Page 38 of Full Split (Forbidden Goals #8)

NILES

I’ve always been good under pressure. It’s kind of my thing.

I can shut out the noise. Tune out the nerves. Focus until the world blurs around me and there’s nothing left but muscle memory and instinct.

Not now.

Now, I’m falling apart.

And everyone can see it.

Weston’s silence is a constant presence beside me. Like a ghost that won’t go away. He doesn’t speak to me. Doesn’t look at me. Whatever distance he’s putting between us… it’s breaking me.

I can’t do this without him. I’ve always had him beside me. Always. He’s been my anchor, my constant, the one who could drag me back when I spiraled. And now?

Now I’m spiraling. And he’s not there.

It’s affecting my performance.

The head coach pulls me aside before the second day of qualifiers. I can’t even pretend I don’t know why.

“You’re good enough to scrape by right now, but you’re not yourself.”

I nod, because he’s right. There’s nothing I can say to negate it.

The pressure keeps mounting. The looks from the coaches. From teammates. I know they’re watching. I know they’re disappointed. The harder I try to tune it out, the more I feel it sinking under my skin.

Every routine feels wrong. My movements feel stiff. Even when I hit, it feels like I’m faking it. Like I’m an imposter in my own body.

I finish the qualifiers in fifth.

Fifth.

That should be good enough. Fifth at Worlds? It’s solid. There’s an entire competition worth of gymnasts who would kill to be where I am. I’ll advance, and that’s something most can’t say today.

All I can think about is that I could’ve dominated.

I should’ve dominated.

Instead, I performed safely .

The coaches downgraded me on all events, playing it safe to protect the team scores because I clearly am not in the right head space to go in hard like I know I’m capable of.

They didn’t trust me to hit my difficulty.

They didn’t think I could handle it.

And they were right.

The second day of qualifiers is the hardest I’ve ever fought just to keep from falling apart.

It started in the locker room. One of the older gymnasts made a comment about all the rumors in the news, which are just getting louder and wilder by the day instead of losing steam.

He remarked on Weston and I not sitting together, chatting, or goofing around like we normally do.

It’s been chilly between us, and it’s obvious to everyone.

The guy, Allan Menote, simply asked if we were fighting because of the news. He didn’t say anything besides that, but it was obvious that there was more than curiosity there. As though he was asking if the rumors were true without asking.

The look Weston gave him was so scathing, I thought for sure Allan’s face might melt off.

“Peter is full of shit, and you know it. Shut your mouth and get your head out of your ass. You should be supporting your teammate, not making shit worse, asshole.”

I sat there gaping until everyone filed out of the room. Every one of them looked ashamed of themselves, which was enough to let me know they’d all been talking shit. This team that I was finally feeling comfortable with. And Peter fucking took that from me.

But Weston? I did that myself.

When only Weston was left. I walked over to thank him and maybe open a line of conversation so I could start apologizing.

He wasn’t having it though. He gave me the kindness of telling off my team members, but he is not on my side and may never be again. Because what he said next hurt me to my bones.

“So how much of the rest of it is true?” He asked, his voice low and cutting. Then he walked off and left me in the restroom alone.

I feel dead inside.

From the second I step onto the floor, I know I’m off.

It’s not physical. My body’s fine. My muscles are a little tight today, like I didn’t warm them up properly. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.

It’s my head. And my heart.

The crowd is huge. There are banners everywhere, cameras at every angle, and people milling about in every direction. Normally, I find all the activity exciting. Today, I feel overwhelmed.

Weston is in my periphery, tossing a chalk bag back and forth between his hands. He should be beside me. We should be talking about our skills, walking through the process and hyping each other up.

But he’s not with me. He’ll never be with me again. Because I ruined everything.

When it’s my turn for vault, I try to take a cleansing breath and block all the negativity from my mind, but there are too many voices in my head. The coaches downgraded my run this morning. I can’t even be mad about it. I know they’re right.

I run. Hit the board. Launch. And stick.

I feel nothing. The score is decent. But not enough. Not for me.

Not when I know what I could’ve done. I could have had this entire crowd on their feet. And since I’ve shown off at every competition up to this point, they had high expectations. The response was lackluster.

On parallel bars, everything is clean. Precise. Emotionless. I feel like a machine in a skin suit. I stick the landing perfectly, and the polite applause feels distant, like it’s meant for someone else.

