Page 45 of Full Split (Forbidden Goals #8)

NILES

It’s been a weird morning.

But none of it matters. Not now.

I lock everything else out. The whispers, the tension with Weston, the weight of Wyatt’s eyes on me when he thinks I’m not looking. None of it matters.

I’m here for one reason. I need a place on that podium. That’s all. Just a spot. Just enough to get me to the next Olympic qualifiers.

Everything I’ve ever dreamed about is right in front of me. I just have to be brave enough to take it.

It all moves so fast. In a blink, the competition is beginning.

I blink again, and it’s my turn.

I step forward, staring down the runway.

It’s just me and the mat. My whole world narrows to that single stretch in front of me.

I don’t hear anything. None of the negativity.

No noise from the crowd. Not the announcer saying my name.

I can’t hear anything except my steady breaths and the hammering of my heart in my throat.

I swallow it down. Take another breath.

Before I move, I look to the side like I always do. The arena’s packed, but all I see is Wyatt.

He’s sitting up in the stands, watching me like I’m the only thing that matters. He’s so nervous for me. He looks tense but gives me a small nod.

You can do this.

That’s all I need. I take my mark, and I run.

Coach Harris gave me the green light to throw whatever I feel capable of. Well right now, I feel invincible.

Everything blurs around me. In a flash, my hands hit the table. The block is perfect. The twist pulls me through the air like I’m flying. Time stretches out. Weightless. Quiet.

When my feet hit the mat, one lands wrong. My left foot slips, slides forward. I recover. It’s just a step, but I know it’s going to cost me.

The noise crashes in all at once. I don’t hear it. I’m too busy walking it off, testing my foot carefully as I head back to Coach, trying not to show even a hint of pain.

Coach is smiling, so that’s a good sign.

When I glance up, Weston’s watching me. Up in the stands, Wyatt is too. Both of them with serious, worried faces. Of course they know I hurt myself. I can’t hide anything from them. They know my routines and moves almost as well as I do.

Then my score flashes.

14.900.

Silver.

Fucking silver!

And I can’t even be mad about the slip. I could’ve taken gold, yeah, but… silver at Worlds? A 14.900? That’s huge.

I did it. I’m in contention for the Olympics.

While the others move on to parallel bars, I pull Dr. Zem aside and tell her about my foot.

If I’m being honest, I’m only doing it because I know Weston and Wyatt will ream me if I don’t.

She checks it quickly without attracting any attention.

There’s no swelling or sharp pain. A physical therapist tapes it tight for stability, which is very common and not likely to be noticed.

“You’re fine for now,” she tells me. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. I mean it. She helped me get here, and I’m so grateful for her confidence and advice.

Now that I’ve done my due diligence, I’m focused on the high bar.

I know Wyatt’s up there somewhere in the stands, and that it’s one of the team trainers spotting me today, but when I close my eyes, I can feel him like he’s right behind me.

I imagine his steady warmth at my back. His comforting soapy scent.

His hands on my waist. That little squeeze that says you’ve got this .

He’s with me, always. And I’ve got this.

My high-bar routine is a compromise. Harris let me throw a few upgrades, but it’s still safer than I would have chosen for myself. I feel good about it, though. It’s a tight, clean routine that I feel confident about.

Chalk dust poofs into the air as I grab the bar. I touch and swing. Kip. Release. Catch. Swing. My body knows what to do and it comes effortlessly.

I feel the ache in my foot when it touches the bar and during extensions, but it’s not bad. I push through each move smoothly. There is no hesitation or wasted motion. No extra swings or grip adjustments. Every movement is tight, sharp, perfect.

I don’t think about Wyatt.

I don’t think about Weston.

I don’t think about the crowd. Peter. The news. Every obstacle that’s thrown itself in my way along the road.

I don’t think at all. I just fly.

Catch. Release. Tuck. Twist. And land.

I stick the landing perfectly. No hop or step. A jolt shoots through my foot like a lightning strike, but I don’t move. I hold the pose, arms up.

For one suspended breath, the room is silent and still. Muffled through the beating of my own heart and the rush of blood in my head.

And then the noise crashes back into me all at once. The crowd roars.

I look at Wyatt, and breathe for what feels like the first time today. He’s teary-eyed, clapping and roaring with the crowd.

The score flashes. 14.933.

Holy shit.

That’s gold.

They put the medal around my neck, and my hands won’t stop shaking.

This can’t be real life. My heart is hammering.

