I stare at him. “How did you—”
“Son, I've been watching you look at that girl like she hung the moon. Everyone sees it but you.” He turns back to the TV. “Love makes men stupid. Taylor men especially.”
“It doesn't matter,” I mutter, sinking lower into the cushions. “She's gone.”
“For now,” Dad says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “But that girl's got the look of someone who's found something worth coming back for.”
“You think?” I hate the hope in my voice.
“I know.” He claps my shoulder. “Now shut up and watch this ride. Martinez is using your technique, but his form's all wrong.”
Chapter 34
Mia
London rain patters against the window of my training facility, nothing like the thunderous Texas downpours that shake the earth. I push through another set of shoulder presses, my muscles screaming in protest. Four hours into today's session, and I'm still not tired enough to silence the thoughts of him.
“Again,” Dr. Mikhailov commands, his Russian accent thick even after decades in London. “Your form is slipping.”
I reset and push through ten more reps, forcing every cell in my body to focus on the burn rather than the hollow ache in my chest.
“Enough.” He steps forward, placing a hand on the weight bar. “You are working too hard, too angry. This is not productive training.”
“I'm fine,” I manage between gasps. “I can do another set.”
Mikhailov's weathered face creases. He and Coach Suzi share a concerned look between them before he turns to me. “Three weeks you have been here, and every day is the same. You punish your body like it has betrayed you.” He crosses his arms, clipboard tucked against his chest. “What are you running from, Ms. Bonney?”
“Nothing.” The question taking me off guard. “I'm running toward an Olympic medal. Isn't that why you agreed to train me?”
His penetrating gaze makes me fidget. “In thirty years of coaching, I have seen this before. The athlete who trains to forget, not to improve.” He gestures toward the bench. “Sit. We talk.”
I reluctantly perch on the edge, toweling sweat from my face to hide my expression.
“Your numbers are impressive,” he concedes, flipping through his notes. “Your times have improved. But your mind—” he taps his temple, “—your mind is somewhere else.”
“My mind is right here.”
“Then why do I catch you staring at your phone between sets? Why do you check Texas rodeo scores when you think no one is looking?”
Heat rushes to my face. “Research for an article. I'm still a writer.”
“Mm-hmm.” His noncommittal hum speaks volumes. “The champion swimmer who cares suddenly about bull riding. Very convincing.”
I start unwrapping the tape from my hands, focusing on the sticky resistance. “Is there a problem with my performance? Because if not—”
“The problem,” he interrupts, “is that champions need clear minds. Whatever—or whoever—you left in Texas is holding part of you hostage.”
“That's ridiculous—”
“Is it?” He raises one bushy eyebrow. “Then prove me wrong. Leave your phone in your locker tomorrow. Full day. No checking scores, no Texas news, no nothing.”
My stomach drops at the thought. What if something happens to Grant and I don't know? What if he reaches out after weeks of silence?
“Fine,” I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. “Whatever you think will help.”
Mikhailov's smile tells me he knows I'm full of shit. “Tomorrow then. Now go. The ice bath is waiting for you. You need recovery as much as training.”
***