On the floor, every step feels heavy. Every pass is like I’m dragging lead. I land hard. My second pass stumbles, not a fall but a mistake that will cost me. The deductions flash in my mind before the judges even tally them.

I force myself to smile through my dismount and grit my teeth when I hear my score.

By the time I get to high bar, I’ve got nothing left. I don’t even ask the coaches, I just nod because I know they’re going to tell me to downgrade. It’s probably for the best.

I swing through the routine like a ghost, numb and detached. Somehow, I stick the landing without even really being aware I finished. Did I even do the whole routine? My score, thankfully, says yes.

In the end, I qualify fifth all-around.

Weston makes it through for pommel and rings.

We should be celebrating. But we don’t even speak to each other.

Once the qualifiers are over, I’m sent to check in with medical. I’m assuming they want me to talk to the physical therapist in case an injury is what caused my big mistake on the floor, but I’m sent through to Dr. Zem.

I don’t know what I expect when I get there, but she doesn’t even look me over. She asks if I’m feeling alright and then watches me for what feels like a long time.

Then she sighs. Apparently she was waiting for me to say something.

“You’re carrying a lot right now.”

I stare at the floor.

“Want to tell me what’s going on?”

I shake my head. My throat’s too tight to answer.

She nods like she expected that. “I’ve seen the coverage,” she says softly. “It royally sucks that a bunch of assholes that don’t even know you are trying to turn your whole life and career into a tabloid story with all these rumors.”

I glance up. She’s watching me carefully.

I swallow hard. “They’re not true,” I say automatically.

She smiles sadly. “I know that, Niles.”

God, if only she did. What would she think if she knew that one tiny part of it is actually true? Would she judge me? Be disappointed in me? Would she believe the rest of the lies?

“All those things they’re saying about you and Weston. About your coaches and other teammates. I can’t imagine what it feels like to have the world dig through your personal life like that. And then to have your own teammates question you?”

It feels like suffocating.

“Do you want to talk about the tension between you and Weston? I know that has to hurt more than anything. I can’t imagine it has anything to do with the rumors.”

She couldn’t be more wrong, but I let her believe it. They can all believe what they want.

“Wyatt’s your coach. Weston’s your teammate and your best friend. They’re your family.” She leans forward slightly. “And now they’re caught in the storm with you. I’m sure that’s created a lot of undue stress. But don’t push the people that love you away.”

I clench my jaw.

“People affect performance, Niles. You’re not a machine. You’re a human being under attack.”

“I’m trying not to let it.”

“You can’t pretend forever. You need to talk to someone. You’re carrying all of this alone, bottling it up, and any moment now, that pressure is going to come to a head.”

She raises an eyebrow, her soft expression boring into my eyes and my head where it feels like she can read every lie and mistake I’ve ever made. I crack under the pressure of her kindness, even though I know she wouldn’t be so kind if she really did know the whole truth.

“Weston needs his dad. And Wyatt… he loves his son more than anything.” My voice shakes. “They’re all I have. And I’m losing both of them.”

I pull in a shaky breath. My throat clicks as I swallow dryly. “It just feels like… everything’s slipping.”

“You’re not going to lose them.”

“You don’t know that.”

She thinks Weston is upset because I’m pushing him away. She has no idea that he walked in on me naked in his dad’s bed. That I betrayed him. Lied to him. Hurt him.

“You’re right. I don’t. But I know you’re not alone.” She stands up quietly and places a hand on my shoulder. “Talk to them. Both of them. Whatever’s between you, however complicated it is, they need to hear it. And so do you,” she says softly.

I nod, but I don’t mean it.

Because Weston already knows the truth. That’s why he hates me.

I’m leaving the team suite when I hear them.

Wyatt and Weston, arguing. I follow the voices down the corridor, until I’m close enough to hear.

“I’m not trying to hurt you, West.”

“Then what the hell do you call this? How could you?” Weston snaps.

Because I provoked him.

“You’re my dad,” Weston hisses. “And he’s my best friend. He’s my age. How the hell am I supposed to be okay with that?”

“Weston—”

“What happens when it’s over?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, come on. You can’t really think this relationship is sustainable. You’re almost forty. He’s twenty-one and a player.”

“That’s not fair, West.”