Chapter Text
“...I can tell you’ve been here before.”
☆
I.
Trinity Santos was one of those young gymnasts you couldn’t help but watch and immediately picture a bright future for. Even at a glance, it was obvious she had something special, something you don’t see very often. By ten, she was competing regionally, winning gold against gymnasts years older than her with years more experience. It didn’t seem to faze her either. If anything, she made it look easy.
And by fourteen… Well, I’ll leave that up to your imagination.
Trinity was nothing short of a prodigy, that much was certain. The kind of athlete people would talk about and assume is headed somewhere big long before they actually get there. So by the time the looming shadow of high school started to creep in, gymnastics coaches all across Maryland were fighting tooth and nail to recruit her, each one convinced they were looking at the future of the sport.
By the time Trinity hit fifteen, the emails had slowed down, but only because the messages had gotten smarter. Less “We’d love to have you at our program!” and more “We see exactly what you are, and we know what to do with it.”
She didn’t answer most of them.
Actually, scratch that, she opened them, rolled her eyes, maybe screenshotted the worst ones to send to her friends, and then ignored them. It wasn’t that she didn’t care. She did. Probably too much. She just refused to look like she did.
So when the message came, it didn’t stand out at first.
No flashy subject line. No excessive exclamation points. No weird attempt at sounding “down with the kids.” Just her name.
Trinity Santos.
That was it. She almost didn’t open it.
Almost.
The email was short. Suspiciously short.
‘ I’ve been watching your routines for the past two seasons. You’re being undertrained. If you’re serious about collegiate gymnastics, and I mean serious, I can help you get there. Full scholarship level. I don’t recruit often. I don’t need to. But I’m reaching out to you.
— Coach Alvarez ‘
Trinity stared at the screen. Then blinked. Then leaned back in her chair.
“Wow,” she muttered. “Okay. Starting strong with the audacity.” Undertrained? She let out a short laugh
“Yeah, sure. I’ve just been freestyling gymnastics this whole time.”
But her eyes drifted back to the message. She reread it. Twice. There was something about how sure he sounded.
And that part.
Full scholarship level.
Her stomach did a small, traitorous flip.
She hated that.
Trinity did what any rational person would do in this situation. She googled him. Fifteen minutes later, she was sitting on her bed, phone in hand.
“Okay,” she said to herself. “That’s… annoying.”
Because he wasn’t bluffing. Elite studio. National-level athletes. A track record that was, frankly, ridiculous.
And suddenly that one line hit different.
You’re being undertrained.
Her jaw tightened.
She didn’t respond right away. Of course she didn’t. That would imply eagerness, and Trinity Santos did not do eagerness. Instead, she waited.
A day.
Then another.
By day three, she’d drafted a reply in her notes app six different times and deleted all of them.
By day four, she was annoyed, mostly at herself.
“Just say no,” she muttered, pacing her room. “Or say yes. Or say something normal like a functioning human being.”
Instead, she opened the email again. Read it again. And before she could overthink it, she typed.
‘ Hi Coach, Bold of you to assume I’m “undertrained” and not just wildly mediocre. But I respect the confidence. What exactly does “help you get there” look like?
— Trinity ‘
She hit send. Immediately regretted it. Then immediately un-regretted it.
He replied in twelve minutes. Which was… also annoying.
‘ It looks like hard work. It looks like fixing habits no one bothered to correct. It looks like you hating me for about three months. And then it looks like results. If you’re interested, come in for an evaluation.
— Alvarez ‘
Trinity stared at the message. Her lips pressed together.
She knew she’d hit a plateau. Something wasn’t clicking the way it used to, and she didn’t want to stay here.
☆
The studio was exactly what she expected—clean and quiet. Trinity walked in like she owned the place anyway.
“Hi,” she said to the front desk. “I’m here for the critique of my athletic identity?”
The receptionist blinked. “Evaluation with Coach Alvarez?”
She paused. “Yeah, that.”
He was already on the floor when she stepped in. Didn’t rush over. He just watched. Which, for some reason, was worse. Trinity rolled her shoulders.
“Cool,” she said. “Just gonna stare, or…?”
That earned the smallest hint of a smile.
“Warm up,” he said. “Then show me your floor routine.”
