Chapter 1: First Day of Practice
The gymnasium hummed with the thud of landings and the creak of chalked grips as Kris Slone tilted her phone toward her face as she propped it up on a table, her blue eyes bright with practiced energy. "Okay, guys, welcome to the first day of gymnastics practice in my Junior Year!"
She stepped back from the phone, letting the camera drink in the full picture: the royal blue leotard hugging every curve, the silver chain glinting against her collarbone, the long legs that had carried her through a decade of competition. She gave a slow, playful turn, then leaned back toward the lens with a wink.
"You guys like the new leotard? Coach ordered these special for the season." She ran a hand down her hip, letting the gesture linger just a beat longer than necessary. "Anyway, enough showing off. Let's go find the girls."
Kris drifted across the gym floor, phone held high, scanning for her teammates. A few of the girls were already stretching on the blue mats, their leotards a splash of royal blue against the chalk dust. "There they are," she said, spinning the camera around. "Come say hi, guys."
From the sideline, the Coach watched with her arms crossed, her hazel eyes tracking Kris as she introduced each of the girls with a watchfulness that had nothing to do with spotting technique. Years ago she would have shut this down, confiscated the phone and barked about focus and discipline. Then Livvy Dunne had blown up at LSU, and suddenly every college gymnast tried to get in on the action. No one caught nearly the same kind of attention.
Then, during Kris's sophomore year, she went viral, and the school saw dollar signs. The Coach had been forced to loosen the reins, to tolerate phones on the floor, to smile through gritted teeth while Kris and her teammates performed for strangers online. Her hazel eyes tracked Kris now with the patience of a woman who had learned to wait. The money flowed in, the donors were happy, and the Coach had learned that some compromises were easier to justify than others.
"...And here's our head coach," Kris announced to the camera, spinning the lens toward the woman. "Say hi to Coach Scott."
The older woman's mask flickered, a muscle jumping in her jaw. She stepped forward, arms still crossed. "It's Smith, Kris. Coach Smith."
Kris blinked. "Wait, what?" Kris asked, turning off the camera.
"I got married over the weekend." The words came out flat, rehearsed. "Lisa Smith now."
A ripple of murmurs spread across the mats. The girls exchanged glances, eyebrows climbing.
"Married?" Kris echoed, lowering the phone. "I didn't even know you were dating someone. What's her name?"
Kris knew the coach was private, but not this private. Everyone knew about her girlfriends, the breakups, the messy years. This came from nowhere.
"Just someone I met," Coach Smith said, turning toward the vault. "It was fast. I'm happy. That's all you need to know." The dismissal was absolute. The girls exchanged uneasy looks, then picked up their chalk.
The girls propped their phones against water bottles and chalk buckets, angled for maximum flattering light. Coach Smith's eyes tracked each setup but said nothing. A dozen little red recording dots blinked at her, unblank eyes tracking her movement. She hated the attention. But today had a purpose, and she wouldn't let anything distract her from what needed to be done.
She turned her back to them to face the girls as they lined up in front of her.
Coach Smith clasped her hands behind her back, the platinum band catching the overhead lights. "Here's how today works. We're splitting into three rotations. Group one, vault and floor tumbling. Group two, uneven bars. Group three, balance beam and conditioning. You know your event assignments from the summer packet. Fifteen minutes per station, then rotate."
Coach Smith understood the girls' need to document their journey. The exposure helped recruit new talent and built the program's brand. As long as the filming didn't interfere with their training, she permitted it. It was a delicate balance between maintaining focus and allowing the content that kept their program relevant in the digital age.
"Yes, Coach," Kris said, the words automatic. She set her phone down on the chalk bucket and joined her group at the vault runway.
The next hour passed in a blur of chalk and controlled violence. Kris's group cycled through vault approaches, then moved to floor tumbling, her body remembering the rhythms even as her mind drifted. Something about the coach felt off. The way she watched them, yes, but also the way she moved, with a kind of suppressed energy, like a cat pretending not to notice a bird.
At the bars, Kris gripped the chalk and worked through her routine, her muscles burning with the familiar ache of early-season conditioning. Between sets, Kris signaled to Maddie to grab her phone. As she executed her routine, the lens captured every controlled extension and precise landing. Once finished, she jogged over, took the device, and turned it back on her teammates, documenting their progress with practiced ease.
Between rotations, Kris jogged over to the water station and found Mackenzie, a senior with a pixie cut and a worried crinkle between her brows.
"Did you know about this?" Kris asked, her voice barely a whisper over the clatter of equipment.
"Know about what?" Mackenzie replied, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "The coach getting married!" Kris hissed, glancing toward where Coach Smith was now watching their conversation with unnerving stillness.
"No," Mackenzie answered. "She hasn't mentioned seeing anyone since, like, April."
"Getting married is one thing. Taking the name is another." Kris shook her head. "She's been Coach Scott for ten years. Her whole brand is Coach Scott."
"I know." Mackenzie glanced toward the coach, who was now speaking quietly with one of the assistant coaches. "Maybe she just wanted a fresh start. New season, new name."
"Maybe." Kris didn't believe it. Something about the flat way Coach had delivered the news stuck in her chest like a splinter.
The second rotation ended, and Coach Smith called them to the center mat. The girls gathered in a loose semicircle, sweat-sheened and breathing hard. Coach's hazel eyes swept over them, and for a moment, Kris could have sworn the woman's gaze lingered on her longer than necessary.
"Good work today," Coach said. "Your conditioning shows. We'll build from here. Tomorrow, same time, same groups. Stretch out before you leave."
The girls began to scatter toward their bags, but Kris hung back, phone in hand. The vlog needed an ending, something with personality. She caught a few of her teammates' eyes and gestured them over.
"You guys want to do the exit together?" Kris asked.
The girls nodded, falling into place beside her. Kris's camera captured them all, a row of royal blue leotards and tired smiles. She raised the phone, framing the shot with the locker room doors behind them.
"Okay, guys, that's it for the first day of practice," Kris said, her voice sliding back into its bright, performative register. "Thanks for spending it with me. I have to go hit the showers now."
She paused, letting the words land, then tilted her head with a knowing smirk. The girls giggled behind her, catching on.
"What? You want to come with me?" Kris asked, her voice teasing, her blue eyes dancing at the lens. "Sorry, guys. I wish I could bring you with us. But we can't. Bye, guys."
The girls waved, a flurry of manicured hands and chattering goodbyes. Kris turned, leading the way into the locker room, the girls falling in behind her as if part of a procession. The camera angle would make it seem like they were leaving the viewers behind, stepping into a space meant only for them.