Head Over Heels by Hannah Orenstein
English | 2020 | Romance | ePUB | 2.1 MB
From the author of the Love at First Like and Playing with Matches, an electrifying rom-com set in the high stakes world of competitive gymnastics, full of Hannah Orenstein’s signature “charm, whimsy, and giddy romantic tension” (BuzzFeed).
The past seven years have been hard on Avery Abrams: After training her entire life to make the Olympic gymnastics team, a disastrous performance ended her athletic career for good. Her best friend and teammate, Jasmine, went on to become an Olympic champion, then committed the ultimate betrayal by marrying their emotionally abusive coach, Dimitri.
Now, reeling from a breakup with her football star boyfriend, Avery returns to her Massachusetts hometown, where new coach Ryan asks her to help him train a promising young gymnast with Olympic aspirations. Despite her misgivings and worries about the memories it will evoke, Avery agrees. Back in the gym, she’s surprised to find sparks flying with Ryan. But when a shocking scandal in the gymnastics world breaks, it has shattering effects not only for the sport but also for Avery and her old friend Jasmine.
Perfect for fans of Emily Giffin and Jasmine Guillory, Head Over Heels proves that no one “writes about modern relationships with more humor or insight than Hannah Orenstein” (Dana Schwartz, author of Choose Your Own Disaster).
“Oh, you’re… still home?” Tyler had said, a note of surprise in his voice, taking in my ragged pajama pants and the afternoon glass of wine. He looked past my shoulder, toward the living room I had vacuumed, dusted, and straightened up earlier that day.
“Hi! I didn’t know you’d be home so early,” I chirped. I tilted my chin up so he could give me a kiss, but he didn’t. “Do you want something to eat? I can whip something up really quickly if you’re hungry.”
Tyler shook his head and turned on SportsCenter. The open-floor-plan layout of the apartment meant I could stay in that same spot on the floor and see him on the couch in the living room. But a few seconds later, he turned off the TV.
“You don’t want to, I don’t know… do something?” he asked, voice dripping with disgust.
“I’m doing this,” I said, gesturing to the spice rack.
“You’re practically a housewife,” he said. “Minus the husband and kids.”
I gave him a sour look. We’d talked about marriage as a possibility someday, because it seemed impossible to be living together in a years-long relationship in your midtwenties and not talk about it.
“I work,” I said evenly.
“Part-time,” he clarified.
“You’re the one who suggested it,” I reminded him.
“I didn’t think you’d be happy with that little to-do forever,” he countered.
“So, what? What do you want me to do?” I asked, slumping against the refrigerator and resisting the urge to grab my wineglass, lest it make me look even more like some awful cliché.
He sighed. “I don’t know, have a… passion? Have some kind of ambition?”
“You know I do. You know I did,” I said defensively, thinking furiously: How dare he.
“It’s been a long time, Avery.” His words drip out carefully, like he’s been churning over the best way to say this for a while.
I was tempted to rattle off all the things I do all day that I genuinely enjoy: cooking, coaching, trying new workouts with my ClassPass. But that wasn’t what he meant.
“Is this about money?” I demanded. “Do you want me to pay more in rent? Because I can make it work if you want me to.”
“It’s not about the money.” He sighed. “It’s just…”
He trailed off and looked critically at my bedhead, my shrunken sleep shirt printed with the name of a gymnastics meet I competed in more than a decade ago, and the overhead kitchen cabinets I’d flung open without bothering to close.
“It’s just I expected a different kind of life with you, that’s all,” he said quietly.
And then he turned the TV back on.
There were more fights like that in the months that followed. Sometimes, I’d be honest enough to admit that long ago, ambition was all I’d had. And when the one thing I had built my world around collapsed, I didn’t know where else to turn—I didn’t know how to turn. Maybe I never fully recovered from the depression that hit like a truck seven years ago. I never found a reason to.