to support us both. But she recognized my passion and always encouraged it, even as a young tot flipping around on the furniture in our shoddy flat. I started out in an old gym with at least fifty other young kids who had the same dream as I. Then, one of Romania’s top gymnastics coaches scouted me at the age of six and convinced my aunt to let me train under him.
And I did. I trained for several years, day-in and day-out, perfecting my craft. It was hard work, but I was willing to make sacrifices. Gymnastics was my passion, all I ever wanted to do. It was my safe haven to escape poverty, my aunt’s health issues, and to make my mark…until it wasn’t anymore. Because the sacrifices were becoming too painful and leaving physical and emotional scars. So, one day, with a conflicted heart, I left that gym, never to come back, and focused on spending the remaining days of Adriana’s life with her.
A fresh start, I repeated in my head, focusing on the present, as we walked across the parking lot to the glass doors leading into the gym.
A rush of excitement flowed through my nerves, and I had brief flashbacks of happier times training with my friends. The only friends I’d made were through gymnastics since we trained so many hours a day and had little time for anything else. My thoughts lingered on my best friend. Nicu. He was so sweet and friendly and an amazing gymnast who took me under his wing when I was an awkward kid, nervous and insecure. Fleeting memories scrolled through my brain, and I wondered how he was doing. Did he ever think of me?
A fresh start. The words reverberated in my head as the anticipation of competing again started to build in my chest. Arty led me through the doors and around a corner to an office. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” he mused before opening the office door. I peered around him and froze as my stomach bottomed out.
“Hello,draga mea. It’s been a long time.” My former coach, the great Alexandru Dascalu, leaned against the desk, looking as imposing and formidable as ever. “We have so much work to do to get you back on level, don’t we?”
It’d been over a month since I moved to Texas. I was reunited with the former coach in Romania, much to my dismay, but I couldn’t voice my protests to Arty, who was so proud to grant me my wish to pursue gymnastics. Alexandru acted like I was his favorite pupil who’d been “lost at sea,” as he called it and sympathized with me for losing my aunt. How could I disappoint Arty, who thought he had done me a solid and reunited me with my coach? Alexandru had skins on the wall. He won championships. Look up winner in the fucking dictionary, and his name would be there. That trumped everything. So, I bit my tongue and convinced myself I was the problem and needed to toughen up and suck it the hell up if I wanted to be the best. Because I didn’t want to disappoint Arty or show any signs of dissidence.I could work with this. Arty hired me a private tutor to help with online classes, since my training would be too rigorous to attend normal classes at a high school. He’d even transformed a whole wing of his mansion into my own private gym.
In a sense, Dmitri was right about saying I had the keys to the castle. Artynom Popov was very wealthy, and this house was like a grand museum.
I inhaled deeply, trying not to dwell on my guilt because I needed to workout. It was Sunday, and I had on my workout clothing, intending to spend a few hours on working on my footwork and posture. I grabbed a towel and bottle of water and headed down the west wing to the gym. Did I say the home was grand? It was a colossal mansion nestled on a vast estate.
I hit the music from the built-in stereo system and began my stretches. I always loved getting lost in the music and envisioning my performances.
After practicing a series of tumbles, I moved over to the bar that was attached to a wall-to-wall mirror at one end of the expansive room. With shoulders thrown back and abs tucked in, I pressed up on my toes and practiced my form, performing jumps and spins that were included in my routines. A few seconds later, I posed mid-pirouette to see my newly found family member sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and one knee propped up, an arm dangling negligently over it. Not to mention, he was shirtless.
I swallowed thickly, noticing how his tan skin glistened under the lighting. A silver chain dangled around his neck, and a tattoo marred the center of his chest. It looked very odd and somewhat sinister. Too sinister for what a sixteen-year-old who lived in excessive wealth should ever have. Physically, he didn’t seem like a typical sixteen-year-old to me, compared to the male gymnasts I’d seen in the gym. He seemed older. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Or how he never smiled. Or how he never engaged in conversation with me. His dark hair was closely shaved, and his eyes were a shade of indigo. Cold, intimidating, beautiful. In a tragic, menacing way if I had to describe it.
How long I stared, I didn’t know. Why I stared was even more of a mystery. Why he didn’t break my gaze, I didn’t know. I guess we were silently challenging the other to look away. I wouldn’t. It wasn’t like I ever had since I moved in. Anytime he was around, I studied him. Watching to see if I could find any tells. The obvious tell was how he was less than pleased I was here. Maybe he was jealous. I inwardly shrugged. If anything, I’d conditioned myself to face my opponent head-on. A grand show of toughness. Survival. A hard habit learned early on that I would never break.
Deciding this stare-off had gone on long enough, I asked, “Why are you here?”
Seconds passed, and I thought he might ignore me and leave, but he eventually spoke. “Do I need permission to be here?”
I realized my fingers cramped with gripping the bar so tight. My hands grew slack as the pads of my bare heels kissed the hardwood. “No. Obviously, this is your home, isn’t it?”
“It was.” He made a show of leisurely pushing off the wall and rising.
