Page 37 of Full Split
“So fucking beautiful,” I choke out, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal, Niles stands and walks through the water towards me. He steps up onto the ledge, standing between my legs. In my position, I have to tilt my head up to look up at him. His hand cups my face. He bends down, the air from his lips cool compared to the humidity of the pool, and places a gentle, chaste kiss on my lips. It lingers, even after he moves away, even after he’s gone and the only evidence of what just happened is his discarded swimsuit, sunk to the bottom of the now cloudy water.
CHAPTER 13
NILES
After making the national team, Weston and I spend Sunday doing team orientation. It's in a hotel near the SAP Center, close enough to where we’re staying that we can walk. It’s a nice hotel, the kind of place with gleaming granite floors and huge chandeliers when you first enter. The orientation is taking place on the upper floors, where there are multiple conference rooms surrounding a wide, open floor space they’ve filled with round tables and chairs.
We’re all standing around, greeting and congratulating each other as everyone arrives. Some of the athletes are returning members, and some, like us, are new to the team. There’s an air of importance that settles around us as we take our seats and quiet down for the first introductions.
First, they introduce us to the national coaching staff and some of the trainers we’ll be working with. Everyone seems really cool, including all our new teammates. They call each of us out and have us stand and wave with our introductions. As they go around the room, everyone seems truly happy and grateful to be here.
Well. Almost everyone.
Peter Trenton is the exception. Because of course he is.
Part of me had hoped he’d disqualify himself by stomping out of the press area yesterday or at least pissed someone off enough to get a warning. He’s been in a foul mood ever since the group photo, and it’s obvious he brought that same mood with him today. Lucky us.
Thankfully, I’ve got Weston at my side, and most of our other teammates seem genuinely cool. I'm surrounded by a few people I already consider friends, who are now officially teammates. That camaraderie is the part I’m most excited about.
We go through the usual stuff: welcoming remarks, an overview of obligations, travel expectations, and the upcoming competition schedule. There’s a whole section on anti-doping policies. Honestly, I’m surprised Peter didn’t raise his hand to ask whether testosterone was on the approved list.
Everyone who medaled yesterday had to give a urine sample before we left the SAP Center yesterday. I wonder if it has anything to do with the reason Peter’s been in such a miserable mood. I don’t know what the timeline looks like for processing those results, but I hope it’s soon. If he’s cheating, they’ll find out, and then he won’t be my problem anymore.
Next comes the paperwork. Medical forms. Waivers. NIL agreements. Code of conduct contracts. Insurance paperwork. Bank info for our monthly stipends. It’s a mountain of documentation. The room is filled with the rustling of papers, the scratch of pens, and faint muttering as we joke back and forth about how intensive the forms are.
One of the USAG staff jokes that they’ll be taking blood samples and making a note of what we plan to name our first-born next. Igrin and say, “I don’t know what to put for my third cousin’s best friend’s mom’s blood type.”
The entire room around me chuckles. People go back to work.
Except Peter, who can’t possibly not be the center of attention. Because Peter decides that now is the time to open his mouth.
“Your forms must be extra complicated, huh, Niles?” he says. “Do you ever get confused filling them out, with all the different stories you have to remember?”
I don’t look up or give him the time of day. Of course, he’s not done.
“I think I’m gonna start identifying as confused. Honestly, I need a chart for all these genders. What events do thenonbinaryandothergymnasts compete in?”
Still no laughs. Just tension. The mood in the room drops by several degrees.
Peter’s quiet for a while. Then, loudly enough that the whole room can hear him, he says, “Hey Niles, my form’s asking if I’m pregnant or planning to be. What did you mark for that one?”
I look up at him, deadpan. “Did you sign the anti-doping policy yet?”
He goes quiet again.
I can handle Peter’s bullshit. I’ve heard worse from better people.
What worries me is that he’ll create a scene, and somehow, I’ll be to blame for the commotion. Because negative publicity is something USAG wants to avoid at all costs. I’m under no illusion that there isn’t already backlash about me being on theteam. Weston’s been filtering my social media and news feed until we get home. And Wyatt…
Maybe the whole hot tub scene was just a distraction. He was jumpy all morning, barely wishing us luck with the orientation before he holed up in his room to get some work done.
We haven’t talked about last night. I don’t even know if we’re going to. Hell, if I hadn’t woken up smelling like chlorine and down a swimsuit, I’d wonder if it was even real. Was it really just a fever dream?
Still, between landing this team spot and the things Wyatt saidand didlast night, nothing could bring me down except Peter figuring out how to make enough noise that someone decides keeping me around isn’t worth the headache.
My saving grace is that I dominated Nationals. My margin of victory was wide enough that even the most conservative critic would struggle to argue I didn’t earn this. I keep reminding myself of that as I steadily ignore the constant stream of ignorance from Peter and get on with my day.