☆
An hour later, Trinity was breathing harder than she wanted to admit. Coach Alvarez stepped closer, arms crossed.
“You compensate on your landings,” he said. “Right side. You don’t trust your left.”
Trinity wiped sweat from her forehead. “Wow. Can’t believe my deep emotional issues are showing up in my ankles.”
“You’re good,” he continued. “Better than most at your level. But not where you think you are.”
There it was. Trinity tilted her head, studying him.
“And you can fix that?”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between them. This time, she didn’t rush to fill it.
“What’s the catch?” she asked finally.
“Commitment,” he said. “You train here, you train my way. No half effort. No disappearing and running to mommy when you can’t stick a landing. And if you stick with it,” he added, “I’ll get you in front of the right college programs. The kind that offer full scholarships.” Her chest tightened again. She looked around the gym. At the equipment, then at the version of herself she could almost, almost, see standing here. Then she looked back at him.
“Alright then,” she said. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
And, just like that, Trinity Santos said yes.
☆
Three months later, Trinity hated him. Not in the jokingly sarcastic, “haha I hate this” way. The real kind. Which, to be fair…
He had warned her.
Everything about the training had gotten harder. The corrections quicker, the expectations higher, the margin for error basically nonexistent.
Trinity had improved. Annoyingly so.
Her landings were cleaner, her timing tighter, even the tiny habits she hadn’t noticed were getting stripped away one by one. It was the kind of progress people would kill for.
Meaning she couldn’t even complain about it properly.
“Ugh, I’m getting better, this is the worst,” she muttered one afternoon, flopping down next to Hannah after a set of passes.
Hannah snorted, handing her a water bottle. “You’re so annoying.”
“I know,” Trinity said immediately. “It’s a gift.”
Hannah Flores had been an accident. Not literally, but the kind of person you don’t expect to become constant.
They’d started talking the second week, something about sharing chalk, or complaining about conditioning, or Trinity making a comment that should’ve been a one-off joke and somehow turned into a full conversation.
Then another. And suddenly—
They were inseparable.
Hannah was different.
Quieter, in some ways. Softer around the edges. But not weak, never that. There was a steadiness to her, something grounded that Trinity didn’t realize she needed until it was just there.
“You’re thinking too much again,” Hannah said, nudging her shoulder.
“I’m always thinking too much,” Trinity shot back.
“Yeah, but now you’re doing the spiral thing.”
Trinity glanced at her. “I don’t spiral.”
Hannah raised an eyebrow.
“…Okay, I spiral a little,” Trinity admitted. “As a treat.”
But outside the gym, things were getting worse in the way Trinity didn’t talk about. Her grips were wearing down. Not dangerously yet, but close enough that she noticed every time they slipped just a little more than they used to. Her leotards? Let’s just say rotation was becoming… creative. There were only so many times you could wash and re-wear something before it started to show. And the studio wasn’t cheap.
None of it was.
Every extra training hour came with a cost that sat heavy in the back of her mind.
She hadn’t told Hannah. And she definitely wasn’t telling Coach.
And at home…
“Well, maybe if you were actually winning something again, it would make sense.” Trinity froze in the kitchen doorway.
Her mom didn’t even look up.
“I am winning,” Trinity said, keeping her voice flat.
“Mm.” A small shrug. “Hindi tulad ng dati.” (Not like before.)
There it was.
Always that comparison.
Before.
When things were easier. When Trinity was younger and everything looked more impressive because no one expected consistency yet.
“It’s a higher level now,” Trinity said. “It’s different.”
Her mom finally glanced up. “Iba doesn’t always mean better,” she said. “Mukha kang pagod. Minsan… ang sloppy mo tignan.” (You look tired. Sometimes… you look sloppy.)
Something in Trinity’s chest tightened.
“I’m not sloppy.”
“Talaga?” her mom shot back. “Then why aren’t you placing like you used to? Bakit wala na yung medals?” (Really? Then why aren’t you placing like you used to? Where are the medals now?)
The question landed exactly where it was meant to. Trinity let out a short laugh.
“Wow,” she said. “Grabe, Ma. Very motivational speech. Nakaka-inspire talaga.” (Wow, Mom. Very motivational speech. So inspiring.)
