Page 23 of Full Split (Forbidden Goals #8)

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. I grin 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 the nonbinary and other gymnasts 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 the team.

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 said and did last 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.

After the paperwork, we start filtering into the hallway for medical screenings. They call us one at a time. When it’s my turn, the team doctor, Dr. Zem, greets me with a firm handshake and steady eye contact.

She’s kind and straight to the point, which I appreciate.

“I don’t care about testosterone,” she says almost as soon as she closes the door. “I care whether you’re healthy and fit to compete.”

We go through my medical history. Past surgeries, injuries, medications. She makes note of all of my surgeries, including my mastectomy and hysterectomy in 2020, and metoidioplasty in 2021, but she has more questions about an old ankle injury from high school than anything else.

The most she comments on any of it is to compliment my top surgery scars.

“I had reconstructive surgery after a double mastectomy, so I have a deep appreciation for good work,” she tells me. “Gender affirming surgery comes in many forms.”

“I was lucky enough to have a great surgeon, and there wasn’t much tissue to remove,” I tell her. “Though there was enough that keyhole wasn’t an option. Large chests run in my family, and I started developing early. It’s actually why I was able to start puberty blockers when I did.”

“Good call,” she says. “Early intervention makes all the difference. And I’m sure that wasn’t easy to get, especially in North Carolina.”

We share a smile. For a second, it feels like she really sees me. “I had a supportive parent that did her research and took me hours out of state to get the right treatment. I know that’s not everyone’s experience.”

“And because of that, you’re here now. A gold medal gymnast on the national team, and looking ahead to a path of greatness,” she says. “I see a future Olympian in front of me.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I laugh.

“Oh, I’m not,” she says. “I was there, Niles. I saw you compete. I was at last year’s meet too, and I’ve been doing this a long time.

Based on what I’m seeing here,” she says, handing me my chart, “as long as there are no catastrophic injuries or illnesses, I see more than one Olympic medal in your future.”

She gives me her card with instructions to have my general practitioner call if there are any issues and tells me I can reach out anytime. I like her a lot, and meeting with her makes me feel a lot more comfortable and confident about the road ahead.

After that, I get fitted for gear—leotards, warmups, shoes, grips.

The works. It’s surreal. We have lunch with the other gymnasts, then move on to individual meetings with the high-performance staff to discuss the upcoming intensive training camps, which is where they’ll make final determinations, but I’m told they’d like to see me compete at the World Championship.

Weston says he got the same talk.

Could life get better?

Maybe. I could do without the mental health check-in, especially when I’m invited to do a one-on-one with the head shrink, Dr. Gafkin.

She asks a lot of questions I expect. My mental state, sleep, anxiety, burnout, but eventually she starts zoning in on the pressures of the competition, specifically the very obvious differences in the pressures I’m feeling compared to the other athletes.

It occurs to me that if I don’t open up at all, she’ll only push more.

Or worse, think I’m lying and put me on some kind of watch list.

“The pressure is real, it always is. And it’s a bit different this year,” I admit. “But I know how to handle pressure. And overall, I feel good. Confident.”

“How is the pressure different?” she presses.

“It’s… heavier, I guess. And it’s more frustrating, because it has little to do with my actual skills.”

She keeps digging and asks if it has anything to do with a certain teammate stirring the pot.

I smile, tired but honest. “I’m used to people being jerks, but I’m not going to let them intimidate me. I’m going to continue to work hard, every day, to make sure everyone knows that I belong here.”

“Do you feel like you belong here?”

“Absolutely,” I say confidently, without a beat. “But I also know that, because of who I am, I’ll have to work harder to prove that I belong.”

“How so?”