by R.S. Grey
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Erik
My feet pounded the pavement outside the Olympic Village. I’d run the five-mile loop that started near the entrance nearly every day since arriving in Rio, grateful to purge the tension Brie built up inside me. My intentions for joining her at lunch had started out innocently enough. After leaving her on the sidewalk, I knew I needed to prove myself. I needed to convince her this wasn’t another game. I wasn’t going to get under her skin, fuck her, and walk away—not again. I’d slipped into the free spot beside her at the lunch table with the intention of starting fresh. I wanted to show her I could be trusted, but then she’d glared at me with such hatred and suspicion, I knew a clean slate wasn’t possible. We were past the point of friendly first dates and slow-rolling romance. In a way, I was relieved by her fire; if she truly wanted nothing to do with me, there wouldn’t even have been sparks. She was mine, and I would have her regardless of what the next four days held for us.
So that’s what I told her.
I’d had no intention of laying my cards out so candidly. Even to my own ears, I’d sounded like a caveman, declaring that she was mine and she had no say in the matter—and well, maybe she didn’t. She’d told me how she felt and though she pushed back in the gym, I knew she didn’t want me to walk away for good. She wanted me to make a bold move, to chase her and beg if necessary, and though I wasn’t accustomed to forcing my way into a woman’s heart, I knew this time was different.
The same qualities I’d come to love about Brie made up the wedge she was using to drive us apart. She thought she could push me aside for a few days until she was ready to pick us back up again, but truthfully, it wasn’t possible. The moment I admitted to myself that I wanted more with Brie, there was no holding back, and even at that moment, as I rounded the trail back toward the start of the village, I knew at the end of the Olympics, I wouldn’t be going back to Seattle.
Texas was a place I’d avoided for the last ten years. I’d visited every now and then, but I hadn’t ever considered the idea of moving back for good. I’d settled into my role of spiteful son and hadn’t let my mother or grandfather nudge me from that comfortable seat. After ten years, the grudge had grown like a tree, sinking deep roots into scars that refused to heal. The resentful leaves had bloomed and blocked out any hope for reconciliation—and yet when my mother had called from the emergency room, hysterical over the idea that my father would die before we made peace, I’d felt the branches shiver.
I didn’t think my father and I would ever have a normally functioning relationship, but in the last few weeks, I’d started to throw around hypotheticals: What if I offered him forgiveness? Would he reject it? Could we both put the past in the past?
In the quiet of my run, the answers could sometimes be heard.
Would I ever treat him as a father?
No.
Would I ever spend time with him the way I’d wanted to as a child?
Never.
I could forgive him, but I wasn’t looking to build a relationship with him. I didn’t entertain the farce of us becoming an all-American family, but I could see the value in peace. The stale anger in my heart no longer served me, and with it gone, I could dedicate that space to something much more important: loving Brie Watson.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Brie
“Hudson invited me to watch a movie at his condo later,” Rosie said at dinner later that night.
I cut the chicken on my plate, sawing it until it was all but shredded. The dull knife screeched on the ceramic and turned everyone’s attention to me.
“Uhh, Brie?”
I glanced up to see Molly, Lexi, and Rosie eyeing me suspiciously from around the circular table.
“What?”
Lexi narrowed her eyes. “Do I need to hide all the sharp objects in the condo?”
I rolled my eyes and let it drop, proving to her that I was fine.
“What were you saying, Rosie?” I asked, trying to divert the attention away from me.
“Hudson wants me to hang out tonight.”
“That’s great!” Molly said with a big smile.
I tried on a smile of my own, but it felt awkward, lopsided, and tight. Lexi noticed, watching me carefully. I shook my head, trying to convince her not to bring Erik up in front of Molly and Rosie. I felt like a ball of emotion and I wasn’t sure when it would boil over. I’d cry or scream or fight if given the chance, so for the moment I needed to focus on something simple like cutting my chicken into tinier and tinier pieces. I reached for my knife again, but Lexi beat me to it.
“Okay, cool it. You’ve officially chopped that bird up into individual atoms. Maybe try eating some of it instead.”
Molly and Rosie laughed with her and I felt my cheeks redden. Could they see how uncomfortable I was sitting there with them? Could they see how close I was to falling apart?
“Are you two ready for the competition tomorrow?” Rosie asked Molly and me with a cheerful smile.
My stomach sank with the reminder of what tomorrow would bring. I was so consumed with my personal life that I kept forgetting where I was: in Rio de Janeiro—oh yeah, and competing at the Olympics, trying to change the trajectory of my life. Funny how all that seemed to take a back seat to my situation with Erik.
So funny.
“I just wish you and Lexi were competing with us,” Molly said, reaching over to squeeze Rosie’s arm.
