Page 16 of Full Split
Next is pommel horse. It's Weston's best event, and he knows it. He looks almost bored while nailing a technically beautiful set. On the rings, Niles stays steady, his strong, lean arms stretching and flexing with each graceful move. I have to look away in case it's too obvious how closely I'm watching the way his body moves. They move to the parallel bars next, then high bar. Niles kills a complicated sequence, but I'm surprised he doesn't break out anything too risky and put on a show, especially given that quite a few people in the room stop to watch him take his turn. My guess is that it's deliberate. He's laying the foundation. Drawing attention without exceeding expectations so he can blow them away at the competition.
It’s not until they get to the vault that something changes.
They're lined up, waiting their turn and watching as each of the men take their turn. Weston goes first in their group, nails it with a thunderous landing. Niles claps and cheers, but his jaw is noticeably tight. It's then I notice how close Peter is standing to him, looking down his skinny, pointed nose at Niles, who is a full head shorter than he is. The bastard leans down and says something close to his ear that has Niles' entire body stiffening. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
I don't have to hear what he's saying to know what kind of vile bullshit is slipping from his thin-lipped sneer. It takes everything in me not to storm across the podium and slam him into a wall. Instead, I stay frozen, glaring at the bastard with my arms crossed tight, breathing through my nose like a bull seeing red. Weston looks at me, then back to the line where Niles is standing, blank-faced and cold. Weston takes a stepin his direction, but Niles gives him a look to stay back and doesn't flinch. Doesn't snap. Doesn't say a word. He turns, raises an eyebrow at the douchebag behind him, and smiles like he's about to deliver the punchline to a private joke. Dismissively, he turns away from Peter and steps forward to the vault runway. He studies the path, takes a breath, and adjusts the tape on his fingers. Then he glances at me, just for a second, and winks.
My heart stops.Did Weston see that? Did anyone?
He's moving before I'm aware of it. Bolting forward at full speed, he hits the springboard and takes to the air like he's flying, flipping so high it pulls gasps from several coaches and judges in the room. He twists through a move that looks borderline gravity-defying and sticks the landing hard and clean. Not just good. It’s perfect. Quiet. Controlled. Balanced. Like it was the easiest thing in the world and not one of the most complicated vault combinations possible.
There's a beat of stunned silence before the people surrounding them burst into applause and murmurs of approval from some of the officials. Even a few of the coaches are exchanging impressed glances, giving me nods like I was the one that pulled off a double twisting layout salto with an additional half twist like it was nothing.
Nonchalantly, Niles turns, nods once towards Peter the Douche, and walks off like he didn't just issue a very public challenge for him to dare even try to compete with him. Peter, red faced and sweating, takes the runway next. He fumbles through a move Niles probably could have nailed as a beginner, with his eyes closed and a busted knee. He stumbles the landing and then storms off the podium in anger. It was an acceptable enough vault, but not memorable, and not enough to win him manypoints, especially after Niles' performance. No one is watching him. Not even his own coach, who is walking towards Niles.
I fight the urge to intercept, relaxing a little when he looks to be congratulating Niles on an impressive vault and not giving him any trouble. Still, I keep my eye on them even as Weston walks up to my side. I don't trust anyone that associates with assholes like that.
Still watching Niles' interactions, I reach out and clap a hand on Weston's back.
"Good work," I say. "You nailed it today."
Weston snorts. "Not quite as well as our favorite show-off," he mutters, his pride for his best friend clear in the way he jokes. Then he leans in. "Did you see?"
"Yeah, I saw. Did you catch what he said?"
"No, but I caught the look."
"We need to keep an eye on that one, and his little friend," I say in a low voice, pointing to the guy Peter was gossiping with earlier.
"Got it."
There's a little time for cooldowns and some light stretching before we're shuffled out of the main competition space. They have to get ready for the women's competition, which is taking place in just a couple of hours.
Coaches and athletes mill about the holding area, eating and drinking some of the snacks that have been provided, while the media area is readied for interviews. We'd already agreed ahead of time that we'd be skipping this portion of the day,choosing to wait to answer questions after the main competition tomorrow. One of the event organizers approaches us about some interviews when they notice the boys have collected their things from the locker room. Niles politely declines, and she doesn't push. I give her my thanks for their understanding, as well as their assistance this morning. They confirm we can arrive through the back entrance tomorrow as well.
Just as we're about to ask when we can enter the arena again, planning to watch the women's competition, Peter fucking Trenton calls out across the hall.
"Hey Niles! Good luck today! Hope you stick it!"
His friend snickers next to him, and several people gasp. The majority of the room, nearly all of the men's division athletes, turn and stare at him with open disapproval. Peter's own coach smacks him on the shoulder, looking embarrassed. One guy tells Peter to fuck off. Another few give Niles supportive claps on the shoulder.
It's subtle, but telling. Niles has the support of the vast majority of the athletes competing with him at this level. They know he's good and they appreciate his professionalism and athleticism. None of them are threatened by his presence here, because none of them are sniveling cowards. In just about every situation I've seen so far, in both men's and women's sports, it's only the sore losers that take issue with their peers the way Peter has. They're threatened because they don't want to admit that they aren't good enough to measure up. Without loud-mouthed, insecure losers like Peter and the politicians playing a game of redirecting their constituents' attention from their own failures and criminal behavior, it would be a non-issue.
Niles, to his credit, doesn't balk at Peter's comment. Doesn't even blink.
"Do you want to go?" Weston asks quietly.
Niles shakes his head. "No, I want to watch the women's rounds and cheer them on."
Of course he does. Unlike Peter Douchebag Trenton, Niles is a fucking class act.
CHAPTER 7
NILES
After the women's session wraps, Weston and I stick around to congratulate a few of our friends on a job well done. We've known some of them since the days of off-season summer camps and junior competitions. They deserve our support. I'm not going to let the way the cameras keep panning our way, or the photographers that seem to follow my every movement, stop me from supporting our friends the same way we always have. They'll do the same for us tomorrow. It's always been this way and there is no reason to change just because the media has decided I'm interesting. I won't give them the satisfaction of changing me. I won't stop showing up for the people who have shown up for me.
Tomorrow I'll give them a better reason to pay attention.
