Page 29 of Full Split
CHAPTER 11
NILES
“Day one. You ready?” Wyatt asks before the van doors open, and he steps out first.
“Let’s do this,” I say, forcing some pep into my voice. I don’t look directly at him as I hop out onto the sidewalk, hooking my gym bag over my shoulder and turning to wait for Weston to climb out after me.
It’s not that I don’t feel excited or confident, even. I’m feeling uncomfortable around Wyatt, and it’s not something I’ve ever experienced before. Now that I’ve opened the box of feelings and attraction, I can’t stuff it all back inside. I can’t look at him without seeing the way he looked down at me, without remembering his breath ghosting over my lips and the need I felt.
Truthfully, I think this whole situation is bullshit. I know Wyatt wants me, he just doesn’t want to. But I suppose that’s his choice. It’s not his fault nor his problem that it makes me feel small.
“There’s a lot more people here today,” Weston points out as we walk towards the entrance.
There are ropes set up along the sidewalk, cordoning off the main entrance for the athletes to arrive and allowing for space for people to congregate. Last year there was a line of people waiting to get in: fans, friends and family, and media. A few of them would call out and cheer for some of the arriving athletes, and a few of the more famous gymnasts even signed autographs. It feels like there are more people this time, and I know from the way Wyatt walks in front of me that I’m not the only one on edge.
At first, I keep my head down. Crowds can mean drama, even small ones like this. All it takes is one small incident to blow up and be sensationalized. And while some asshole shouting slurs won’t break my heart, I don’t want to draw attention to something that shouldn’t be a big deal in the first place. It wasn’t last year.
We keep walking, and as we get closer to the door, there’s cheering. I’m assuming someone with a big name must have arrived. Then West smacks my shoulder.
“Holy shit, dude. Look.”
Warily, I look up. And my mouth drops open a little. Scattered amongst the crowd are supportive signs, t-shirts, and flags. Rainbow flags. Progress flags. Trans flags.
I blink. This is definitely something I didn’t expect. Not that I was planning on walking into a viper’s pit of hatred and boos, but I was more ready for that than I was this level of support. I’m sure if I looked closely enough, I’d see protestors in the mix too, but I won’t give them the time of day. The little dots of pink, blue, and rainbow stand out more. The colors of love, diversity, and inclusion are too bright not to overshadow everything else.
“Wave,” Wyatt whispers, and puts a hand on my back to gently face me towards the crowd.
It feels silly. I’m not famous, and it’s not like I’m the only LGBTQ+ athlete here today. Most of us don’t want the attention to be on anything other than our skill. I lift my hand and smile anyway, mouthing my thanks. Weston makes a heart with his fingers, so I do the same. Phones go up. More cheers.
We’re about to enter the building when Weston notices Peter arrive. He walks up behind us and lifts his hands like he’s the headliner at a red-carpet premiere. West snorts. Peter, unlike the rest of us, does love the attention.
“Do it again,” he tells me. “Just once more. Trust me.”
I roll my eyes but give a final little wave. Someone screams, “Go Niles!” and a few others join in.
Inside the doors, I clap a hand over my mouth. I’m surprised by what just happened, and it’s hard not to feel a little overwhelmed by it. I glance sideways just in time to see Peter’s face twist with anger and disbelief.
“Dude, you’re like, a gay icon.” Weston says under his breath. Peter overhears and scoffs, stomping off when Weston adds, “Someone’s jealous.”
The thing is, I didn’t ask for the attention. Not for this, at least. Peter could’ve had all the cameras, and I would have stood back and clapped and cheered for the representation of LGBTQ+ athletes, but he made himself the villain when he went after me and othered an entire community of people he supposedly loves and cares for… Just not when we want to play sports.
We check in, store our gear, do a light warm-up in the auxiliary gym, and meet with event coordinators for a walkthrough. I barely hear a word. My mind is split between what just happened, and the competition ahead. For once I’m not even obsessing over Wyatt. I’m thinking about how I’ve worried that too much attention could adversely affect diversity and inclusion in gymnastics, but maybe some positive attention could go a long way, too. Because just that little bit of support made me feel like a damn superhero. Like I can do anything. Even change minds.
Before I know it, I’m in the staging area, adjusting the tape on my fingers. Announcers start reading names. My group is fourth. Weston and I are together again, thankfully not with Peter.
We shake hands with the other guys—Malik Parks from New Jersey, Cody Jenkins from Colorado, and Whit Coleman from Arizona. All familiar names that I’ve either looked up to or seen in competition before. We all shake hands, and I feel good about this rotation.
Floor routines are first. Weston opens strong. I start a little slow and stumble before I go into my strength skills. I hear Peter scoff somewhere along the sidelines, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him shake me. I drop the nerves halfway through my set, and finish strong.
On pommel, Weston shines as much as he did at Classic, if not more. I lose rhythm early but don’t bomb. Rings are the same. I do okay, but Weston kills it. The other guys are holding their own as well. Malik is nervous, which is surprising as he’s the most experienced among us, but he’s steady and has excellent control. Whit is so smooth it’s unreal. Cody’s a tank, with arms even bigger than Weston’s. He’ll give him a run for his money on pommel and rings.
The farther we get into the competition, the more confident I feel. When we finally get to vault, I’m practically vibrating. I want this. I’ve been practicing hard, wanting to prove I can best even myself. Vault and the high bar are where I shine, and I’m going to make the most of my skills to show them why they want me on the national team.
I deliver a smooth triple-twisting handspring front layout that comes so easily I feel like I could have added at least another half twist or flip. The crowd roared when I stuck the landing, Wyatt clapping the loudest of them all.
While I’m on parallel bars, I catch Peter out of the corner of my eye. He looks right at me before his vault and sneers. I don’t flinch. He launches, mistimes the twist, and barely salvages the landing. That’s what he gets for competing with me instead of focusing on himself. Watching him unfortunately costs me, as well. I hesitate on my dismount, likely losing a tenth or two, but I recover well enough.
Finally, we make it to the high bar. Wyatt talks me through my planned sequence while I change, not second-guessing me when I mention my risky upgraded combo. I don’t want to rely on the routine that got me here. I want to do one better every time.
