- Jan 31, 2021
- 487
- 645
“OMG, that’s Mason Grant. He’s like... the pommel guy right now. Finalist at Worlds. And ridiculously single.”
Channeling Nederocksic, although he isn't single.
Spin Me Right Round
A Chick Lit Short by ChatGPT
I never thought my Saturday would involve a men's pommel horse competition.
Actually, I wasn’t even sure what a pommel horse was until about three days ago.
But when your best friend Holly is head over heels for a gymnast named Leo—who also happens to be competing for a spot on the national team—you show up. Supportive friends wear their cutest athleisure, pretend to know the scoring system, and smile brightly from the bleachers.
I was doing just that when fate, in the form of an ill-timed cappuccino spill, quite literally bumped me into him.
"Whoa!"
Strong arms steadied me as I stumbled back from my foam-topped disaster. I looked up—way up—into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. He smelled like cedarwood and chalk dust.
“Sorry,” I managed. “I think my coffee just staged a floor routine.”
He laughed, flashing dimples that should be illegal.
“Don’t worry. Happens all the time around here. The pommel guys have that effect.”
He extended a hand. “I’m Mason.”
“Liv.” I shook his hand, hoping he didn’t notice the latte drips on my wrist.
He tilted his head toward the floor below us. “You here for the competition?”
“Sort of. Moral support. But I’m still learning what’s what. Like... what’s with that weird horse thing with handles?”
“That,” he said, grinning, “is the pommel horse. My weapon of choice.”
“You’re competing?”
“In about ten minutes.”
Of course he was.
I found my seat next to Holly, still mildly flustered. She squealed.
“OMG, that’s Mason Grant. He’s like... the pommel guy right now. Finalist at Worlds. And ridiculously single.”
My heart did a tiny pirouette. “I may have noticed.”
The competition started. I tried to follow along as lean, muscled gymnasts swung their legs around the pommel horse in dizzying circles, their hands somehow catching invisible beats in midair.
When Mason’s turn came, the entire arena seemed to hush. He mounted the apparatus with a quiet confidence. Then—magic.
His movements were impossibly fluid: circles, flairs, scissors, handstands... it looked more like an elegant dance than raw athleticism. And those arms... I may have accidentally squeezed Holly’s hand a little too hard.
Stick the dismount. Land. Boom. The crowd erupted. He smiled in my direction, or at least I told myself he did.
Afterward, Holly dragged me to the athlete area.
“You have to meet him properly,” she insisted.
I protested. I lost. And before I knew it, I was face to face with Mason again, this time sans cappuccino.
“You made it through your first pommel competition,” he said. “How was it?”
“Mesmerizing,” I admitted. “Though I may need to watch about fifty YouTube tutorials to fully understand what you just did.”
“I’d be happy to explain it. Over coffee?”
I blinked. “Risky move, given my track record.”
He laughed. “Then tea. Or smoothies. My treat.”
One almond milk chai and a two-hour conversation later, I learned that pommel horse routines weren’t the only things Mason mastered. He had a dry sense of humor, a knack for movie trivia, and an adorable habit of twirling his straw when thinking.
As we stood to leave, he grinned.
“So... next competition, front row seats?”
I smiled back.
“Only if there’s post-pommel tea involved.”
“Deal.”
Epilogue:
Six months later, I’m still showing up for every one of Mason’s meets. I now understand scissor elements, hand placements, and the true art of a stuck dismount.
And yes—we still spill coffee. But these days, we do it together.
Channeling Nederocksic, although he isn't single.
Spin Me Right Round A Chick Lit Short by ChatGPT
I never thought my Saturday would involve a men's pommel horse competition.
Actually, I wasn’t even sure what a pommel horse was until about three days ago.
But when your best friend Holly is head over heels for a gymnast named Leo—who also happens to be competing for a spot on the national team—you show up. Supportive friends wear their cutest athleisure, pretend to know the scoring system, and smile brightly from the bleachers.
I was doing just that when fate, in the form of an ill-timed cappuccino spill, quite literally bumped me into him.
"Whoa!"
Strong arms steadied me as I stumbled back from my foam-topped disaster. I looked up—way up—into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. He smelled like cedarwood and chalk dust.
“Sorry,” I managed. “I think my coffee just staged a floor routine.”
He laughed, flashing dimples that should be illegal.
“Don’t worry. Happens all the time around here. The pommel guys have that effect.”
He extended a hand. “I’m Mason.”
“Liv.” I shook his hand, hoping he didn’t notice the latte drips on my wrist.
He tilted his head toward the floor below us. “You here for the competition?”
“Sort of. Moral support. But I’m still learning what’s what. Like... what’s with that weird horse thing with handles?”
“That,” he said, grinning, “is the pommel horse. My weapon of choice.”
“You’re competing?”
“In about ten minutes.”
Of course he was.
I found my seat next to Holly, still mildly flustered. She squealed.
“OMG, that’s Mason Grant. He’s like... the pommel guy right now. Finalist at Worlds. And ridiculously single.”
My heart did a tiny pirouette. “I may have noticed.”
The competition started. I tried to follow along as lean, muscled gymnasts swung their legs around the pommel horse in dizzying circles, their hands somehow catching invisible beats in midair.
When Mason’s turn came, the entire arena seemed to hush. He mounted the apparatus with a quiet confidence. Then—magic.
His movements were impossibly fluid: circles, flairs, scissors, handstands... it looked more like an elegant dance than raw athleticism. And those arms... I may have accidentally squeezed Holly’s hand a little too hard.
Stick the dismount. Land. Boom. The crowd erupted. He smiled in my direction, or at least I told myself he did.
Afterward, Holly dragged me to the athlete area.
“You have to meet him properly,” she insisted.
I protested. I lost. And before I knew it, I was face to face with Mason again, this time sans cappuccino.
“You made it through your first pommel competition,” he said. “How was it?”
“Mesmerizing,” I admitted. “Though I may need to watch about fifty YouTube tutorials to fully understand what you just did.”
“I’d be happy to explain it. Over coffee?”
I blinked. “Risky move, given my track record.”
He laughed. “Then tea. Or smoothies. My treat.”
One almond milk chai and a two-hour conversation later, I learned that pommel horse routines weren’t the only things Mason mastered. He had a dry sense of humor, a knack for movie trivia, and an adorable habit of twirling his straw when thinking.
As we stood to leave, he grinned.
“So... next competition, front row seats?”
I smiled back.
“Only if there’s post-pommel tea involved.”
“Deal.”
Epilogue:
Six months later, I’m still showing up for every one of Mason’s meets. I now understand scissor elements, hand placements, and the true art of a stuck dismount.
And yes—we still spill coffee. But these days, we do it together.
