Page 24 of Full Split (Forbidden Goals #8)

“Being transgender was never something I hid, especially from the USAG or any organization I was competing in. It wasn’t until it got leaked to the media and used for political fodder that anyone cared about anything other than my skill and my merit.

But now?” I continue. “It’s not enough that I earned this spot.

It’s not enough to be good, or even great.

I have to be undeniably the best just to keep going.

So, yeah, the pressure is different, but I’m determined to show the world what I’m made of. ”

She nods. “Well, I think you’re doing a remarkable job of handling yourself.

But don’t minimize and overlook the amount of effort it takes, not just to be a great gymnast, but to do the mental gymnastics involved in overcoming this pressure.

Take care of yourself, and make sure that you have a healthy outlet for those frustrations. ”

Don’t worry, doc. I have a tall, sexy, dirty blond hunk of Daddy to take out all my frustrations on.

I like Dr. Gafkin, but this was easily the most exhausting part of the day, and I hope I don’t have to come to these meetings often. I already have a therapist and enough people to challenge my way of thinking.

By the time we’re done, all that’s left is the optional team dinner with the athletes, coaches, and parents. And speaking of Wyatt, it’ll be the first time I’ve seen him since he was trying to avoid me again this morning. I’ve been too busy to stew over everything. But now?

Now I can’t stop thinking about last night. I wonder if we’re going to talk about it.

Or if I should try to sneak into his room again tonight.

ME: Are you awake?

DADDY: Yeah, but why are you?

ME: I was thinking about last night.

DADDY: Me too.

My heart skips a beat, but I’m too drained from the day to think of anything clever. I kind of want to ask if I can come over and lick him from head to toe, but we should probably talk about things before we dive too far into the deep end. See? I can be mature.

Not mature enough to change Wyatt’s name in my contacts, but mature enough to know that jumping his bones probably won’t help anything right now.

DADDY: Are you okay?

DADDY: With everything, I mean. I know tonight was a lot.

ME: Just tired. This Peter thing is… Yeah, a lot.

DADDY: Well, if you’re right about him, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about him anymore.

ME:

Is it messed up that I’m hoping for a fellow athlete to get kicked off the team? I felt a little guilty wishing he would just go away yesterday, but after today, I’m done. There’s no way I want to be on a team with that guy.

And it’s not like he’s the only close-minded person here.

Shelby Green told everyone tonight that she’s a “proud Christian” and believes everyone is worthy of God’s love, but she “just doesn’t get the big deal about getting rid of DEI.

” She actually said that if someone didn’t want to hire her because of her lifestyle choices— yes, she actually said that —then she wouldn’t want to work there anyway.

Apparently, discrimination is a myth now.

I spent most of that conversation either staring open-mouthed or burying my face in my palms. I decided not to engage. I’m too tired to educate the willfully ignorant.

Then Peter opened his self-important trap and started talking.

He went off on Shelby about how important diversity and inclusion are, even educating her about protections that were considered part of DEI that she didn’t know about.

Like equal pay and accommodations for disabilities, because we all know how Shelby loves to post pictures of herself pushing her wheelchair-bound cousin through the finish line of the many charity races she’s completed.

Then, when the conversation devolved into her asking why we need a parade to tell people our personal business, he went on about Pride Month and how it’s not about what people do in the bedroom, it’s about keeping kids alive.

Full points for that. Solid, really. Except that he’s full of shit.

I seriously considered getting up and leaving right then and there. But Weston, bless him, turned in his seat and asked Peter how he dares talk about protecting LGBTQ+ youth when he’s spent the last several months throwing trans athletes under the bus.

Peter tried to sound reasonable. “Genetics matter,” he said. “In this one instance, precautions are necessary. Fair is fair.”

Fair is fair?

I really wanted to leave then, but Weston was just getting started. The only thing that kept my ass in that seat was the heavy hand that landed on my shoulder from my other side. Wyatt’s steady presence kept me rooted while I let Weston take a turn on the front lines of this never-ending battle.

Weston raised an eyebrow. “Is it fair that transgender people make up less than two percent of the population, but this year alone, nearly a thousand bills have been introduced to strip them of basic rights?”

“That’s not what we’re talking about,” Peter said.

“Oh, right. Athletes,” Weston said, holding up his hands as if to concede to reason. “Because trans people are people until they want to play sports… Do you know what percentage of college athletes are transgender?”