“I’m just being honest,” her mom replied. “Kailangan mo marinig yun.” (You need to hear that.)
☆
Back at the gym, hours got longer. More corrections. Less praise. And lately, more attention.
Not just on Trinity. On Hannah, too.
At first, it felt like a good thing. Coach Alvarez started pulling them aside more often. Giving them extra drills. Extra feedback. Extra time on equipment when others were rotating out.
“You two are ahead,” he said one evening. “I’m not going to hold you back to match everyone else.” Trinity exchanged a glance with Hannah. Ahead. That sounded nice. Earned, even.
But then it kept happening. More one-on-one sessions, separated from the rest of the team like they were something different.
“Again,” Coach said, watching Trinity’s landing.
She went again.
“And again.”
By the fifth time, her legs were starting to ache.
“Still off,” he said.
Trinity exhaled sharply. “Cool. Love that for me.”
“Focus.”
“I am focused.”
“Then show it.”
Her jaw tightened. She reset. Went again. Landed cleaner.
“Better,” he said.
Not good. Not nice. Just better.
Trinity rolled her eyes, but there was less bite behind it now. Not much energy left to fight.
Later, she sat next to Hannah, stretching her legs.
“I think my bones are dissolving,” she said.
“Uh, so, that’s not how bones work,” Hannah replied.
“You don’t know that. Have you checked?”
Hannah smiled. And for a second, Trinity felt okay. Until Coach called them both back over.
“Stay a little longer,” he said. “I want to work on something with you two.”
The rest of the team was already packing up. Trinity hesitated. It was barely noticeable. But Hannah noticed.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Trinity said quickly. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
Coach’s voice then interrupted the two.
“If you’re serious about this,” he said, “you won’t leave.”
Same pressure as always. That implication that stopping meant you didn’t want it enough.
Trinity pushed herself to her feet.
“Right,” she said lightly. “Fuckin’ fantastic.”
The extra sessions became normal. Expected. Then, different.
The lines blurred in ways Trinity couldn’t quite explain at that time. Nothing obvious or anything she could point to and say that’s wrong, just—
The way Coach talked to them, sometimes softer. The way his attention lingered. The way it started to feel less like training and more like something she didn’t have a name for yet.
And the worst part?
She was too tired to pick it apart.
Caught somewhere between this is what it takes and why does this feel off?
One night, walking out of the gym way later than everyone else, Trinity let out a long breath.
“I think I hate him again,” she said.
Hannah glanced at her. “Again?”
“It’s a cycle,” Trinity said. “Very healthy. Very stable.”
Hannah quietly laughed. But she didn’t disagree.
☆
Trinity adjusted the strap of her bag, pretending not to notice the way the fabric was starting to fray at the edges and was practically begging to be thrown out and replaced. Ignoring the way her body ached in a way that didn’t feel temporary anymore. Ignoring a lot of things.
“Hey,” Hannah said gently.
Trinity looked over.
“You’re okay,” Hannah added.
Trinity smiled.
Automatic. A little too quick.
“Yeah,” she said. “Obviously. I’m thriving.”
Hannah studied her for a second longer than usual. But she didn’t push.
And Trinity… Trinity didn’t offer anything more.
Because if she slowed down long enough to actually feel all of it, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep going. And right now, stopping didn’t feel like an option.
☆
The first time it happened, Trinity almost missed it. Which felt important later. The almost. They’d stayed late again. Of course they had. And, well, every correction felt… closer.
“Better today,” Coach Alvarez said, standing just behind her as she stretched out her calves.
Trinity snorted. “Wow. High praise. I’ll write it down, frame it, pass it down to my next of kin. Shit, maybe–”
“Trinity.”
Something in his tone made her pause.
She looked up.
He was closer than usual. Not correction-close. Just standing there like she’d done something worth looking at.
“You are better,” he said again. Quieter this time.
“…Thanks,” she said, a little more flat than she meant to.
He smiled, well, it was close to a smile at least. Then, he reached out and tapped her cheek. Just a light, lingering touch.
“Good work,” he added. And then he moved on. That was it.
Trinity blinked after him, something faintly off settling under her skin.
“…Okay,” she muttered to herself. “Weird. Whatever.”
Across the mat, Hannah gave her a look.
