Page 92 of Full Split
I lock everything else out. The whispers, the tension with Weston, the weight of Wyatt’s eyes on me when he thinks I’m not looking. None of it matters.
I’m here for one reason. I need a place on that podium. That’s all. Just a spot. Just enough to get me to the next Olympic qualifiers.
Everything I’ve ever dreamed about is right in front of me. I just have to be brave enough to take it.
It all moves so fast. In a blink, the competition is beginning.
I blink again, and it’s my turn.
I step forward, staring down the runway. It’s just me and the mat. My whole world narrows to that single stretch in front of me. I don’t hear anything. None of the negativity. No noise from the crowd. Not the announcer saying my name. I can’t hear anything except my steady breaths and the hammering of my heart in my throat.
I swallow it down. Take another breath.
Before I move, I look to the side like I always do. The arena’s packed, but all I see is Wyatt.
He’s sitting up in the stands, watching me like I’m the only thing that matters. He’s so nervous for me. He looks tense but gives me a small nod.
You can do this.
That’s all I need. I take my mark, and I run.
Coach Harris gave me the green light to throw whatever I feel capable of. Well right now, I feel invincible.
Everything blurs around me. In a flash, my hands hit the table. The block is perfect. The twist pulls me through the air like I’m flying. Time stretches out. Weightless. Quiet.
When my feet hit the mat, one lands wrong. My left foot slips, slides forward. I recover. It’s just a step, but I know it’s going to cost me.
The noise crashes in all at once. I don’t hear it. I’m too busy walking it off, testing my foot carefully as I head back to Coach, trying not to show even a hint of pain.
Coach is smiling, so that’s a good sign.
When I glance up, Weston’s watching me. Up in the stands, Wyatt is too. Both of them with serious, worried faces. Of course they know I hurt myself. I can’t hide anything from them. They know my routines and moves almost as well as I do.
Then my score flashes.
14.900.
Silver.
Fucking silver!
And I can’t even be mad about the slip. I could’ve taken gold, yeah, but… silver at Worlds? A 14.900? That’s huge.
I did it. I’m in contention for the Olympics.
While the others move on to parallel bars, I pull Dr. Zem aside and tell her about my foot. If I’m being honest, I’m only doing it because I know Weston and Wyatt will ream me if I don’t. She checks it quickly without attracting any attention. There’s no swelling or sharp pain. A physical therapist tapes it tight for stability, which is very common and not likely to be noticed.
“You’re fine for now,” she tells me. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. I mean it. She helped me get here, and I’m so grateful for her confidence and advice.
Now that I’ve done my due diligence, I’m focused on the high bar.
I know Wyatt’s up there somewhere in the stands, and that it’s one of the team trainers spotting me today, but when I close my eyes, I can feel him like he’s right behind me. I imagine his steady warmth at my back. His comforting soapy scent. His hands on my waist. That little squeeze that saysyou’ve got this.
He’s with me, always. And I’ve got this.
My high-bar routine is a compromise. Harris let me throw a few upgrades, but it’s still safer than I would have chosen for myself. I feel good about it, though. It’s a tight, clean routine that I feel confident about.
