Chapter 54
Elena
The final ribbon spiraled through the air in a perfect arc, the champagne-gold satin catching the late afternoon light streaming through the training facility's high windows. I caught it precisely at waist height, letting the momentum carry through my body as I transitioned into the closing pose. My muscles burned—a good burn, the kind that meant I'd pushed exactly hard enough without crossing into injury territory.
"Better," Coach Michel called from the edge of the mat, her tablet lowered for once. "The four-level continuous rotation sequence is improving, but you're still losing speed on the third turn. Your hips need to drop lower during the transition, and there's a slight hesitation when you're passing the ribbon between hands."
I nodded, already mentally replaying the sequence. She was right—I could feel that fractional pause, the place where my body wanted to secure the apparatus before releasing it into the next movement. In competition, that hesitation would cost me tenths of a point.
"Watch," Michel said, pulling up the slow-motion footage on her tablet. I joined her at the edge of the mat, still breathing hard, and studied the screen. There it was: the moment where my right hand gripped the ribbon just a fraction too long before transferring to the left, disrupting the fluid continuity that separated good routines from great ones.
"I see it," I said, frustrated with myself. "The timing is off by maybe half a second."
"Less than that. But at this level, half a second might as well be half an hour." Michel's voice was matter-of-fact rather than critical. "We'll work on it Monday. Your execution score is strong otherwise—the height on your tosses is excellent, and your body positions are much cleaner than last month."
The praise, rare from Michel, made warmth spread through my chest. I'd been drilling these sequences for weeks, fighting against the voice in my head—my mother's voice, really—that said I'd never be as good as the Russian girls, the Bulgarian champions who'd trained since they could walk.
"Go stretch and cool down properly," Michel continued. "And Elena? The mental component is improving too. I can see it in how you recover from small mistakes during practice. That's going to matter in competition."
I blinked, surprised. Michel rarely commented on the psychological aspects of training. "Thank you, Coach."
She waved me off, already turning her attention to the next gymnast preparing for mat time. I gathered my custom ribbon apparatus and headed toward the locker room, my fingers moving automatically through the familiar ritual of checking the ribbon for frays, wiping down the stick, coiling the satin with the careful attention I'd give to something infinitely precious.
Because it was precious. Not for its cost—though I knew the champagne-gold gradient had been achieved through a specialized dyeing process—but because it represented everything I was working toward. Every hour of training, every muscle ache, every small victory over my own limitations.
Annabelle was already at her locker when I entered, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. We hadn't spoken beyond the bare minimum since our confrontation weeks ago, maintaining a careful distance that left me perpetually on edge.
I set down my equipment bag and pulled out the specialized muscle relaxant cream the team physiotherapist had recommended. My right shoulder had been particularly tight during today's session.
"Here," I said quietly, approaching Annabelle's bench. She was methodically untaping her ankles, her movements sharp with post-training frustration. "This helps with inflammation. I thought you might—"
"I don't need your charity," Annabelle cut me off without looking up.
The words stung more than they should have. I stood there for a moment, holding the cream, feeling foolish. Then something Uncle Étienne had said came back to me: Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is give someone space to work through their own feelings.
"Okay," I said simply, returning to my own locker.
The silence stretched between us, broken only by the sounds of other gymnasts filtering in from the training floor. I was halfway through changing into street clothes when Annabelle spoke again.
"Why do you even bother?" Her voice was quieter now, less sharp. "Trying to be nice to me, I mean. After what I said about you."
I paused, considering my answer carefully. "Because I know what it's like when everyone treats you like a problem instead of a person. And because..." I took a breath. "Because I think maybe you were right about some things. Not about me buying my way onto the team—that's not true. But about how easy some things are for me that aren't easy for other people."
Annabelle finally looked at me, her expression guarded. "I shouldn't have said those things in front of everyone. Especially not in front of your boyfriend."
The word "boyfriend" sent a pleasant flutter through my stomach, mixed with something more complicated I didn't want to examine. "You were angry," I said instead. "I get it."
"I'm still angry," Annabelle admitted. "But not really at you. At the whole system, I guess. At how some of us have to fight for every scrap of attention from sponsors and federations, while others just... have it handed to them."
I wanted to argue that nothing had been handed to me, that I'd worked just as hard as anyone else. But I thought about the custom equipment, the private medical team Uncle Étienne had assembled, the fact that I'd never once had to worry about affording training fees or competition travel.
"You're right," I said quietly. "I am lucky. Really lucky. But that doesn't mean I don't work for what I achieve."
Something in Annabelle's expression softened fractionally. "I know you work hard. I've watched you train. It's just... hard to separate the person from the advantages sometimes."
I nodded, understanding more than I wanted to admit. We fell into a more comfortable silence as we finished changing. I was pulling my hair back when Annabelle spoke again.
"Easter break. When I saw you at school with your friend, rushing past without really acknowledging me. I thought you were being stuck-up."
My stomach dropped. "Oh no. Annabelle, I wasn't—Chloé was sick, really sick, and I was bringing her medicine. I should have stopped to explain, but I was worried about her and—" I fumbled for my phone, pulling up the message thread with Chloé. "Look, here's the conversation from that day."
Annabelle studied the screen, reading the panicked messages about fever and dehydration. When she looked up, there was something like embarrassment in her eyes. "I jumped to conclusions."
"I should have said something at the time," I insisted. "I'm sorry."
"We're both sorry, apparently," Annabelle said with a slight, wry smile. "What a pair we make."
The tension that had been coiled in my chest for weeks began to ease. "Do you want to get dinner?" I found myself asking. "There's this vegetarian place that I've been wanting to try, and I—"
"Can't tonight," Annabelle interrupted, but her tone was apologetic rather than dismissive. "Family thing. But maybe another time?"
"Yeah," I said, feeling the smile spread across my face. "Another time. Definitely."