“You good?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Trinity said immediately. Then, “He’s just… being weird today.”
Hannah hesitated.
“Yeah,” she said. “A little.”
Neither of them said anything else about it. Because it hadn’t been anything.
Right?
The second time, it was easier to explain.
They’d both nailed a sequence. Actually nailed it. Clean landings, tight timing. Trinity landed, steadied, and threw her hands up.
“Boom,” she said, breathless.
“Come here.” She barely had time to process it before Coach stepped in, one hand briefly on her shoulder, pulling her just slightly closer.
“See?” he said, voice low. “That’s what happens when you listen.”
And then…
A quick kiss to her cheek.
Fleeting. Gone before it could settle.
Trinity froze. Just a split-second hitch. He stepped back like nothing had happened.
“Again,” he said, already turning away.
Trinity stood there for half a second too long.
“Wow,” she whispered.
No response. But she saw the edge of a smile.
She jogged back into place. Ignored the weird little buzz under her skin. Ignored the way Hannah was watching her.
Later, when they were grabbing their bags, Hannah asked, “Does he do that to everyone?”
Trinity shrugged. “Probably. I’m just his favorite, so I get… bonus.”
Hannah didn’t laugh.
“…Yeah,” she said after a second. “Probably.”
And that was that. Because it had to be that. Anything else would make it complicated.
But it didn’t stay small. That was the problem. Small things are easy to dismiss. You brush them off, tell yourself you imagined it wrong, and move on. But small things, repeated often enough, start to stack.
A hand lingering too long on Trinity’s waist when he adjusted her form. Fingers pressing into Hannah’s shoulders, thumbs tracing slow circles while he talked through corrections. Standing closer. Talking quieter. Pulling them aside more often.
“You two are ahead.”
“You need more.”
“I’m not going to waste your potential.”
It sounded like opportunity. It felt like… something else.
One night, Trinity messed up a landing. Not badly, but enough.
She hissed under her breath. “Great. Just great, Super—”
“Stop.”
She did. He stepped in behind her. Close. Too close.
“Feel it,” he said, one hand settling at her hip, guiding the angle. “You’re overcorrecting.”
His grip tightened slightly. Trinity’s stomach twisted.
“Coach—” she started, half a protest, half something she couldn’t name.
“Trust me,” he cut in.
And she did. Because she had to. Because he was right, wasn’t he? Because every time she followed what he said, she got better.
Stopping would mean all of this meant nothing.
His hand shifted. Lower than it needed to be. Just for a second. Then it was gone.
“Again,” he said.
Like nothing had happened. Trinity swallowed.
“Yeah,” she said, voice tight. “Cool. Again.”
They didn’t talk about it. Not really.
“You ever feel like…” Hannah started one night, sitting cross-legged on the mat. Trinity glanced over.
“Like what?”
Hannah hesitated.
Then shook her head. “Nothing.”
Trinity watched her.
“…Okay,” she said. Because if Hannah didn’t say it, Trinity definitely wasn’t going to. Because if neither of them said it, then it wasn’t real. Then it was just part of training.
☆
Things were barely better at home.
“You’re always out,” her mom said one night, not looking up from the table. “Parang wala ka nang ibang buhay.” (It’s like you don’t have any other life.)
Trinity dropped her bag by the door. “Yeah. That’s kind of how training works.”
Her mom hummed, unimpressed. “Training for what?”
Trinity stilled.
“For gymnastics,” she said. “Obviously.”
“Hanggang kailan?” (Until when?)
“What does that mean?”
Her mom finally looked at her. “You’re not a kid anymore. How old are you? Fifteen?” A small shake of her head. “You think this is forever?”
“I’m trying to get a scholarship,” Trinity shot back. “That’s the point.”
“And after that?”
“I don’t know, Ma, maybe I’ll just, fuck, exist happily? Sorry I don’t have my entire life planned out for your approval.”
Her mom’s expression didn’t change.
“Gymnastics is not stable,” she said flatly. “Hindi ka pwedeng umasa diyan.” (You can’t rely on that.)
“I’m not relying on it,” Trinity snapped. “I’m working for it.”
