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Although she went through the motions, something still seemed off, but I couldn’t place it. She started down the runway, building up into a full sprint. She did a roundoff twist and pushed off the apparatus, but it looked like she changed her mind mid-air, twisting and flipping awkwardly in the air. When she landed, she wobbled and fell on her butt on the mat. I rose out of my seat, but she sprung up and posed for the judges quickly, then grimaced before hobbling off the mat.
Old man coach was in her face as soon as she started her walk back down the runway. He was yelling at her in another language, which I could only guess was Romanian, as she rapidly nodded. This time, the limp in her walk was obvious. As they parted ways, she was preparing for her second vault and was visibly shaken. The score was posted, which was low compared to other scores I’d seen, and she sniffled and shook her head. She inhaled, closed her eyes for a few seconds, and raised her hand before swinging her arms back and breaking out into a full sprint.
She went into a roundoff on the springboard and flew off the vault, twisting in the air, and flipped over, keeping her legs out, but as she landed, she didn’t have enough rotation to carry her around, and her legs came apart. She landed awkwardly on her right foot, fighting to pull herself into a standing position, but I heard a loud pop. She cried out, crumbling to the ground and curling up into a fetal position, holding her knee. Fuck. I’d been around sports long enough to know it wasn’t good.
Her coach was spewing expletives and trying to yank her to her feet. Another coach, who was a younger female, was arguing with him, probably trying to calm him. Then she started coaxing Sorina to stand while she whimpered silently, trying to push herself up. She cried out in pain again and crumbled to the ground. Her coach looked blustered with bulged eyes as he loomed over her threateningly, willing her to stand.
“Fuck this.” I jumped over the rail separating the arena from the stands and ran over to her, shouldering that old asshole out of the way.
“Who are you? You are not supposed to be on the floor,” he sputtered.
“She’s fucking injured.” I wanted to punch this dickhead in the face, but I bypassed him and knelt down beside her, watching helplessly as she pressed her face into her arm, still trying to control her sobs. Ashamed. She and I were barely close, rarely spoke to each other, but I couldn’t stomach the pain I knew she was trying to fight. It was like taking a punch in the gut to see her broken on the mat in front of me. I never wanted to see an athlete injured like that, their dreams ruined.
“It’s okay.” I glanced down and saw her knee was already swelling. Shit. Feeling my chest constrict, I had this overwhelming thought of wanting to take her pain away if I could.
“Get the trainer,” someone called behind me.
“She’s fine,” her coach roared behind me. “I will personally see to her health. I know her. She can do this.”
“No.” She clamped her fingers around my forearm in a death grip. “Please, Dmitri, get me out of here. I cannot.” Her voice was strained and accent more pronounced as her tear-filled eyes gazed at me in terror. As far as I knew with her, she was never one who would ever say she couldn’t do anything. So the words “I cannot” hit me in the spot where I’d never felt compassion before. Maybe it triggered something deep inside of me that I’d shut out ever since I was a starving kid running the streets of Moscow.
“I know you’re scared, but you need someone to look at it.”
“Please. Not now,” she plead silently; her nails dug into my skin. “Please,” she repeated in a small, shaky voice. “Dmitri, please get me out of here.”
Something was clearly not right here. It was obvious she was frightened. Sorina was as fierce as they came whenever I’d watched her practice at home. She’d always been confident in my presence, borderline overconfident, which usually irked me to no end, but I’d also begrudgingly admired her spirit, even if I’d never admit it to anyone. She’d never shown fear…until now.
“Please,” she said again, trying to fight through the pain and struggling to get up.
“Don’t move. I’ve got you.” I easily collected her into my arms.
“What are you doing? She is our gymnast, our responsibility.” Her coach looked at me like I had two heads. He was threatened, and fury flashed before his eyes.
“She is my responsibility now.” I stalked off with Sorina in my arms, ignoring the threats behind me. She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and dipped her head into my neck.
I bent my head and said, “We need to ice your knee, and you need medical attention.” Questions swirled in my head. Not to mention, she’d suffered an injury that wasn’t going to heal on its own. From the looks of it, I was almost 100 percent certain she’d torn her ACL.
“I know. Just get me out of here.”
“I will,zaychik, I promise.”
“Thank you,” she whispered against my neck. I realized I was holding her tighter against me. I also realized, only this time, she didn’t seem so annoying. She didn’t seem so annoying at all.
As I suspected, Sorina tore her ACL. She had surgery, and the doctor projected she’d be out of gymnastics for several months. Something shifted after her accident. She seemed more reserved, more prone to keep to herself.
In fact, she stayed in her room for days on end. Gone were the days of seeing her girly shit strewn around the house. The home gym was eerily quiet when I would pass by, and it didn’t hold the same appeal on those Sunday afternoons. Even dinners with Arty were bland, awkward. Although Sorina and I had never had long conversations, I had to admit, I’d choose her exasperating antics of needling me over her withdrawal. Furthermore, she and Arty always had an easy rapport, and she was withdrawing from him, as well. It was apparent he was deeply concerned.
She started physical therapy to rehab her knee and did everything asked of her, but it didn’t appear like she was excited about jumping back into gymnastics. She didn’t seem excited about anything, as far as I was concerned.
One evening, while we were having dinner, Arty began, “Your coach called and seemed very pleased with the progress you have made.” Somehow, whatever happened with her coach’s ridiculous outburst at the meet had been smoothed over with Artynom.
Sorina pushed her food around her plate in disinterest. “I don’t want to be a gymnast anymore.”
Arty set down his fork. “You don’t mean that. You are still recovering from your injury. I know you are frustrated, but soon, you’ll be back to normal.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“But it was your dream.”
