Ouch.
The rubber burns my palms, and I wipe my hands roughly on my thighs.
“Baylee.”
My stomach backflips at Luka’s voice. I turn my head, just as he lies down and reaches over the metal frame of the trampoline. He extends two hands for me to grab hold.
I’m trying to restrain my emotion, but it barrels forward. Flooding me full. Luka’s compassion softens his eyes, and he gestures me forward with both hands like, it’s okay.
I nod as though saying: I read the email.
His nose flares a little, smothering his own sentiments, too.
I dazedly walk towards Luka Kotova. Like I’m the girl in Infini’s dreamscape. Dimitri isn’t yanking him away from me, and Geoffrey—I glance once at the choreographer. Impatient, he taps his foot repeatedly and points at Luka, telling me to hurry into his arms.
It reinforces the unbelievable notion—that this is allowed.
We’re allowed to touch.
I blink, suppressing water that tries to well.
This is allowed.
It rattles my bones. I blow out a short breath, and Luka nods at me the closer I approach. I hate being the one that keeps everyone waiting. I hate being the one who consumes all the extra attention. A weird pit wedges between my ribs, so I pick up my pace.
I stand beneath Luka Kotova. Half his torso off the trampoline to grab me.
And despite all that we’ve been through—despite aching to just look at him, to take five-trillion years to absorb every detail of his features—there’s no hesitation between us now. No pause or reluctance.
I jump as high as I can jump, and Luka seizes my wrists. Easily, he lifts me up, his muscles flexing. Biceps supremely sculpted, even more so than I recall from our past.
Wow.
He’s older. I see how much older again.
I see how much time I missed.
My feet gracefully meet the trampoline, and his hands stay still on my wrists, warming me. Skin-to-skin. We breathe deeply. Inhaling raw breath.
I feverishly soak in his chiseled, charming features, afraid that this is the only time I have with him.
Afraid it’ll all be taken away again.
He’s beautiful. Inside. Outside. All of him.
His eyes dance across my face, as though he’s remembering a thousand moments together. As though he’s protecting this new memory from harm. From destruction and erasure. Luka licks his lips and then tries to draw me closer, towards his firm chest.
Dimitri grasps the back of his shirt and tugs him away from me. We’re physically separated in probably a snap-second, even if it seemed longer.
I try to shake out my feelings, still dazed as Dimitri passes me the juggling balls.
Geoffrey points at the apparatus as he speaks. “For now, let’s have Baylee sit on the back-left platform before we add her in.”
How the hell do I get on the back-left platform? I think and then realize, I jump.
The Kotovas let me tackle this on my own and stand on the metal edge while loosely gripping the poles. With a big breath, I swallow my fear and begin to jump.
By the third jump, I gain so much height that my pulse races ahead of my thoughts. I feel like I’m taking way too long—when in reality, I’m probably not in the air for more than ten seconds.
I use my arms for balance. Higher and higher.
I’m supposed to just…step onto the little platform, mid-air. Go for it, I tell myself.
And I try.
My foot touches the lip of the platform, but I careen backwards. Shit. I slip and plummet downwards. My back hits the trampoline net and bounces me. I use my core strength to right myself upwards, but I aim towards a mini-net. Shitshit.
My shoulder touches the net, and I catapult off, barely able to hear Dimitri and a few others coaching me on where to go. What to do.
Somehow I land in the center of the trampoline again, and I kneel and force my body down to ground myself. Impeding all movement.
My heart is stuck in my throat. Anxiety burns me up, and I feel some Kotovas start to shift towards me. Including Luka. “I’m fine,” I say, extending my arm so they’ll stay put.
I’ll try again. It’s not like everyone succeeds the first time. Some do, but in most disciplines, practice is important. Whenever I try a new juggling trick, I still drop balls and clubs.
Ignore everyone.
I find a calm place inside, and I just jump and jump. Gaining enough height again, I don’t rush myself this time. I bounce once more, and mid-air, I extend a leg to try and touch the tiny square platform.
I land fine, but my momentum pushes me forward. I run into the pole, and I wrap my arms around it (hands already full of juggling balls).
Stable.
I breathe heavily and rest my forehead on the pole, thankful that I made it to the platform. The first time is always the scariest. And sometimes the hardest.
When I sit, legs hanging off, everyone but Luka reroutes their attention. His gaze lingers on me for a long moment, as though to ensure I’m secure. That I’m okay. When he sees that I am, he focuses on his cousins and the choreographer.
I really enjoy this part. Observing the Kotovas in their intense training session. It’s like witnessing each individual piece of an extraordinary puzzle. All before it’s put together.
Now that I’m allowed, I mostly watch Luka. I find myself smiling way more than I ever would—and it’s not a coy smile. It’s a giddy, uncontrollable smile that has been locked away for years.
Luka propels himself at the back wall with one deep jump, and then he runs up the hard surface. Three cousins in tow. So swiftly, they land on top.
Naturally graceful, they may as well have wings.
Luka steps off the wall like it’s nothing, but he physically drops from forty-feet.
I inhale strongly, even if he’s done this a million times before. Dimitri stands close on the trampoline and digs his foot deep. So as Luka plummets, he hits the taut surface and soars straight up.
He does a quadruple back tuck over Matvei who performs a triple layout below. Luka also has enough air for a triple full (one back somersault with three twists). My view isn’t of haphazard, awkward actions. These aren’t a bunch of guys on a backyard trampoline flopping around.
Their lithe movements carry extreme precision. They call out to one another in Russian, making eight in-flight bodies look like ordered chaos. They’re unequivocally picturesque slicing through air, and this is just practice.
Geoffrey stops them more than once and asks who can do what combination, and they all always raise their hands, their advanced skillsets the same.
“You two.” From the ground, Geoffrey motions to Luka and Robby. “Full twisting triple backflip. Luka goes from the far left to right, and Robby crosses in the middle.”
Panting, Robby rubs sweat off his brow. “We’re doing the same thing?”
“Yes. Listen.” Geoffrey glares. “You cross like this.” He just crosses his arms.
Abram rolls his eyes, but it’s hard to frustrate Luka. He runs his hand through his soaked hair, and he nods a few times like he’s ready to just go ahead and try it.
I wrap my arms around my stomach and lean forward. If this is timed wrong at all, Robby will crash into Luka, and it’s not like a full twisting triple backflip is easy.
Luka is positioned at the far left, and Dimitri counts in Russian, ignoring the choreographer’s earlier rule about speaking in English.
I chew my bottom lip, worried.
Dimitri shouts one last time, and Luka jumps and twists his body three-sixty-degrees. Now facing backwards, he performs rapid, technically perfect layouts across the trampoline, hands never touching the surface. Just feet.
Robby is coming at him.
My fingers touch my lips, just as he accelerates and passes his cousin in a split-second. Luka gains a lot of air at the end, and he finishes his last rotations, his triple backflip powerful.
And beautiful.