Page 75 of Full Split

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 toomany 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.