“Working yourself into what?” her mom pressed. “Pagod ka lagi. Wala ka nang resulta na maipakita.” (You’re always tired. You don’t have results to show anymore.)
That hit. Of course it did.
“I am getting results,” Trinity said, quieter now.
“Hindi ko nakikita.” (I don’t see it.)
Her mom looked her over. “Maybe it’s time to think about something else.”
Something in Trinity went cold.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll just drop everything I’ve been working toward. Great plan. Super helpful.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” Trinity said. “That’s the problem.”
☆
Back at the gym, everything blurred further.
The progress. The pressure. The way boundaries kept shifting.
Just enough that every time it happened, there was still room to say “It’s nothing. It’s fine.”
This is just what it takes.
One night, as Trinity and Hannah were leaving again, later than everyone else, Trinity adjusted her bag.
“I think we’re in a cult,” she said.
Hannah huffed. “At least we’re the favorites.”
“Yeah,” Trinity said.
They walked out into the dark parking lot, the air cool against overheated skin. Neither of them moved toward their cars.
“…You’re okay,” Hannah said again.
Trinity smiled too quickly.
“I always am.”
☆
It didn’t happen all at once. That would’ve been easier, clean, a moment you could point to and say: there, that’s where it went wrong. Instead, it kept… changing.
“You’re tense,” Coach Alvarez said one night, standing behind Hannah as she stretched.
“I’m fine,” Hannah replied, quick, automatic.
“No.” His hands settled on her shoulders, firm. “You’re holding everything here.”
His thumbs pressed in, slow, deliberate. Hannah stiffened for half a second. Then forced herself to relax.
“See?” he murmured. “You have to trust me.”
Trinity watched from across the mat, arms folded. It looked normal. It shouldn't have looked normal.
Coaches corrected posture. Helped athletes loosen up.
That was the job. That was all it was.
“Trin,” he called, not looking up. “Come here.”
She did. Of course she did. He stepped back from Hannah and moved toward her, eyes scanning like he was already finding things to fix.
“You’re still overcompensating,” he said, his hand finding her waist. “Here.”
The contact lingered. Not long enough to call out. Not short enough to ignore.
“Got it,” she said lightly, like it didn’t matter.
“Do you?” he asked.
His hand didn’t move.
She forced a grin. “Yeah, Coach. I’m not completely hopeless.”
His fingers pressed in, firmer this time. Lower along her waist than before.
Trinity’s breath hitched, just slightly.
He kept going like nothing had happened.
“Again,” he said.
And she went.
Afterwards, they didn’t talk about it.
They never talked about it.
No one mentioned the way Hannah’s hands had been shaking earlier.
Or the way Trinity had almost missed her landing because her head wasn’t in it.
Or the way Coach had smiled afterward, like none of it had been out of place.
☆
Extra time turned into expected time.
Expected time turned into private time.
They were sitting on the mat, catching their breath after another round that had gone on too long.
“You can handle more.”
Trinity let out a short laugh. “Yeah, because we’re clearly not already dying—”
“I’m serious.”
His gaze settled on her. Then to Hannah.
“There’s a level you won’t reach unless you’re willing to push past what’s comfortable.”
Hannah swallowed. “We are pushing.”
“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I’m investing in you.”
Investing.
Like something transactional.
His hand came up, brushing a loose strand of hair back from Hannah’s face.
Casual.
Hannah froze. Then didn’t move away. Because what would that mean if she did?
“You trust me, right?” he asked.
It wasn’t really a question.
“…Yeah,” Hannah said.
Trinity didn’t say anything. He looked at her. Waited.
“…Yeah,” she echoed.
☆
When it was undeniable, Trinity’s brain didn’t catch up fast enough.
They were alone again. Of course they were.
Late. Quiet. She’d messed up. Not even badly, just enough.
“Focus,” he said, stepping in.
“I am focused,” she shot back, “When am I not fucking focused?”
“You’re distracted.”
His hand caught her wrist. Not rough. Not gentle.
“Coach—”
“You want this, don’t you?” he interrupted.
“Yes,” she said immediately.
“Then act like it.”
His grip tightened. Not enough to hurt. Something in her chest started beating too fast.
“This is how you get there,” he said, voice low. “You don’t hesitate.”
“I’m not—” she started.
