I glanced up at the ceiling, my thoughts a muddled mess. Buried deep inside my heart were burning embers that gave me hope. I coveted them, blowing on them every so often to see if the light was still there for us. Like right now.
"I guess I just wanted to hear your voice." God, how fucking corny.
Kova chuckled, and said, "You mean you miss hearing my contraction-free words?"
I smiled to myself. "I guess I do."
"If you are being honest with me, I will be honest with you." I held my breath, waiting. "I miss walking into the gym every day and seeing your face. It is like a part of the structure is missing and I have to find a way to hold it up until you get back. I do not like it."
I glanced down at the faded comforter, my feelings rising to the surface. "I think I'm being emotional right now and I don't know why." I did know why, but he didn't need to know. "I'm fine, though. In fact, I've been doing really well. At least, I think I have. I feel very confident."
"I have been in close contact with the head coach and am extremely pleased with what they had to say about you and your progress. However, what I am not happy about is how much weight you have apparently lost." I chewed my lip. "You lost more than I expected," he added, and cleared his throat.
"It's not uncommon for a gymnast to lose weight, you know. It's like a rite of passage. If anything, it's preferred, sometimes even a requirement. I wouldn't be so worried."
"That is not healthy. You are going to lose your strength and that will lead to injury."
I contemplated my answer. His tone wasn't malicious, he was just being honest.
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"I’ll probably be smaller when I get back." I cupped my hand around the mouthpiece so no one would hear me since I shared a room with three other gymnasts. "They don’t feed us. We're being starved. A slice of bread and a few scraps of deli meat, a handful of nuts. Sucking on lemons. Not to mention, worked to the bone. The working part I don't mind. I can handle that. It's the gnawing hunger that I’m forced to put my body through again that makes me mental."
I wanted to mention I had peed blood earlier, but I didn't. I kept that little tidbit to myself.
"They want us to be fucking sticks." Tears wove through my words.
Kova's voice was low but controlled, and filled with irritation. "They commended me for your weight loss," he said in disgust. "The last thing I want to be known as is someone who treats their gymnasts poorly. And now you sound like you are withering away."
"You're not treating your gymnasts poorly. Why would you think that?"
While Kova demanded more than any other coach I'd worked with, the one thing he always made sure of was that his gymnasts were healthy. Despite all his imperfections and weaknesses, he was a coach who cared. He molded our bodies, knowing how much we could endure without causing actual harm. He expected the best from us because he gave us the best of himself.
I swallowed back the tears blurring my eyes. "All I can say is I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry for bothering you. I just thought you'd be happy to hear about my progress."
Hanging up, I curled up into a ball and silently cried myself to sleep, something I hadn't done in a couple of weeks. I never should have called him.
* * *
The next day I woke tired, regretting having called Kova.
My eyes were swollen when I rolled out of bed, and when I looked in the mirror, I had deep purple puffy bags underneath them. I applied under eye makeup hoping to conceal them, but it didn't do much good other than to hide the color. Just as I was ready to walk out of the dorm to the gym, a ping sounded from my phone and stopped me. Brows pinched together, I turned around and limped my way over to my phone.
Coach: Never once have you let me down. I worry about you.
I stood still, breathing deeply as I stared at the text message. I knew I should text him back, but I didn't need this. Not right now. He’d said what I wanted to hear, but just a little too late.
I had two full days of camp left before I'd be heading back home to Florida, which meant I had one last chance to make a lasting impression on the national team coaches until the next competition, where they would be watching.
I could do it. Mind over matter.
And that's exactly what I did. I skipped breakfast—it wasn't much anyway—and got right to work. By lunch, I'd gotten so used to eating very little that I could barely finish the orange I was given. The back of my foot screamed in pain, the migraine caused silver spots to dance in my vision, and my back ached to the point I thought it was going to snap in half. And all the while, the coaches watched like hawks. I'd give anything for a handful of Motrin, but I ignored the pain, telling myself it would be worth it.
By late afternoon, my heart was pounding in rebellion and my hands were shaking. My head, light and dizzy. I felt delirious and in dire need of something, anything. I wasn't sure how much more of walking on a fiery wire I could take before I collapsed to the ground.
As we rotated events to the last one of the day, Coach Elena strode over and ordered me to sit on the floor. The perturbed purse of her lips and disappointment in her eyes worried me. She motioned for my leg with a wave of her hand and I extended it toward her. Stomach tight, I leaned back on my hands as she placed my foot on her thigh to inspect it.
"Stop limping," she commanded, then switched legs to check my other one. After a quick examination, she went back to my bad leg and clucked her tongue at how inflamed my one injured ankle was. It was bad, the worst I'd seen it yet.