Page 28 of Full Split (Forbidden Goals #8)

NILES

The national team training camp is intense. It feels less like practice and more like a constant, week-long competition. It’s five days straight of workouts, skills assessments, endless meetings, media appearances, and evaluations with trainers and medical.

It’s more pressure than I’ve ever been under in my life. Weston and I were told to expect intensity, but this is something else.

I kind of love it. And, what’s more, I feel like I belong here.

It helps that the coaches don’t waste time treating me like a special case. They couldn’t care less what’s in my pants or what some hothead political douche thinks of me. In here, I’m just another athlete. A contender. Someone they’re counting on to bring home gold.

Unfortunately, the outside world and media circus surrounding my presence here still exist. Case in point, my current situation.

I’m sitting down with one of the national coaches and a couple of people who work with the press and legal teams. Coach Harris is a bald, no-nonsense guy who’s known for being brutally honest and to the point. And true to that reputation, he has zero time or patience for media bullshit.

We were called in early this morning to discuss the Peter Trenton situation.

Peter tested positive for PEDs after Nationals. It took less time to check in to our hotel than it did for the news to hit us the moment we walked into the training complex.

Our first clue was running into Cody Jenkins on our way to our first day of training. He gave us a quick rundown, and then almost immediately, I was called away into the head coach’s office for a meeting with the legal and public relations teams.

“Let me get one thing straight,” Coach Harris says. “I don’t give a damn how big your dick is.”

I cough, caught off guard by just how blunt he’s proving himself to be.

“I care about whether you can vault the way you did at Classic and Nationals.”

“Oh.” I shift awkwardly, noticing how the legal and public relations reps are whispering to each other. Probably worried about Coach’s mouth getting them in more trouble. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“Good.” He leans back. “That’s all I need to know. Now let’s get this bullshit over with so we can get to work.”

Feeling more confident about my place here than I have thus far, I relax a little and listen to Marci, the team’s public relations rep, explain exactly why I need to be part of this meeting.

As it turns out, I’m here because Peter is blaming his test results on me. He’s claiming his sample was tampered with, and that he saw me hovering around the collection site. He even claimed that he thinks the national team admin allowed it to happen because they, and I quote, “don’t like him.”

Obviously, it’s absolute bullshit. Even the legal and PR reps assure me that no one believes his claims to be true, and even if they did, it wouldn’t have been possible.

The test samples undergo a very specific and secure collection process that no one other than the third-party laboratory has access to.

There are a myriad of precautions meant to assure security, privacy, and accuracy that can easily be proven to deny his claims.

The only reason I’m here is for them to let me know they’re on my side in this, and to ask me not to make any public statements or respond in any way, including on social media. They’ll be asking the rest of the team to do the same.

“Let us manage this, and you just worry about bringing home the gold.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It’s not until our short lunch break later in the day that I’m able to touch base with Weston and Cody. I tell them what happened in the meeting, and Cody tells us about getting the call that he was being brought in as Peter’s alternate.

I’ve always liked Cody. Though we’ve never spent much time socializing, he seems like a good guy. We have a few things in common, most notably a drive to prove ourselves. When he mentions that he’s grateful for the opportunity, but he’s sad about how it happened, I find myself agreeing with him.

I kind of feel bad for Peter.

Weston’s jaw drops incredulously. “You seriously feel bad for him? Dude was a complete asshole to you.”

“Yeah, and he got what he deserved,” I say. “He’ll continue to get what he deserves as long as he continues acting this way. But it’s a shame things had to happen this way. He’s a good gymnast.”

“Being a good gymnast doesn’t make you a good person.”

“True. But… I don’t know. Pressure does things to people. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re not enough. That you could lose everything if you don’t push harder to prove yourself. I think maybe Peter just cracked. And now he’s lost everything.”

“Feeling bad for the guy doesn’t mean his behavior is excusable,” Cody says.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Weston says. I kick him under the table. I’ve still kept Peter’s harassment to myself, much to his and Wyatt’s dismay.

“It doesn’t matter now,” I say. “It’s over. He’s not here. All I’m saying is, I wish he never felt like he had to sink to this level to get ahead.”

“Well, at least we don’t have to put up with his bullshit while we’re here,” West says, and to that I raise my protein shake to clink against his.

