Captivation (A Larry Stylinson Love/Olympic Gold Tale)

PLEASE NOTE: One Direction is not gay (that I know of). I do not believe that Louis, Niall, Harry, Zayn, and Liam are secretly in complicated relationships behind the scenes. What I DO believe, is that the whole concept makes an interesting story, so that's why I'm writing it. Soo . . .
No hate please :)

Chapter 2

The gym stood still and dark; the night sending shadows into even the smallest of corners. Silence was thick, but the air was light and clear. The small jangle of keys in a lock sounded like gunfire, and the door swung open on silent hinges. A tall boy with short bronze curls dropped his keys onto a small table and slung his bag into a chair. Slipping off his red warm-up jacket, he sighed and yawned widely. The clock on the wall read a blinking digital 5:45, but it was late for the boy. He was barely older than 18, yet he had been coming to this very gym for 12 years. Liam Payne sighed again and flicked on the lights.

Slick wooden bars glistened under the bulbs, and the colorful mats shimmered like glass. He stepped underneath a long wooden bar and stared hard. His 5’ll frame could allow him to reach the 9 foot high bar, and he jumped lightly off of his socked toes and grasped it in both hands.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Liam slipped down and landed on bent legs. Turning, he glared at his teammate.

“What are you talking about?” He asked. Zayn Malik laughed and tugged on his socks.

“Chalk maybe?” Zayn moved with a grace that defied his height and tight biceps. He was the strongest of the four, because of his specified skill, and never let anyone forget it. He stood under the rings, swiping the excess white dust off of his hands.

“I came here early, my brain is still fuzzy.” Liam jogged over to the deep metal basin and plunged his hands into the bowl.

“Liam forget the chalk again?” Niall Horan laughed as he entered the gym. Rolling his eyes, Liam moved back to the High Bar. Zayn was swinging his legs back and forth above the mat as he gripped his fingers on the rings.

“Morning lads,” Paul Higgins, the boys’ coach, swept in, bringing the light with him. The gym was filling up, but it couldn’t be full without the oldest—and loudest—member of the London Men’s Gymnastics’ Team.

“Where’s Louis?” Zayn wondered.

“Wherever he is he’s late,” huffed Paul, checking the clock. “In the meantime, you boys need to warm up. And Niall, for God’s sake, will you stop eating in the gym!” Sheepishly, Niall tucked his half-eaten biscuit in his bag and sulked off to the pommel horse.

“But really, where is Louis?” Liam asked, flipping back the blinds to see where the final member of the team was off too. Niall was stretching his legs, and Zayn was bouncing on his toes, breathing lightly.

“Probably in his bed with the alarm off, that lazy bas-” Zayn was cut off as the door blew open. Louis Tomlinson, the final member of the team, stumbled in.

“Sorry I’m late Paul!” He grinned as he skipped past the manger. “I stopped along the way to help an old woman cross the street and had to pick up my Nobel Prize.” The lads wondered why Paul put up with this at least twice a week, then had to remind themselves it was because Louis was the second best vaulter in the world (second only to US gymnast McKayla Maroney) and added much needed points to London’s individual and team scores.

“Just hurry up and get warmed up.” Paul growled, shaking his head. “After you’re done boys, gather round. I have news for you all.”

“News?” Niall muttered to Liam as they stretched. “Since when does Paul have news?” Half an hour later the lads were circled around Paul’s desk as he went through some paperwork. Louis ran his fingers though his shaggy chestnut hair, and cast worried blue eyes at the rest of his team.

Niall stood as the shortest of the four at 5’8, but was just as solid as the rest of them. His scruffy dyed-blonde hair stuck up in the front, making him seem both older and younger than his 18 years. Liam was the tallest, and had lean muscle coursing underneath his an skin. Deep brown eyes wooed girls and put competitors at ease. How could such an attractive boy possibly beat them? Zayn Malik was exotic but familiar at the same time. His skin wasn’t extremely dark, but compared to the other boys’ it was almost an olive. His eyes seemed golden in some lights, and a shimmering chocolate brown in others, but were stunning nonetheless. His dark hair was chuffed perfectly into a short plume above his angular face.

“Alright,” Paul said, finally dropping the papers and staring hard at the boys. “News. It’s important, so listen up.”

The boys leaned in.

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