Page 2 of Burnout
As I’m taking a series of small jumps, that fucking red bike returns. I let my gaze shift to him only long enough to see a cocky smirk splashed across his face. If we can both manage to finish in the top three, that’d be huge for Thorne Racing. I want that, but I want to be first more.
I keep my corners tight and grit my teeth any time Link tries to cut in front of me. Less than three minutes to go. I need to make a move soon if I’m going to take the lead.
I see my opening as we ride side by side uphill. After the next turn is a rutty spot before a double jump. Link struggled with it in our practice runs. It’s hard to get enough speed going into it and at this point everyone is tired.
I’m dialed in. I hit the first jump and shift my body weight and the bike to one side, whipping to realign and get a better line. I’ve got him and he knows it. But instead of taking it like a good sport, Link maneuvers his bike closer. There isn’t room for him to go inside on me, but he goes for it anyway. His front tireclips my back one just enough to send me off the track and down a steep embankment. I’m thrown from my seat and land flat on my back.
For the first time since the race started, the noise of the crowd comes back into focus. Their gasps are just audible over the ragged breathing slipping from my lips. Everything hurts, but none of it matters. I bring the rose tattoo on my left hand up to my mouthpiece as black crowds into my vision. “Sorry, Mom.”
ONE
When I reachthe end of the beam, I raise my hands over my head and spin around on the balls of my feet. This is it. The final combination of my routine. I could do it blindfolded. When I sleep, all I dream about is this routine. It won me a silver medal at the last Olympics nearly two years ago, so there’s no way I’m ever going to forget it.
I visualize this routine all day, every day. While eating or showering or daydreaming in class. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than on top of the balance beam.
I inhale as I prepare for my dismount. A full twisting double pike. It’s one of the most difficult dismounts. Few people perfect it because it’s so hard to land cleanly without getting hurt. It requires speed and power, twisting and somersaulting off the end and landing square with the beam, chest high. No one in collegiate gymnastics even attempts it. Having a clean routine is more important than difficulty. But I love the challenge.
I’m not a risk-taker by nature, but gymnastics has always let me be someone I’m not outside of the gym.
Or it did.
I haven’t done this dismount in months. Sometimes when I’m feeling exceptionally sorry for myself, I wonder if I’ll ever do it again.
I push that thought away and stand taller.
“You’ve got this, Avery.” The cheer comes from my left where my teammates are watching. Their eyes feel like pinpricks along my skin. My breathing shifts and my right knee locks.
I go into my round-off slower than I’d need to pull off the tricky dismount and instead of risking reinjuring myself, I do a simple layout onto a mat next to the beam.
I don’t look up as they clap because I’m afraid of what I’ll see on their faces.Poor Avery with the bad knee. Poor Avery who still isn’t back to where she was before the injury. Poor Avery, poor Avery.
“Next up,” Coach calls as I walk off the mat. My knee twinges in pain as I cross over to get my water bottle.
A few of the guys from the men’s team are still practicing on the parallel bars in the corner. Tristan flips and tucks and spins into a dismount as I get nearby. Breathless, but with his ever-present smirk, he swaggers toward me. “And that’s how it’s done, Ollie.”
He always calls me that because my last name is Oliver. It’s my least favorite nickname of all time.
Tristan Williams, two Olympic gold medals to his name, and widely regarded as the number one collegiate male gymnast in the country. Widely regarded by me as the most annoying person in the world.
“How what’s done? How to be an asshole or hop on the dismount?” I ask with a fake smile.
“At least I’m doing dismounts. What the hell was that beginner shit?” He waves a muscular arm toward the beam.
I avoid him, leaving a wide berth between us as I continue to the side of the gym where my stuff is stashed. I swipe my waterbottle off the floor and take a long drink before I turn around. He’s still standing there, hands now on his hips, as he waits for my answer.
“What?” I ask with all the sass I can muster. I drop down onto the floor and remove the wrap from my knee.
“Why aren’t you practicing?” He enunciates each word carefully.
“I am practicing.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve been hobbling around for the past hour doing half-assed routines and flaking out on dismounts like you injured yourself yesterday instead of months ago. How much longer are you going to blame the knee?”
I narrow my eyes at him. His expression morphs into barely contained glee at riling me up. I swear he enjoys pissing me off.
“I’m sorry, did you get a medical degree over the summer that nobody told me about?”
After an exaggerated eye roll, he asks, “What are you doing tonight? You want to hang out?”