Weston answered before Peter could even open his mouth. “Less than .002%. What about at the Olympic-level? Don’t bother pulling your phone out, I’ve done the research for you, it’s .001%. Now tell me, Peter. What advantage could this tiny, tiny percentage of athletes have that you find so unfair?”

“Testosterone gives people, especially transgender women, an unfair advantage,” Peter said dumbly.

Weston leaned forward. “Ah, yes, testosterone. You are aware, are you not, that testosterone exists naturally in all human bodies at varying levels? There are cis women who naturally produce more testosterone than I do. Should they be banned from all athletic competitions?”

Peter stammered. “Well, that’s different?—”

“How is it different?” Weston asked.

“There should be regulations.”

“Okay, so you’re advocating for testing testosterone levels in athletes?“

Peter shrugged like the conversation wasn’t getting to him, but the clenching of his jaw said otherwise. He knew he was about to get schooled.

“So your solution is to disqualify everyone that doesn’t meet a certain hormone level?

What about cis men who have lower than average testosterone levels?

Should they be disqualified from competing?

And what about cis women with high T levels?

What about the women who’ve already been harassed and disqualified for not looking ‘feminine’ enough?

There’s already a precedent for discrimination against women in sports, especially for women of color, and you know it.

Are you advocating for that kind of discrimination? ”

Peter tried again. “But if it’s a genetic advantage?—”

“So anyone with a genetic advantage should be banned?”

Peter shrugged again, but he had to know he’d argued himself into a corner. The room went quiet, and as much as I enjoyed watching Peter embarrass himself, knowing that everyone was watching and knowing who the conversation was really about was almost too much for me.

“Did you know that they’ve found over two hundred gene variants that affect physical performance? I suppose you’d be willing to submit to be tested yourself, and would of course step down if you were found to have any variant of these genes that are entirely beyond your control?”

Peter muttered something unintelligible, but then Rina chimed in, too.

“Michael Phelps has a freakishly long wingspan and a higher lung capacity. Should he give back his medals?”

“Or be banned for having mutant fish DNA?” Shane, one of the returning national gymnasts from California, added. “And he’s not the only one. There is actually a good bit of research about the high correlation of genetic advantages in elite athletics.”

“That’s different,” Peter tried again. “Those genes didn’t make them champions. They had to train their whole lives and work hard to get to this level.”

Weston scoffed.

“You don’t think that transgender athletes train their whole lives and work hard?

That they likely have far more to overcome, social and medical dis advantages that outweigh whatever benefits you think they might have, on top of the extra bullshit they have to put themselves through to prove that they deserve to be here just as much as the rest of us? ”

No answer.

“So we all agree that it’s only women and trans athletes who deserve to be policed?” Weston asked the table.

Peter started to speak, but Weston cut him off by standing up from the table and looking down at him. “Do you know how many transgender gymnasts there are at the elite level?”

Silence.

“One. One person. One person who has already offered to share his testosterone levels, which are within a similar range to yours. But you’re so intimidated by him you’d rather talk shit than put in the work or admit he’s better than you.”

Weston dropped his napkin on the table next to his plate and looked down at Peter like something he stepped on and accidentally dragged across the carpet.

“You’re worried about competing next to one of the best gymnasts in the country, and the best person I’ve ever met, because you know you don’t hold a candle to him. You’re not a champion, you’re a coward.”

Wyatt stood too, placing a hand on Weston’s shoulder. “Let’s go, son.” He caught my eye and nodded for me to follow. I stood, more than ready to get out of there.

But we weren’t the only ones. Nearly every other gymnast who competed this week and sat next to Peter while he talked shit all day today stood with us.

Even their coaches and families followed.

Peter, Shelby, and a small handful of others were the only ones left to stare up at us.

Like they’d finally realized how alone they are in their bigotry.

Rina tossed her napkin at Peter. “You call yourself a proud ally and a champion for the queer community, but you’re a disgrace. And everyone is going to see you for who you are.”

Shane crosses his arms and stares at Peter with disappointment, then looks up at me. “I hope you know you’re not alone. Peter doesn’t represent the rest of us.”

I pulled Wyatt and Weston out while the rest of the room buzzed. Once we were outside and a few blocks away, I stopped and turned to pull Weston into a hug.

“Fuck that guy,” Weston said, his voice tight.

I look over at him now, snoring in the other bed. I love and hate how much he cares, how much he stands up for me. My best friend. My brother. I’m so lucky to have him.

And my mom.

And Wyatt.

Wyatt, just what am I going to do with you? And would Weston understand if he found out what I’ve started?