He’s right. Without Peter here, it’s so much easier to focus.

The camp is loaded with talented team members, some of whom are older, returning gymnasts.

We’re fitting in well, making friends, trading tips, spotting each other, and joking between rotations.

For once I’m not on edge, waiting for the next jab or inappropriate comment.

Instead, I get to enjoy being treated like an equal. Like I belong. And I’m enjoying the camaraderie even more than I expected.

After a truly intense first day, Weston and I return to our hotel room dead tired. We both showered at the training facility, but Weston is determined to fit his giant body into the not-so-giant bathtub. I sprawl out on my bed and text Wyatt.

ME: You won’t believe what happened.

ME: Peter failed his drug test. He got kicked off the team.

DADDY: He’s responsible for his own choices. Don’t carry it.

Why am I surprised he knows me that well? Despite being oblivious of my feelings for him for so long, he seems to be able to read me in a way that no one else can.

ME: Trying not to.

DADDY: How was the rest of the day?

ME: Intense. Exhausting. AMAZING.

DADDY: I know you have to be tired. All I did was some coding and teach a tumbling class and I’m barely hanging on.

ME: Poor old man.

It’s a while later before he texts again.

DADDY: Watch who you call an old man.

ME: Whatcha going to do about it? Punish me?

DADDY: Don’t tempt me.

ME: …

DADDY: I’m proud of you.

I stare at those words for a long time, not sure how to answer. It makes me feel warm all over, fills me with pride. It makes me miss him. I type out several replies but keep deleting and restarting.

“Damn, man,” Weston complains sleepily. “Who the hell are you texting so late?”

“Your dad,” I deadpan.

Weston scoffs. “Tell Jeff to stop sexting you and go to sleep.”

ME: I miss you.

DADDY: I miss you, too. Get some rest.

I’m sick with guilt over how much I miss him. Sick with guilt that I haven’t told Weston any of what is happening. Lying by omission and letting him think that I’ve been talking to Jeff, when really I haven’t spoken to him since the day he tried to flirt with me over text.

I know that we’ll tell him the truth eventually, but right now we have to focus on figuring out what this is between us.

How exactly do you tell your best friend that you’re having sex with his dad?

What’s wild about camp isn’t just the schedule, it’s how hands-on the coaching is.

Sid was involved, sure, but he always let us build our routines ourselves. He’d weigh in, offer pointers, and suggest changes, but it was always our decision.

Here, the coaches are shaping us. Directing us.

They’ve got me training higher-difficulty vaults than I’ve ever competed, which is saying something.

They’re debating whether I should attempt them at Worlds if I’m selected.

Same with my high bar combo. There’s been a lot of back-and-forth discussion about whether it’s better to downgrade, trading risk for reliability, but they continue to test me on these high-risk skills.

As an all-arounder, I’m not just competing for myself.

I’m competing for the team’s total score.

Every part of me wants to be cocky and tell them I can hit everything. That I’ve got this.

But I think, just maybe, this experience is maturing me. Because I keep my mouth shut and remember that this isn’t about showing off the biggest, baddest tricks. It’s not about me and my need to prove myself. It’s about protecting the team.

I don’t love it. But I get it.

I text Wyatt during our break.

ME: Working on a team is weird.

ME: I never considered some of my risk elements could get downgraded to protect the team score.

DADDY: How do you feel about it?

ME: I think I can do it.

DADDY: That’s not what I asked.

ME: I want to go all out. But I don’t know if that’s selfish.

DADDY: You’re not selfish for wanting to win. Trust the process. Talk to your coaches. You’ll know what’s right.

I take a deep breath. Only two more days and I can see him in person.

Kiss him. Touch him. Being this far away makes me feel weird and sappy.

I want to tell him things that I might not say in person, like how he makes me feel good—not just physically, but mentally.

He makes me feel comfortable in my own skin.

And while I don’t need a man to validate me, it feels damn good.

ME: We did it! We’re in the final lineup!!

I can barely sit still. Weston’s beside me, grinning like crazy, shoveling pasta into his mouth like we’re not both vibrating with energy. We went out for a celebratory dinner after our last day of training and being officially offered places on the national team for Worlds.

Wyatt replies almost instantly.

DADDY: I’m not surprised at all.