Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(19)

“No, I don’t blame you,” he says as he starts to put up his cleaning equipment. “I’ve seen this round of girls checking out the gym this past weekend, and I swear, some of them could trip on a flat surface, they’re so starry-eyed. You’ve got your hands full with this lot, Max.”

“Don’t discount them so early,” I say with a wag of my finger, bending down to stretch my legs out idly while I wait for the first arrivals. “All these girls worked hard to get here. Can’t be more than three or four of them just here on their parents’ dime — most of them are first-rate athletes, where they come from.”

“There you go with that ‘hard work’ speech again,” Marcel says, shaking his head. “I tell you, I’ll be impressed if half of them last past their starry-eyed welcome to this city. Happens to all the Americans.”

“We’ll see,” I say firmly, “but there’s real potential in this bunch, and maybe you’d see that if you’d take a day off once in a while.”

Marcel laughs as he heads out the door, but only waves to me as he goes. “You should take your own advice. Good training, my friend!”

I give him a nod as he goes, then get back to warming up for the day. Marcel is a jaded old man, but he was one of my first friends coming to the university. My Russian accent still shows, whether I’m speaking French or English, but the custodians here are one of the few groups of people who don’t hold that against me.

Before long, the athletes start filing in, and I must once again stop being Max and become the distant instructor, Monsieur Pavlenko. The role suits me more, I believe. Or at least hope.

Within about ten minutes of each other, just about everyone has arrived. I try not to smile at the thought of how long that habit will last. Today is only the first day of the semester, and my experience tells me that the majority of these students will be bright and eager for the first month or so, but only a few will maintain such punctuality the whole way through. Most of them still speak little or no French, too, so they have each other to rely upon as social outlets.

But I intend to extend that punctuality as long as possible, or weed out the weak ones trying.

“Welcome to training, everyone,” I announce after enough of the class is assembled, clapping my hands to get everyone’s attention. “Glad to see nobody’s booked a flight home yet. We have a long day ahead of us, so I expect all of you at your best.” It doesn’t take long to herd everyone together. I don’t patronize them with the routine of having everyone line up or stand at attention like trained dogs; I know better than to treat skilled athletes like soldiers. My skill and my voice are enough to command the respect I give them in due part.

“My name is Maksim Pavlenko. To you, I am Monsieur Pavlenko, as our gracious French hosts insist. Let me be clear on one thing alone,” I say, pausing dramatically, to look each of them in the eye for an instant. “You are here because you have potential, not because you have any edge over your peers. I will not tolerate anything but exceptional teamwork going forward. I will not hesitate to cut you from this program if you fall short of my expectations, and I have seen some of the finest gymnasts in Paris come through these doors. While you are here, you must give this training your all — I say this for your benefit as well as your peers’. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Monsieur!” comes the general reply from the group, many of them nodding hastily.

“Good,” I say, granting them neither smile nor shift in expression. “Now let’s get to work.”

Drills begin immediately, and as I send the athletes through the routines that their muscles will know as intimately as walking by the time I’m finished with them, I monitor their progress with hawk-like attention.

“Williams! Run that routine again, you know not to hold your back like that.”

“O’Connell, you and Anderson help each other with your posture, I want to see both of you with your shoulders level without thinking about it before lunch today.”

“You didn’t eat breakfast, did you, Jurkowski? You need to take care of yourself, no skipping meals while you’re on my watch.”

I have to drill the athletes harshly. Gymnastics is already an incredibly demanding sport, but in Paris, the expectations surrounding the gymnasts is tripled, easily. Many of these girls have been used to being the best of the best in their respective hometowns, and it is even true that many of them have earned that respect from their childhood classmates and peers. But the feeling of superiority they’ve enjoyed for part of their lives must be stripped from them if they are to advance any further.