Against my better judgment, I follow Gretchen and find myself face-to-face with a shiny blue leotard hanging in one of the cubbies in the locker room. Gretchen, who can probably fit into a keyhole she’s so petite, says in a heavy Russian accent, “Put it on, then meet me in the gym.”
When she walks out of the room, I stare at the blue spandex and think . . . what horrible thing did I do in my life to deserve this?
Chapter 27
Derek
I look ridiculous and stupid. As I check myself in the bathroom mirror, I want to back out. I’m wearing a skintight leotard/ bodysuit obviously designed by women who have no clue about men’s plumbing, because the outline of my dick is obscene. Don’t dudes who do this sport wear a cup or something? I’ve been on a trampoline, but I’ve never done synchronized trampolining. Looking at myself in the mirror, I can see why. I thought having a private trampoline session with two pros would be funny, something completely off the wall. This idea has completely backfired.
I hear a loud knock. “Derek, come out!” Jumpin’ Jack bellows through the men’s dressing room door.
I adjust and hope I can avoid further embarrassment by not getting a hard-on during this training session. When I walk into the gym, Ashtyn’s standing atop the center trampoline wearing a matching skintight leotard that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Her gaze moves downward and her hand flies to her mouth as she giggles. “Oh my . . . Derek, your, umm . . .”
“Huge, I know. Stop staring at it or soon you’ll be seein’ how impressive it really gets.” I gesture to her chest. “You cold, Sugar Pie?”
She crosses her arms on her chest when she realizes that I’m not the only one with body parts sticking out.
“Hold hands,” Gretchen instructs.
Ashtyn stares at my hands as if she’s not about to touch them anytime soon.
“Don’t we jump on separate trampolines?” I ask. This wasn’t supposed to be an intimate holding-hands session. I’ve seen the videos online. We’re supposed to be jumping on two different trampolines.
“You need to find and feel each other’s rhythm first.”
Sounds like screwing, not trampolining, but I’m game. I hold out my hands. Ashtyn takes a deep breath, then slides her hands on top of mine. Her touch sends a jolt of electricity through me. I look for a sign to see if she feels it, too. She obviously doesn’t, because her eyes are averted and she looks like she’d like to be anywhere but here.
“Start jumping!” Jumpin’ Jack orders.
We do. Ashtyn tries to stay upright, but falls backward. Since our hands are still attached, I almost fall on top of her.
“Sorry,” I mumble. This is way closer than I thought we’d be, and it’s throwing me off my game. Tonight was supposed to make me stop thinking about my grandmother. It was supposed to be entertaining, mocking her and the nondate I manipulated her to go on in the first place.
Ashtyn stands and holds out her hands so we can try again. “This is ridiculous. You know that, don’t you?”
“Feel my rhythm,” I say, then wink at her in an attempt to make light of the situation.
She tilts her head and smiles sweetly. “Fuck you.”
She tries to pull her hands away, but I hold tight and keep jumping.
“Feel your partner’s energy,” Jack instructs. “Don’t fight it. Match it, imitate it, until you’re of one mind.”
“Next time we go out, remind me to wear a sports bra,” Ashtyn mumbles. “And you’d be better off wearing a jockstrap.”
I try to hide a smile. “You’re already looking forward to the next time?”
“No. I just meant . . . Forget what I meant and concentrate,” she says, flustered.
“You’re cute when you’re nervous, Sugar Pie.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Sure you are. Your palms are sweaty and—”
“Stop talking and focus!” Gretchen yells.
It takes us fifteen minutes before Jumpin’ Jack announces that we’re ready to separate and try side-by-side trampolines. With each jump, Ashtyn seems to relax. We’ve finally gotten the hang of it and she even starts smiling and letting out little laughs when we mess up. Jumpin’ Jack and Gretchen both take this jumping stuff way more seriously than it needs to be, which is comedy. Gretchen scolds us every time Ashtyn and I talk or laugh, which makes us laugh even more.
“When you jump in sync,” Gretchen says after Jumpin’ Jack teaches us a few tricks, “your bodies and souls become one entity. It’s like making love.”
I look over at Ashtyn and our eyes lock. I imagine what it would be like to be intimate with her, with her looking up at me with those expressive eyes and full lips. At first I’d take it slow, savoring each moment . . . then I’d let her set the pace. Would she let down her fierce protective shell, or would it always be there, a reminder that she’ll never fully let go of her inhibitions?
Shit, I better stop those wayward thoughts before everyone in the room knows what I’m thinking. If Ashtyn knew what was on my mind, she’d probably punch me in the groin—which she’d have no problem finding in this leotard. I tell myself I’m sexually frustrated because I haven’t hooked up with a girl in a few months. I need to fix that, and not with a girl like Ashtyn. She’s made for guys who want a commitment. I’m made for girls who want a good time. While we might be jumping in sync, our personalities when it comes to dating clash like oil and water.
At the end of the hour, and a picture that Gretchen insists we take in our leotards, we’ve mastered how to jump and do a few tricks in sync. Gretchen and Jumpin’ Jack are impressed with our progress and invite us back anytime for another lesson.
In the car, Ashtyn and I are silent as I drive to dinner. I’m still trying to convince myself I’m not attracted to her. We’re not in sync at all, in anything. Except trampolining. We rocked it tonight.
“Trampolining was a really stupid idea,” Ashtyn says. She’s back in her sweats, looking like she’s ready for an intense workout at the gym instead of a night out on the town.