I stand up there on the podium, high above the arena, staring at the American flag rising above me. That flag used to be a symbol of pride and hope, but lately, for many, it’s been something much different. Something bleak and scary.

My vision blurs with tears, my eyes fluttering shut. I give my feelings their moment. For once, I don’t block them out while I’m on the floor, in front of all these people. In this arena, and on every television set that’s tuned in to see this competition.

I think about every kid watching. Every queer kid. Every trans kid.

This is for them.

I lift my fist into the air, and the crowd roars. I open my eyes, and when my tears clear, I see the flags.

Progress flags. Pride flags. Trans flags. All being held up proudly by people in the crowd. Even some by my fellow athletes, and not just from my team. Weston waves a tiny trans flag, making me laugh through my tears.

On the jumbotron, one huge trans flag catches my eye. It’s massive, draped along the stands behind me.

I turn around to look.

It’s Wyatt.

Mik, Jason, and Jace hold the edges, with Wyatt in the center. There are tears in his eyes.

But there’s worry too.

I mouth that I’m okay.

It’s sort of a lie. That dismount sent a shockwave up my leg I’ll feel for weeks, but it was worth it.

Everything after that’s a blur.

I stand for a few pictures, then they push me past the press area. I don’t understand why, though. I’m perfectly able to sit and answer questions. It’s not like I’m in that much pain or anything. Coach doesn’t listen, though.

Weston runs off to find Wyatt when we find Dr. Zem. She says I probably need an x-ray, just to be sure. She goes to set it up, and then I’m alone.

It’s weird, in the wake of all this chaos, two medals against my chest and more contentment and excitement than I’ve ever felt before, and I’m sitting back watching everyone else run around.

Weston returns with Wyatt in tow. Both their faces are pale as ghosts. I don’t understand why no one wants to hug me or celebrate.

They can’t really be that worried about my foot, can’t they?

“I’m fine,” I say immediately. “It’s nothing. Probably just a twinge.”

“That’s not it,” Weston says.

He and Wyatt share a look that worries me. A shiver of nervousness radiates up my spine. An eerie sense of foreboding that I felt before the competition but chalked it up to nerves.

Weston looks unsure, but hands me his phone.

I read the screen, and my world tilts. Everything inside me revolts.

What… How…?

I can’t speak.

Most of its bullshit.

Except… except for Wyatt. And Jeff, technically. Even those are twisted, but they’re there.

Wyatt crouches down in front of me.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says quietly, but doesn’t touch me.

Weston makes a sound, hands balling into fists. He’s furious.

I look down at the screen again, and for the first time today, I don’t feel like a world champion.

I feel like everything I’ve built is collapsing.

Once Dr. Zem gets it all set up, the x-rays are fast. I have a hairline fracture that will put me out for a few weeks at least. They put me in a boot and tell me to stay off it.

I barely notice anything through the numbness that’s taken over.

Coach Harris and the others herd us into a back office where the national team staff is waiting. They let Weston and Wyatt stay, since part of this pertains to them.

No one talks to us directly. They all just argue back and forth over our heads, throwing around words like media relations, investigation, and damage control.

Finally, Weston snaps.

“Obviously this is bullshit,” he says. Someone gasps.

“Begging your finest pardon, but there’s no better way to say it.

These are more lies that Peter Trenton is once again perpetrating.

Other than going after the actual problem here, why does anything need to be done when we’ve done nothing wrong? ”

I flinch. Weston’s lying to protect me. If even one part of the story turns out true… that implicates him, as well. He could lose his medals as well.

Wyatt could lose everything.

And me?

I’d be the monster they want me to be. The villain. The big bad trans enemy. The sex pervert. The liar. The manipulator

I can’t let that happen.

The trip home is a blur. Thanks to the overwhelming press coverage and everyone alive walking around with a camera in their pocket, we’re set up with an upgraded flight where we’re shielded from view. No one talks.

Days pass in a haze. We should be celebrating. We should be happy. Instead, I’m hiding in my house. We all are. Like we’re criminals.

Weston isn’t speaking to me. I haven’t seen Wyatt since we got home. Our texts have dried up.

I’ve brought so much bullshit into his life that he shouldn’t have to deal with. If not for me, he wouldn’t be facing any of this. He could have serious repercussions, but I was too selfish and na?ve to take that seriously.

Now he’s going to be punished. Weston is. Everyone associated with me will be.

I won gold. My dreams were coming true in a spectacular fashion.

I have everything I ever wanted.

But I fucked it all up.