Chapter 9 - I'll Be a Home for You

you’d think after grabbing my ass regularly, aang wouldn’t be so weird about me touching his face

JJ

Coach whistles to gather us around her, beginning training. “We’re moving on to practicing the actual routine today!”

Everyone cheers. Over the past two weeks, we’ve been drilling the basics and proper techniques. Especially for the freshmen. And Aang.

“Our first stunt is similar to what we did last year. We’ll just one-up the difficulty. Get into your stunt groups.”

My group takes our space on the first panel off-center. Coach scans the groups and double-checks her paper. “Naomi, please move to front spotting group four.”

My heart sinks to the floor.

The tiny sophomore, who’s been flying in the center group for the past two weeks, has just been demoted to a front spot. The position for people who aren’t good enough to be bases, backspots, or flyers. Everyone looks on in silence as Naomi moves to the other stunt group, her face carefully neutral, but I know she’ll be bawling her eyes out to her friends after training. Her old stunt group is now left with only Alexis, a senior flyer, who’s trying not to look too happy.

Coach turns a page in her notebook, and I hold my breath. Nie ja. Nie ja. Nie ja.9

She closes the notebook. “Do a couple of extension libs for warm-up.”

I exhale, my gaze finding Addy. I live to fight another day.

The worst part about this sport is that your teammates are your first and most important competition.

We warm up our libs, meaning the bases hold one of my feet while I tuck the other under me in extension. Then we gather around Coach again for the explanation of the competition stunt.

“Dip one, full-up to extension three, heel stretch five, stay seven, dip one, tick-tock to heel stretch three, tick-tock to heel stretch five, stay seven, bow-and-arrow one, dip three, double down five.”

A murmur travels through the crowd. Last year, we did a full-up to extension, waited for two counts, and then threw a heel stretch. This year, there seem to be no breaks whatsoever. Full-up immediately into a heel stretch, switch legs in the extension to immediately do another heel stretch, bow and arrow to an immediate double down. The bases will be catching my leg at the same time that they’re dipping to throw it again. No time for hesitation or wobbles.

My muscles buzz with anticipation. This is what I went to the summer cheerleading camp for. What I bailed out of summer in Poland with Babcia for.

Coach motions for Monique’s stunt group to show the whole sequence together. They’re the center group, made up of the best people on the team. Bryn and I screamed so loud when Monique made it in as a junior.

I catch movement in my peripheral vision and do a double-take to make sure I’m seeing correctly. Aang’s eyes are fixed on the demo, his lips mouthing the counts, his hands changing into different grips, mirroring Monique. Huh.

Coach claps, and I peel my eyes away from Aang. “Try the second part for now, the tick-tock heel stretch!” she orders.

I launch myself in between Paige and Emmy milliseconds before Addy. I put out my right foot for my bases to grab it. Aang squats, and I internally snicker at the idea of this guy, whom I barely talk to, grabbing my butt multiple times three days a week. He must be getting used to it, because his hands are no longer dangerously sweaty anytime they come close to me. Or maybe he’s started putting deodorant on his palms.

They throw me up, and I grab my foot at the top for a heel stretch. When they dip, I let go of my foot and switch legs in midair. As Paige and Emmy grip my other foot, they immediately squat and throw, and I switch feet again. I do a heel stretch with my left leg.

Perfect. I go down. I check on Coach, but she’s busy with a sophomore base in group five. I push my disappointment down. Plenty more time before training ends for her to look at me.

I make space for Addy. I want her to do well, I really do. Just not as well as me.

She goes up. She isn’t bad—she’s a senior, after all—but she hasn’t improved since last year, either. Her feet don’t land in the exact same spot when she switches legs, which throws off the bases when they try to grab her other foot. They cannot do the tick-tocks and have to bring her down. We practice for the next ten minutes, and Addy ends up failing twice as often as I do. Triumph and shame slosh together in my stomach, trying to overpower each other.

Coach assesses each group’s performance, and when she’s satisfied, she tells us to move on to what will be the first part of the stunt, full-up to extension. Addy beats me to being the first one. She jumps into a smoosh, and they dip, throwing her up. I hold my breath during the split second when they let go of her completely, letting her spin the full 360. The most likely place for something to go wrong. I breathe again when they catch her foot after she hits the highest point in the air. She kicks her other foot up for a heel stretch. But she does it too late and too aggressively. She loses her balance, and they have to catch her.

The triumph–shame combo stirs dangerously inside me.

I go next. Aang’s hands rest on my hips, and I need to bite my lip.

I don’t care about having his hands on my butt, but apparently, the waist is where I draw the line. I guess it’s hard to imagine a non-cheerleading scenario where his hand would grab my butt in the exact same position that it does during stunts. It’s not exactly romantic.

