Blind Landing (Flipped #1) by Carrie Aarons Page B

now.
    “What are we going to do?” I hiss quietly in Spence’s ear.
    He tilts his head up a fraction and places his pointer finger over his swollen and bitten lips, motioning for me to be quiet.
    A minute or two later, I hear the gym door bang closed with a thud.
    “That was one of the assistant coaches. Usually one of us makes the rounds on a rotating schedule each morning to get the gyms ready. They just come in and turn the lights on, but we’ve always been out of here by the time whatever coach usually comes in. Seems someone had us distracted today.”
    His grin is epic, spreading a mile wide across his face. I’m not sure if I want to kiss it off of him, or smack him for being so cocky.
    “You think you’re really funny don’t you? I was scared shitless just then!” I hit his shoulder. His very toned, tan shoulder. Which is still connected to the hand holding my hip in such a way that a shiver runs down my spine.
    “I would have saved you. Carried you out and made some excuse about you fainting. Either that or I would have left you in there for a week and brought food and water until it was safe for you to come out.”
    I laugh, arching up into him again. “Funny, I was thinking I’d have to do the exact same thing for you.”
    “Alright, as much as I want to continue what was just so rudely interrupted, that wake up calls means others will be close behind whoever just turned all of the lights on. We should get out.”
    Spence starts to climb off of me, and I can’t help but lay back for a couple more seconds and admire just how fucking gorgeous he is. People underestimate male gymnasts in the athlete department. Compared to football, baseball and hockey players, no one has discovered the magic of these finely honed athletes. But I have. And damn , let me tell you.
    Spence turns back from where he’s dragging himself out of the pit, a curious expression on his face. “So now that we’re no longer, technically flirty friends, what would you call us? Make out mates? Lip lockers? Kissing cousins?”
    I swing my leg, essentially knocking him over so he topples back down, all of the progress he’s made to dig himself out ruined.
    “That last one is disgusting.”
    I hear his cackle as I elegantly, as possible, hold my head high and trudge out of the foam blocks.

Fourteen
Natalia
    M ost gymnasts have a favorite event . The one that they get more excited for than any other when they see it coming in the rotation. The one they could practice for hours on end and never want to stop.
    For me, that event is the floor exercise. Sure, uneven bars might be my best event, but I love floor more than I could put into words. It combines grace and elegance with strength and raw power. One of my coaches once compared my floor routine to that of a hummingbird. She told me I exuded beauty and confidence, but just under the surface there was toughness and spirit.
    I’ve had four floor routines now. Gymnasts usually use one routine each season, changing their choreography every year. The process goes a little something like this. Sit down on the blue carpeted floor exercise with a boom box and a bunch of crates full of tapes and CDs. Play each tape and CD through once, marking down your favorite tracks … which usually comes out to, oh, about a thousand. Then put away the music you won’t be choosing from, and again sort through the narrowed down tracks.
    Five weeks later, I usually have one song picked out for my new routine. And remember, no lyrics or sound effects, or the judges will dock points. Gymnasts get to perform to wordless melodies that either derive from show tunes or the big brass band era. Luckily, I fucking love both of those things.
    My preferred floor music usually comes from my favorite movies or plays. My first choreography had been done to the soundtrack from Man of La Mancha , and my past year’s routine was to music from the Harry Potter movies. But this was the year I was stepping it up, bringing