His other hand slid to her side. Lower. Too low.
Trinity’s words died in her throat. For a second, everything narrowed down to that moment.
This wasn’t—
This wasn’t right.
It wasn’t.
But—
He was her coach. He knew what he was doing. He’d gotten her this far. He—
“Relax,” he murmured.
Like she was the one making it weird. Like she was the one misunderstanding.
Her hands hovered awkwardly at her sides.
Didn’t do anything.
Because if she did, then what?
He pulled back first.
Like nothing had happened.
“Again,” he said.
Trinity stared at him.
“…Yeah,” she said after a second.
“Again.”
☆
Hannah wouldn’t meet her eyes afterward.
That was new.
“You okay?” Trinity asked, quieter this time.
Hannah nodded. “Yeah.”
Then, barely audible, “He does that to you too, right?”
Trinity’s chest tightened.
“…Yeah,” she said.
Silence. Then Hannah let out a shaky breath.
“Okay,” she said. Like that made it fine.
Trinity swallowed.
“Yeah,” she echoed.
If it was both of them, it couldn’t be her fault alone.
☆
Trinity walked in one afternoon to find forms and brochures were spread across the kitchen table. A laptop sat open on a registration page.
“…What is this?”
Her mom didn’t look up. “I signed you up.”
Trinity blinked. “Signed me up for what?”
“Nursing courses. Internship.” her mom said, like it was obvious.
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“I know.”
Trinity laughed sharply “Just making life decisions without me now?”
“You need something stable,” her mom said, finally meeting her eyes. “Ito, may future.” (This has a future.)
“I have a future,” Trinity shot back. “I’m working for it—”
“Gymnastics is not a future,” her mom cut in. “Hindi habang buhay yan.” (That’s not forever.)
“I’m trying to get a scholarship—”
“And what if you don’t?” her mom pressed. “Anong gagawin mo?” (What will you do?)
Trinity opened her mouth. Closed it. Because she didn’t have a clean answer.
“I already enrolled you,” her mom continued. “Bayad na yung first set of classes.” (The first set is already paid.)
“You what?”
“I’m helping you.”
“No,” Trinity said, voice rising. “You’re controlling me.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re not listening!”
“I am listening,” her mom fired back. “Naririnig ko yung katawan mo na pagod na.” (I hear your body being exhausted.)
“That’s not your decision to make!”
“It is when you won’t make it yourself!”
Trinity’s hands curled into fists at her sides.
“You don’t believe in me,” she said, quieter now.
Her mom didn’t hesitate.
“I believe in what’s real.”
That hurt more than anything else.
☆
The gym was quiet after everyone left. The only sound was the thud thud thud of Hannah compulsively bouncing a stress ball against the mat. Trinity watched it rise and fall. The extra conditioning had been brutal.
Coach Alvarez finished locking the equipment closet. The jangle of his keys was too loud. He turned against the darkened windows.
“You two are advancing well,” he said. “The rules are different for athletes at your level. You understand that, right?”
Trinity forced a shrug. “Different rules… I guess.”
He didn’t smile.
“It’s about environment. You can’t learn mental toughness in a place like this.” He paused. “My place. Now. We’re going to review the regional qualifier footage.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
Hannah’s bouncing stopped. The ball rolled away. “It’s… pretty late, Coach,” she said, her voice small.
“It’s only late for people who are quitters,” he replied, his gaze shifting to her. “Are you a quitter, Hannah?”
The challenge was clear. To say yes was to admit complacency. To say no was to admit weakness. Hannah looked down at her hands. “…No.”
“Then let’s go.”
☆
The drive was a silent, five-minute purgatory. Trinity sat shotgun.
His apartment was on the third floor. It smelled of clean carpet. It was aggressively normal. A sofa, a large television, a row of coaching manuals on a shelf. He tossed his keys into a ceramic bowl by the door with a clink.
“Sit. I’ll cue up the tape.”
They sat on the sofa, a cushion of space between them. He put on the footage.
For twenty minutes, it was just gymnastics. His commentary was sharp, brilliant even. He broke down angles and kinetics with a clarity her old coaches never had. Trinity found herself leaning forward, drawn in. See? A part of her mind whispered. This is all it is. This is why you’re here.
