The Search For Shattered Pieces *Complete*

Chapter Fourteen: Sit Spins and the Loss of all Common Sense

Lyra:

Maybe I had imagined it all—like some sort of strange waking dream? I mean, I had literally tossed and turned for the rest of the night, my brain running faster than a freight train. And I practically hyperventilated at the thought of seeing Trent this morning. But then...nothing. Non. Nada. Niet. Nothing irregular seemed to be present on his face when I saw him, and he didn't act strangely, or well, he didn't act like a guy who had kissed me in the middle of his kitchen last night.  I kept waiting for "it."  Not exactly sure what it is, but I waited for it nonetheless.  I was hopelessly distracted the entire school day, heck, I even messed up an equation in vector calculus... and I NEVER mess up equations.
And now...now I'm getting ready for a grueling eight hours of practice—at least, and my brain is hopelessly screwy!  Freaking A! It's all his fault!  Dang it all.  I blame Trent entirely! I mean, why in the world did he have to go and be all sweet and considerate, and stuff?  Why couldn't he have continued to be a slutty asshat? Well...maybe take away the slutty part, because, hmmm...yes, if I'm honest with myself, just thinking of him with another girl or girls for that matter...well, makes my teeth clench so hard it's a wonder sparks don't ignite off my enamel.  But...what the heck did this, any of it, mean? It couldn't have meant anything to him—not if he didn't even acknowledge my presence today, or elude to the incident, right?  No, hell, he probably doesn't even remember doing it...it waaaaas really quick...hardly counts as a kiss...right...right? Oh hell.  I'm so screwed.  Because maybe Trent doesn't remember kissing me in the kitchen...but I sure as heck do.  I remember everything.  Every.  Little.  Second.
    I groan, and drop my head into my hands. I'm totally losing it. God, I'm a complete and utter hot mess.
   "Moya malen'kaya ptichka Vy gotovy? Ty vyglyadish' rasteryannym. YA ne lyublyu, kogda ty otvlekayesh'sya, milaya." (My little bird. Are you ready? You look distracted. I do not like when you're distracted, sweet).
I jerk my head up, to meet the narrow eyed gaze of my coach, and plaster a smile, tremulous as it is, onto my face.  "Da, da trener, ya boleye chem gotov. YA proshu proshcheniya, yesli ya kazalsya otvlechennym ... YA obeshchayu, chto net. YA gotov k rabote." (Yes, yes coach, I am more than ready.  I apologize if I appeared distracted...I promise I am not.  I am ready to work).
   "Maksim, my little bird...remember, you will call me, Maksim."
   I swallow, heavily.  I keep forgetting.  "Yes...Maksim."  His smile grows larger, and he holds his hand out to me.  I take it, and he pulls me up from where I was sitting on the bench right outside of the rink.  I nibble nervously on my bottom lip, as I wait for him to release my hand...he doesn't.  In fact, he begins to rub circles on my palm—and my feet, in my skates, shift uncomfortably.  I tug my hand, slowly, gently, hoping that he'll get the hint.  If he does, he doesn't take it, instead he chooses to tighten his grasp on my hand, and he pulls me a little closer. I swallow, convulsively, and breathe deeply through my nose trying to relax. It's nothing, nothing, really. He's my coach, an incredible one at that. And he's not him. Their similarity begins and ends with the fact that they're both Russian, and that is that. And, well, I probably need to get used to (and more comfortable) with little touches and so forth, since it seems that Maksim practices a more "hands on"approach to coaching. I can do this. No—I inwardly strengthen my resolve—I will do this—for mom, for me...for my dream.
"We will warm up first, da?" Maksim says with a smile. "You are good, da? Not too sore?"
Even my aches have aches, but I don't tell him that. I've been through this before, it's not my first rodeo. Of course, Maksim's training regiment is even more intense than his used to be, but I don't tell him that, either. This is all good...it's supposed to be tougher, harder. I'm being pushed to my very limits, and then I'm breaking them, so that I may fly far above...soar to even greater heights.   Maksim is going to take me to the Olympics, and for that...well, for that, I'll endure anything...I'll endure everything.
"Niet, I'm not too sore...Maksim," I say.
His eyes seem to gleam with the utterance of his name from my lips, and he presses me into a quick hug. "Prekrasno, moya malen'kaya ptichka. Khorosho, poetomu my nachnem seychas, ya khochu potratit' vpustuyu lyuboye vremya." (Wonderful, my little bird.  Good, so we start now, I do not wish to waste any time).
   I nod, pleased with his clear approval, and let him lead me to the work out room where I know I'm in for at least a good hour or so of stretches and peak core conditioning.  And I choose to let go of any discomfort I may have felt earlier from his small touches, since I can't stop the slight trill of excitement that courses through my body at the knowledge that I'm getting even closer to my dream.  Remember...Lyra...for mom, for you...for your dream, you can and will, endure it all.