Page 8 of Full Split
I mean, how many guys can say that their mom not only helped weigh the pros and cons of what type of surgery to get, but diligently helped clean and change out drainage tubes after my metoidioplasty? Not many. And I’m so grateful for the experience I’ve had because of my support system.
I've had a smooth, privileged transition. I know how lucky I am, and I'm appreciative that I've not had many barriers to living my life authentically. Others haven't been as lucky. People I've become friends with both in person and online had to fight to be seen, and many still can't get access to critical care.
Some lost that fight.
They're the reason I'm pushing through this media circus. It's their names I repeat in my mind like a mantra whenever I think this pressure is too much. It's their voices that remind me I'm worthy of pursuing and reaching my dreams, even if the talking heads seem to think differently. If anything, I need to show them that they're wrong. I need to succeed to spite them.
So I grin and bear it while the conservative talking heads call me an imposter, talk about my private parts like they have a right to know anything personal about me, and yell from the rooftops that HRT is doping and I shouldn't be allowed to compete.
Every day that we get closer to elite competitions and the Olympic qualifiers, they get louder. The vultures are circling, and every so often they find another supposed friend to question. They've interviewed old classmates I've never spoken to, ex-teammates that never had a problem with me in the locker rooms or competing before it became the popular thing to do.They even found a cousin I haven't seen or heard from since I was six years old who claims I'm "brave but confused."
Bullshit. All of it.
Somehow less than one percent of the population is ruining sports? Never mind the stats or the talents of the athletes in question. Never mind that I've fought for every single team I've been part of, spent countless hours working myself to the bone to perfect moves and routines.
I'm not a threat. I'm a target, win or lose. If I'm not at the top, I'm an example of how I can't compete with my fellow male athletes. If I'm on the podium, it's because I cheated.
There is no winning with these people. So why am I letting them in my head?
I refuse to bow to the pressure, even when it starts to feel overwhelming.
Shaking off my internal spiral, I stretch my neck and adjust the tape on my fingers. Weston, who knows me better than anyone else on earth, nods and tilts his head towards the floor, suggesting I change it up and work on something else. With a small thankful smile, I follow him to the other side of the room. He goes first, knowing that watching and cheering him on will get me out of my head. His routine is good, even though it's not his strongest event. We try to be as well-rounded as possible, but we both have our favorites.
When it's my turn, I roll my shoulders and take a deep, cleansing breath. I say their names, picture their faces, and zone in.
The floor routine I've been building is ambitious as hell. It's a complicated tapestry of tumbling passes, transitions, andrebound skills that have been living in my head for weeks. I've fallen out of it more times than I can count. But this time? I hit every pass. It feels good. Natural. I make it through the whole routine and finish with a full layout pass and stick it cleanly back in the same spot I started.
The gym is silent for the span of a few heartbeats. Then West slow claps like he knew I had it in me the whole time. I suppose I just needed the reminder that I knew it, too.
"You're a badass, Niles. Don't let all that noise in your head drown out the applause."
I scrunch up my nose at the prickle behind my eyes. It's not tears, I've got sweat in my eye. Pulling my shirt over my head, I use it to mop up the rivulets of sweat that are dripping down my face. Then I give my best friend a grin and a nod, silently thanking him for the reminder I needed. For the first time in days, I feel like myself again.
"One more before we go," I tell him, and head back over to the high bar.
My upgraded combo is a bitch. First, I launch into a Kovacs, basically doing a backflip over the bar, flying completely out of reach before I catch it again mid-air. No big deal if you don't consider the risk of spine injury. From there, I whip into a full twist, letting go and flipping sideways. The trick is to grab the bar with my right hand in front so I can kick into a one-arm swing, rotating around the bar. I hear West's low whistle as I kip and build momentum. My shoulders are screaming from exertion, but I release and fly, twist, and catch smoothly. Another kip, and I fling myself into a double backflip to dismount. I stick the landing so hard it jolts through my spine.
"Fuck yeah!" West cheers, pumping a fist in the air. "In the fucking bag, Pruitt."
"We'll see."
He claps me on the back. "It'll all work out," he says, then pushes me towards our bags.
I drop West off at his house to shower and head home to do the same. As soon as I open the door, my stomach growls aggressively.
"It already smells so good in here," I tell my mom, dropping a kiss on her cheek while she's feeding raw shrimp and vegetables onto skewers.
"Well, it did," she snarks. "Ugh, you're so sweaty. Go get washed up before they get here."
I nod as I chug half a large bottle of electrolyte water, letting out a huge burp that has her swatting me with a dish towel and muttering about how gross boys are. Laughing, I pick up my gym bag and head down the hallway towards my room for a shower. By the time I'm done, I can already hear Weston in the kitchen with my mom.
It's become a tradition over the years to have dinner together the night before we leave for a competition. I think it started as a way for my mom to thank Wyatt for letting me tag along with them, as well as a sendoff since she normally had to work and couldn't come with us for the longer trips. Now it's something we still do, even as adults. Honestly, not much has changed other than our ages and room arrangements. Wyatt still goes with us to every competition, often standing in as our coach even though he technically isn't on Sid's payroll anymore.
I hear mom ask about Wyatt just as I'm wondering where he is.
"Covering for tumbling tonight," West answers. I grab a banana and start peeling it, both because I'm starving and to hide my disappointment. I'm more than a little sure Wyatt's been avoiding me, and I don't like it.
"Ah, where it all began," Mom says wistfully. "I'll make sure to wrap a plate for him."