But his hands on my waist …

Brad used to get my attention in the hallways by putting his hands on my hips. But besides the feeling of satisfaction at having a quarterback boyfriend, his touch didn’t elicit anything. I didn’t need to bite my lip to stop a shiver.

Aang’s hand pushes my right hip down, and my gasp of surprise is drowned out by Emmy shouting, “Five, six, seven, eight!”

They dip, twisting me, and when I clear Aang’s head, I kick my right foot up and catch it. An alarm blares at the back of my head. My hips aren’t level, and I’m tilting to the left.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

But before I can fully lose my balance, Aang’s hand is on the outside of my left thigh, stopping me from tipping any further.

If my cheerleading smile wasn’t permanently etched into my skin, my jaw would have dropped.

They let me down, and I step away in a trance. He knew my hips weren’t square before we went up. He predicted I’d tilt to the left. He knew something was wrong before I did. What on Earth …

When Addy goes up, for the first time in two weeks, I don’t stare at her, evaluating her against me. I focus on him.

His eyes narrow into pinpoints. He bites his bottom lip, and my breath hitches. He looks like he’s cataloguing every tremor, every micro-adjustment, every breath, ready to catch Addy before she even falls.

Is that how he looks at me?

The idea jolts through my body like I’m being electrocuted, and there’s nothing else to do but stare at the executioner.

Does he study me with the intensity I’ve only ever seen reserved for math and Cantonese?

That’s …

That’s so hot.

A ball of fire explodes inside me. Nie. Nie, nie, nie.

I fix all my attention on Addy, who yet again kicks up her leg too late. She lands on the ground, stomping her foot.

“Would you like to go again?” I ask her weakly. I need a minute to stop being feverish.

“Oh, yes, please! Thanks.” She moves back into position.

“Kick your foot earlier. It’ll help,” I say.

She gives me a small smile. The triumph–shame mixture retreats from my stomach. I smile back. I’m a good teammate. I help my competition get better.

The stunt group dips, and Addy does the worst thing she can—she kicks early.

And hits Aang straight in the face.

“Fuck!” He stumbles back, clutching his nose.

Fear runs down my spine. I push past Addy and kneel in front of him. “Let me see!”

He clutches it even harder. I wrestle his hands away and grab his chin. He goes rigid, and I can finally scan his nose. He’s not bleeding, and nothing seems swollen. “Are you having trouble breathing?”

He shakes his head.

“Okay, I know it probably hurts like shit, but you’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.” My muscles loosen up.

“Okay, I’m fine,” he says quietly. His chin gets heavier in my hand. For a second, I can’t figure out why. And then it hits. He just rested his chin in my hand.

A cough from above. I look up to find Coach and the whole team frowning at me. I scramble away from Aang, my cheeks heating up. “His nose isn’t broken.”

“Thank you for the medical assessment, JJ.” Coach turns her gaze to Aang. “You okay?”

He nods, his hand traveling to his chin.

“Okay, everyone, take a break. Aang, let’s talk.” Coach helps him stand up and checks over his face.

The team, including me, runs to the other side of the gym. Bryn bumps my hip, a water bottle in her hand. “The last time I got kicked in the face, you and Monique laughed at me. If only I could have gotten half of the concern Aang got.”

Sweat drips down my back at her raised eyebrow. “Well, I brought him here, so it’s only natural—”

“Uh-huh, sure.” She sips her water. “I just realized that I know so little about our new teammate. That’s very rude of me.”

My arm hair stands up in alarm. “Bryn, do not talk to him. The last time you were near him, you witnessed him getting humiliated and—”

“It was a year ago and not that bad.”

“I assure you, he still remembers, and he’s still mad about it. Do not disturb whatever coping strategy he’s using.”

“Why do you think he’s using a coping strategy?”

I look at him. Addy’s in front of him, waving her arms around, probably apologizing profusely. “Because he’s still here.”

Before Bryn can respond, Coach shouts, “End of break!”

For the rest of the training, no one kicks anyone in the face. Addy improves, I think, but it’s much harder to monitor her now that I know what Aang looks like while stunting. At the end of the session, Coach gives us instructions for tomorrow’s football game and sends us away.

I run after Aang. “Wait!”

He stops in front of the boys’ changing room door.

“How are you feeling? No headache? Your nose is fine?” I reach toward his face.

He jerks away from me like I was about to punch him and eyes my hands suspiciously. “Do me a favor and control your medical savior complex near me.” He goes into the changing room and shuts the door in my face.

My body goes hot all at once, and any concern I had evaporates. How unethical would it be to steal drugs from my mom’s hospital and poison him?

You’d have no chance of flying if he suffered a painful demise.

I kick the door and walk away.

9 Not me. Not me. Not me.