Balance (Off Balance 1)

As my dad had always said, “You use your connections.” I was ready to do whatever it took. This was the one—and only time—I was truly happy about coming from an affluent family.

I’d done some research and found out World Cup wasn’t just any gym. Previously owned by former top ranking coaches around the world, it was renowned for its training and ability to take athletes to a new level. The coaches were very particular, elite gymnasts were handpicked, and it took natural-born talent and dedication to be one of its members. Some of the best gymnasts had come out of this gym, trained by a group of intense coaches who pushed their limits with their level of training.

It seemed like hours had passed by the time we veered to the right, finally exiting the Florida turnpike. Curving around and following the snake like bend down the street, we pulled up to a gray building with dark tinted windows a couple of minutes later.

“So this is what you want?” my father asked as he made his way around the Escalade. He placed his hands into the pockets of his expensive, tailored pants and surveyed the place as the wind billowed against him.

“More than anything,” I replied, unable to hide the smile on my face. I’d been rendered speechless while I stared at the large structure before me. This was what I’d wanted for the past year, and now it was mine. Happiness surged through me fast and my smile grew larger.

My mother stepped out wearing bright red high heels with a matching red dress. Leave it to Joy Rossi to dress like the First Lady. She pulled her stark white jacket tight around her waist, her eyes skittering around, not a blonde hair out of place despite the wind’s effort. Judging by the scowl on her face, you’d think we were in the dingiest place on earth.

“This is probably where muggers hide at night and bums come to sleep. Of all the gyms, I can’t believe Konstantin picked this place. It looks...disgusting.”

I couldn’t tell if her shudder was from the breeze or the fact that she thought I had purposely picked some remote serial killer town with no running water or electricity.

“Joy,” my father warned.

I shook my head, not agreeing with her judgmental attitude. How she came to that conclusion in a matter of two minutes was beyond me. Deep down, I knew Dad would never have agreed to this had he not done his own research and thought it was unsafe.

Glancing around, all I could see were commercial buildings nearby and hunter green dumpsters placed sporadically outside. Obviously, it was a part of town where industrial businesses were located—a commercial area—not fancy, five-star restaurants where my mother was used to dining, or ritzy boutiques where they didn’t sell anything that wasn’t couture or in season. Unfortunately, she didn’t see things my way. What she saw were dim colors with no life, and most importantly, a place where she would gain nothing.

I saw my future. I saw my dream staring at me from behind the concrete walls, daring me to get my ass moving.

Dad held his arm out, gesturing for me to lead the way, and I headed up the walkway toward the entrance. Grabbing the cold door handle, I pulled it open and stepped inside World Cup with my parents following closely behind.

The smell of chalk permeated the air and my stomach quivered at the first intake of the aroma into my lungs. It was a distinct scent, and taste, to a gymnast, practically part of our food groups, difficult to explain to anyone not involved in the sport. Similar to baby powder, but chalkier smelling. Muffled music blaring through the speakers, a spring board rebounding, and the sound of uneven bars ricocheting as they’re released, grabbed my attention. It was music to my ears. The kind of sound that got my adrenaline moving and my pulse thumping, beckoning me to drop everything and wrap my hands around the bars or feel the spring floor beneath my bare feet.

Taking another deep breath, I exhaled, unable to hide my splitting grin. My heart was ready to explode. Finally, I was where I was supposed to be.

Glancing around the empty lobby, I wasn’t sure where to go, but the window to my right showed a view of the huge facility. It was completely deceiving from the outside...cue the anxiety. Intimidation definitely hit hard in that moment.

Gymnasts, both male and female, were scattered about, white chalk dusting their skin. I could see not just one, but two floors, three sets of uneven bars, and seven balance beams, along with two vaults. There was also a tumble track, various equipment for men, and a high bar with a foam pit and resi-mat, a huge mat on top of a foam pit used for practicing softer landings. Farther back were a bunch of doors. I had no idea what they were for, but I was curious to what they led to.

Even my parents seemed to be in awe of the gym, if their wide eyes were any indication. A shiver shot down my spine and goose bumps coated my arms in enthusiasm, as a rush of adrenaline began beating through my veins at the sight before me.

The sound of a slamming door from behind me shook me out of my trance, compelling me to look over my shoulder. My parents followed the sound and I spotted a tall, fit man. With his hands on his hips, his eyes surveyed the lobby and connected with my parents’ before trailing down and locking with mine, his narrowing gaze holding me in place. All the air left my lungs. His powerful presence demanded attention, and without a doubt, he had all of mine.

Never in my life had I seen someone so unbelievably gorgeous. There was no other word I could use to describe him. His commanding eyes made me think it was possible he could be a coach, but no coac

h I’d ever seen had been so attractive. Come to think of it, none of them had ever been under the age of forty without a potbelly and receding hairline. This man was solidly built and full of muscle.

A silent breath escaped my lips as he stalked toward us with power and poise. My heart nearly hurdled into my throat as I stared like he was some sort of Adonis. Dark stubble dusted his square jaw, full lips that begged for attention, straight as an arrow nose. Combined with inky black hair and olive skin with golden undertones, sweet baby Jesus, the man was perfection.

Crossing the room, he extended a hand.

“Frank, it is good to see you again.” His forearm flexed, the veins signifying the muscular strength he wielded. It was incredibly difficult to tear my eyes away as he gave my father a firm handshake. He was absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous. Avery would call him fucking hot. My best friend loved to add “fucking” to the beginning of everything.

“Kova.”

This was my dad’s friend, and he owned this place. Interesting. He looked like he was fresh out of college, no more than twenty-five max. Dad didn’t have very many young friends I was aware of—I could count on one hand the friends I had met who were younger than him. They typically had graying hair, crow’s feet, and overworked, aging skin. The complete opposite of what was standing right in front of me.

So Kova was Konstantin. Where the nickname came from was beyond me, but the more talking they did, and the camaraderie I witnessed, the more I realized this was indeed the man my dad had told me about.

I remembered hearing the name Konstantin years ago in the gymnastics circle. He was one of the most decorated gymnasts to date, bringing home more medals to Russia than any other male athlete ever had. He’d competed in two Olympics and dominated each of them. He was supposed to try for a third Olympics but pulled out at the last minute due to unforeseen circumstances. Rumors circulated, some even saying steroid use was the reason he didn’t compete, but to my knowledge he never publicly gave a reason for his absence.

“Welcome to World Cup Academy of Gymnastics.”

That accent was most definitely Russian. For a gymnast, Kova was tall. Probably around six feet, give or take a few inches. Paired with his profoundly muscular shoulders and firm chest, evidenced by how tight his shirt stretched, he looked like the perfect package, if there ever was one.