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MB Short Story: First Date, Gymnastics Edition
🕑 Added 2022-09-21 21:58:27 +0000 UTCExplanatory Note:
When rewriting Chapter 9, I completely overhauled Kenzie's date to provide a more insight into their backstory and character. When I replayed for my final edit, however, the new version simply didn't work! It was too honest given that Kenzie and Button were undercover, and the length of the conversation made the chapter feel draggy and reduced the overall tension. Basically, I lost the plot and had to reluctantly admit that less is sometimes more.
That being said, there were some nice moments in the deleted date scene that I didn't want to completely throw away. So I took out the code and rewrote the scenes as short snippets. This particular date version happened if Button had previously made a comment about Kenzie's gymnastics experience in earlier chapters.
(Sidenote, but Kenzie's need to use an assistive cane is based on my father, whose high school growth spurt was so extreme that he temporarily ended up in a wheelchair.)
* * * *
“Why did you quit gymnastics?”
The question is out of your mouth before it occurs to you that this is probably something you shouldn’t ask. After all, you’re well versed enough in tropes to realize that, oftentimes, the reason someone gives up a sport which they previously loved and competed at a high level is part of a tragic backstory. An injured knee which led to a broken heart, that sort of thing. Not to mention that, as Kent’s supposed girlfriend, you’re already supposed to know the important things about them.
This is why you should always internet stalk your dinner dates beforehand, Nick thinks.
You’re mildly surprised when, instead of shedding a single, poetic tear over thwarted childhood dreams or chastising you for breaking cover, Kent only shrugs and takes another bite of his spaghetti.
He chews, and you internally spiral with worry over whether he hates you now because you said something super insensitive, or if he’s mulling over how much to tell you. Or maybe he’s just hungry and is too polite to talk with his mouth full. Figuring out Kent Zarneki’s thought process would likely take a lifetime . . . a prospect that’s not without allure.
“Grew too tall,” he finally says after swallowing.
Well, that was anticlimactic.
Kent smirks at your owlish head tilt. “I was a short kid,” he elaborates. “Under five feet until middle school and didn’t hit my real growth spurt until after I turned sixteen.”
The imagery of a shy baby Kent, dwarfed by his classmates, is almost too adorable to contemplate. You take a sip of water before a coo of “awwwe” escapes your lips.
“Are there no tall gymnasts?” you ask.
“Igor Cassie won gold on the high bar,” Kent replies. “He’s only a few inches shorter than me.”
“Then why did your height cause you to give up? You’re tall, sure, but not enough to be recruited by the NBA or anything.”
Kent takes another bite of spaghetti, and this time you’re observing him closely enough to catch a brief flicker of regret behind his grey eyes. “I grew six inches in a single year,” he says. “I could barely walk, let alone compete in the Olympics.”
“That’s a lot,” you say.
Kent’s leg shifts beneath the table, his knee brushing gently against yours. He doesn’t acknowledge the contact, nor does he make any attempt to move away. You wouldn’t categorize the casual contact as outright flirty . . . but it’s definitely intimate. Too intimate for someone you’re not truly dating, but maybe he’s only trying to maintain your shared cover? Either way: if you weren’t already hyperaware of Kent’s body given the discussion, your attention has now been fully captured.
“Gymnastics is one of the few sports that requires participants to be of a certain age at the Olympics,” Kent says, still not moving his leg. “Instead of competing in Rome for my sixteenth birthday, I needed an assistive cane to walk long distances.”
You take a moment to observe his expression. Discussing his past doesn’t appear to cause Kent any pain, precisely, but there’s a sense of resignation to his slumped shoulders and faraway gaze, albeit more morose rather than embittered. What do you say to someone who just confessed that their childhood dreams were stolen away by puberty, of all things? A lot of boys would celebrate getting taller, but for Kent it had meant reexamining his entire life.
Claiming ‘Gee, that sucks,’ would just be stating the obvious.
‘I’m so sorry you went through that’ feels trite and clichéd.
‘I think your height is sexy,’ is insensitive.
You settle on a simple statement of truth. “You must’ve worked really hard regain your coordination and qualify for the NPO Initiative.”
Kent smiles at you, and it’s like the first day of spring. “I started mixed martial arts classes during my senior year of high school,” he confirms. “Not to compete. I needed to relearn my body.”
“Do you ever regret not having been able to pursue gymnastics professionally?” you ask.
“Being an AMO is more meaningful,” Kent says slowly. “I’m content with where I’ve ended up.” Abruptly, he sits up straight, clearing his throat in a brusque manner that disperses the growing intimacy between you two.
“Unity needs to be challenged from within, after all,” he announces in a louder voice. “That’s why we both agreed to join. Right, babe?”
Your brain briefly short circuits at the endearment before realizing that Kent is only maintaining your cover. You raise your water glass in the air, and he clinks his against it.
“Here’s to us overthrowing the establishment,” you toast.
Kent’s silver eyes lock with yours. “To us.”