Then his arm stretched along the back of the sofa, behind Hannah. A casual gesture. His fingers, resting near her shoulder, began to trace idle circles on the fabric of her shirt.
Trinity’s focus on the screen fractured. The gym footage blurred at the edges of her attention, details slipping out of order. She could hear Hannah breathing too shallowly beside her, could feel something in the room tightening that didn’t match the calm tone in Coach Alvarez’s voice.
“See the shoulder angle here,” he said.
Trinity didn’t answer. She couldn’t tell if she was supposed to.
Something about the way he stood closer than before made the air feel wrong, compressed, like the room had narrowed without moving.
“This is the difference,” he continued, still watching the screen. “Between control and failure.”
Trinity tried to focus on the gymnast’s landing, but it didn’t resolve cleanly in her mind anymore. The movements stopped connecting. Everything felt slightly delayed.
Hannah shifted beside her. Then went still.
A sound came from her that didn’t quite fit the room.
Trinity turned her head, but the motion felt slow.
Coach’s voice didn’t change.
“Breathe, Hannah,” he instructed.
She registered pressure on her thigh, then absence of coherence. She flinched.
“Shhh,” he soothed. “Don’t fight it. This is where you hold your tension. You have to learn to release it.”
His fingers pushed down, past the elastic waistband of her shorts.
And all she could remember after that was the feeling of rough fingers that came with it.
A muffled sob came from Hannah. Trinity forced her eyes to turn. Coach had turned fully towards Hannah now. His hand was no longer on her neck… it was inside her leggings. Hannah’s eyes were screwed shut.
“It’s okay,” Coach was whispering to Hannah. “It’s just physiology. Stress response. Let it happen. Let me in.”
Trinity looked back at the frozen gymnast on the screen. The athlete’s face focused agony. I know, she thought. I know.
The physical sensations were distant. The pressure. The scratch of his wedding band against her skin. There was no passion in it.
When he finally withdrew, it was without fanfare. He pulled his hands free, stood up, and walked to the kitchen sink. He turned on the water and began washing his hands.
“The body remembers fear,” he said over the running water, not looking at them. “Now you know what it really feels like. Now you know what you have to overcome.”
Hannah was shaking, her legs pulled up to her chest. Trinity felt nothing. A vast, echoing nothing. She pulled her shorts back into place.
“The shower’s down the hall,” he said, drying his hands on a towel. “You’re welcome to use it.”
Hannah fled. The sound of the lock engaging was a tiny, definitive click.
Trinity stood. Her legs held her weight. “We’re leaving,” she said. Her voice didn’t sound like hers.
He nodded. “Think about the lesson. The best athletes don’t have boundaries the mediocre ones do… And besides, this? It’s all our little secret.”
She collected a shell-shocked Hannah from the bathroom. They didn’t speak in the elevator. They didn’t speak in the parking lot.
Under the bruise-colored sky, Hannah finally choked out, “What do we do?”
Trinity looked at her best friend’s face.
“We go home.”
☆
The walk home was a blur. She didn’t remember stopping at lights. She walked into her dark house and went straight to the kitchen table. The internship forms were still laid out.
Her mother’s words echoed.
This was real. No touches that were called corrections and violations that were called lessons. This paper was solid. It had a beginning and an end and it didn’t ask for pieces of her soul as tuition.
She clicked on the desk lamp. The sudden light was harsh. She picked up the pen.
Her hand hovered over the papers.
If she signed this…
That was it.
No more early mornings. No more routines. No more being good at something that mattered.
No more him.
Her fingers curled.
If I walk away now… was any of it worth it?
Because part of her still wanted to go back tomorrow and prove she could take it.
Yet… she signed her name.
Trinity Santos.
It was the most decisive thing she had done in months.
She put the pen down and walked upstairs. In her room, she didn’t undress. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the wall where a poster of a famous gymnast mid-leap was still taped.
Trinity reached out and peeled the poster from the wall. She folded it, once, then again, then again, until it was a small, thick square. She held it in her fist for a moment, then dropped it into her trash bin.
She lay down on top of the covers and closed her eyes.
She didn’t know what came after this, just that she had chosen the only door that didn’t lead back to that couch.
Gymnastics didn’t feel like the only thing she was losing.