Page 20 of Full Split
Gathering strength from his hands on my waist, I jump, setting a confident rhythm with a smooth toe-on mount into a giant swing. I release first into a handstand, then swing back through into a full turn, clean hips, straight legs. Smooth and steady, building momentum. My second release and catch builds difficulty, flawlessly moving through skill connections one after the other, leaving little room between moves while still maintaining a controlled flow. I hit my giant swings strong, building amplitude, linking into one full pirouette after another. The more air I get with each release, the more it feels like gravity doesn't exist, like time has slowed for me to feel each tuck, twist, and flip before catching again. I build higher and higher, moving through each skill to the next. As I hit my next connection, I have just enough time to think,Wyatt's gonna kill me.
A small grunt of laughter leaves me as I swing through, kick hard, and release. For one long breath I'm upside down with nothing beneath me. I twist tighter, track the bar, and re-grasp it cleanly. I hear the audible release of breath from the audience. I know I'm coming to the end of the routine, but I feel like I could go on forever. I've done this so many times before, but it never stops feeling like flying. I take a deep breath as I hit the backswing, releasing into a double-twisting double-back on dismount, landing strong before the mat stops bouncing, and hold.
The roar hits, and I release my breath, dropping my chin into a grateful nod before looking up to Wyatt. The grin that splits his face is triumphant and proud, the gleam in his eyes saysyou did it. And I know he's right. If that didn't get me a top score, I'mpretty sure there will be riots and Wyatt will lead the charge. And Weston, if the way he picks me up and practically launches me over his shoulder is any indication.
Goddamn that felt good.
What feels even better is the pressure of Wyatt's chest against mine when he pulls me into a hug. "I'm proud of you."
I whisper, "I'm sorry," but he squeezes my shoulder and shakes his head. I'm not sure if he's telling me the apology isn't needed or that now isn't the time, but it feels settled.
Before I know it, names are being called for awards. Weston walks away with a gold medal for the pommel horse, and silver for rings. I win the gold for vault and high bar, plus a bronze for floor. We're both speechless. It's one thing to feel like you did well, and another to walk away with the heavy proof that all the work you've put in was worth every bit of blood, sweat, and tears that went into it.
"Sid is going to be so pissed he missed this," Wyatt says, clapping us both on the shoulders when we return from the podium. He looks up at the announcer expectantly, like he knows exactly what's about to happen.
Peter Trenton is called first, winning bronze for the All-Around award. He steps up to the podium with practiced composure but doesn't look especially happy. I don't understand why, but I also don't give it much thought because in the next minute, I'm jumping up and down, nearly launching onto Weston's shoulders when they call him for silver.
"Your gold medalist and this year’s Classic Senior Men's All-Around Champion… Niles Pruitt!"
Head held high, I march up to the podium like I own it. Because I do. It's a big win, an important one. Another obstacle overcome on my way to the end goal that I will reach this year, come hell or high water. The medal settles on top of the others, the heaviness comforting like a weighted blanket. Peter's scowl adds an extra layer of warmth, as does the heat of Wyatt's gaze on me. I glance up to where he's standing, arms folded, eyes glassy with pride but focused. He beams at Weston, then at me. Eyes softening, he gives me the smallest nod. I feel it down to my bones.
After the awards ceremony, there are more requests for interviews with a line of sports journalists and media reps. This time, I agree. Most of the questions are about scores and routines, as if they've been instructed not to bring up the questions I know are burning inside them. It only lasts so long, one reporter eventually asks about the statements Peter made just before me, ranting about how there should be required testosterone level checks.
I smile, showing teeth as I answer simply. "I trust USA Gymnastics, the FIG, and the IOC to determine what constitutes a performance-enhancing drug. But I'd be happy to take another test if Peter would like to compare results."
Boom. Mic drop. Take that, asswipe.
I walk away from my time in the spotlight feeling satisfied that I've handled myself well. Wyatt takes over for me, answering any further questions about training and getting ready for Nationals next month. I gesture that I'm taking a quick bathroom break, leaving a smirking Weston behind me.
The noise follows me down the hall. Muffled clapping, announcers thanking sponsors, camera shutters popping, and voices rising to be heard over the din of questions being thrown at the different athletes, coaches, and officials. I duck into a cordoned-off bathroom with the medals still brushing against my chest. The door clicks shut behind me, and I take a breath. It's as if someone finally turned the volume knob down. As happy as I am to have won these medals, and to be one step closer to my dream, I'm not a huge fan of being in the spotlight. It's easy to get overstimulated with that many pairs of questioning eyes on you.
I don't hear the door open, but the moment I step out of a stall, I sigh. I should have known I wouldn't get away with calling Peter out on his shit without any backlash.
"Figures that you'd use a stall."
"Did you come in here just to watch me pee? Because, no offense dude, but I'm not into that." Studiously ignoring the way his face contorts with anger, I manage to avoid any jokes about how he looks constipated and move past him towards the sinks. I glance up at Peter's reflection in the mirror to make sure he hasn't moved.
"You're not my type," he sneers. "I don't fuck girls.”
I snort, not giving any weight to his comments. I’ve heard it all before.
“You’re just an ugly lesbian with dick envy."
My eyes drop to his crotch, and I wrinkle my nose. "Doesn't seem like there's much to be envious of from where I'm standing."
He stomps forward, putting himself inches from my face. The rage, the jittery behavior, his bad breath… I know I'm right.
"You know all those steroids aren't going to help your little issue down there, right? Don't worry though, bro. I've got some great recommendations for packers, and you might want to consider foam?—"
He cuts me off, lunging forward and pushing me hard. My lower back makes contact with the edge of the sink, and I nearly buckle. I manage to stay upright, standing strong and tall to defend myself as Peter squares up to me. He's a couple of inches taller than me, but we're fairly matched in muscle tone and overall size.
"If you think I'm about to?—"
All of a sudden, Peter flies back, ripped away and replaced by an irate looking Weston. He looks me up and down before his voice booms, echoing through the bathroom. "What the fuck is going on in here?"
"I didn't do anything to your girlfriend, bro. I was just letting her know she's in the wrong bathroom," Peter says, holding up his hands in surrender, grinning maliciously.
There's no doubt in my mind Peter is trying to bait one or both of us into a fight, which could easily get us disqualified. I pull Weston back before he can get himself in trouble.