Olympic competition format dictated that only two gymnasts from each country were eligible to compete in the individual all-around finals. Molly and I had been chosen because of our scores during the qualifying rounds, and while I was sad for my teammates, Lexi, June, and Rosie had all qualified for a few individual event finals. I had no doubt they’d each earn another medal or two before they left Rio.
Rosie shrugged. “I wish we could all compete in all-around finals, but you two really deserve it. Besides, I’ll be back in 2020.”
“Not me!” Lexi said. “I’ll be in Mexico, watching the games while spanking a naughty cabana boy.”
I laughed and the sound caused three pairs of eyes to shift in my direction.
“She’s alive!” Lexi joked, poking me in the shoulder.
“Sorry,” I said with a shrug. “Just nervous about tomorrow.”
The lie was surprisingly easy to tell and after that, they let me settle back into comfortable silence. I didn’t pay much attention to the conversation as they finished eating. Then, after we’d dumped our trash and trays, I followed them up to the condo and made an excuse about needing extra sleep before the competition. In reality, my head was a swirling mess. I couldn’t pick one thing to focus on. I jumped from Erik to my mom to the all-around finals, around and around and around. Each topic was as vomit-inducing as the last.
After a long shower and a short, strained phone call with my mom, I lay in bed, thinking about the $25,000 I’d earned from the team gold. It was a ton of money, way more than I’d ever had, but it still didn’t touch the amount my mother had contributed to my training over the years. One time, I’d tallied up what she must have spent on my gymnastics career, and even my conservative estimate made me sick. The private lessons, the years of training, the private tutors when I could no longer manage a normal high school schedule, the international competition, not to mention all the small things: leotards, grips, gym gear, tape. I just knew I needed to win more.
I considered what our lives would be like if I had been a normal daughter. If I’d put all my effort toward my academics instead of gymnastics, could I have earned a full ride to college and pursued a career with a steady income? Could I have bought my mom a nice house and given her a little room to breathe?
Unfortunately, while I was an average student, I never felt excitement for learning equations the way I did for mastering skills in the gym. It was in my blood. In school, kids complained about studying and huffed in disbelief when teachers assured them they would absolutely need the quadratic equation s
omeday, but in the gym I could stand on the beam and feel it in my bones. Everything my body learned built on itself, and the allure of progression was intoxicating. All of it, from day one, had been streamlined for one very clear purpose, and I knew winning all six gold medals was the culminating light I’d been tunneling toward.
I would have assumed having secured one of the six would settle my nerves proportionately, but no. I’d already competed on the Olympic stage once, but the next morning, when I walked into the arena for the individual all-around competition, my knees nearly buckled with stress. I now had to contend with the idea that for the remainder of the competition, I was on my own. Competing for individual gold in the all-around competition and event finals meant I was even pitted against Molly for the next four days. For me to win, she had to lose, and what had been a team sport two days before was now unapologetically individual.
During the opening ceremonies, we were announced by name rather than by country. We each wore a different colored leotard to further signify the “every gymnast for herself” mentality, and though I tried to ignore it, the tension between competitors hung thick in the air.
My first rotation was bars. I pulled off my warm-ups and stuffed them into my gym bag. I reached for my grips and shook off the excess chalk. I could see the judges out of the corner of my eye. They sat behind a small rectangular table, wearing black suits and grim expressions. Their glasses sat on the bridges of their noses, and their pens were already in their hands, ready to go.
I turned away and tried to force their existence from my mind, but it was no use. They only added to the stress eating away at me. My mom, Erik, the chance for a second gold medal—my mind circled around and around as I stood in line to chalk my grips and then before I could push everything to the side, I was stepping up to the bars for my warm-up routine. I eased into it, feeling my heart dip into my stomach as I moved to the high bar. I skipped over my hardest release move and then finished with a simple dismount.
“What’s wrong?” Erik asked as I walked off the mat to take my place at the back of the line.
I jolted at the sound of his voice. “Nothing.”
“Then why did you just warm up a routine that isn’t even half as difficult as the one you’re about to submit to the judges?”
I swallowed slowly. “I don’t know.” I averted eye contact, staring into the stands behind him. “I’m feeling off.”
He shook his head, torn. “I want be sympathetic, Brie, but there’s no time. I need you to get your head in this arena.”
“It is,” I stressed, ignoring his glare.
Fuck him. Couldn’t he see how nervous I was? My own body was sabotaging me.
My next routine was wobbly; I nearly ate shit on my first release move and I took four steps after my dismount.
Erik didn’t even look me in the eye as I lined back up behind Molly. I could practically hear the announcers in my head.
“Brie Watson has tremendous potential, but she’s the least experienced when it comes to competition on the Olympic stage. She wouldn’t be the first rookie to buckle under the pressure.”
“Brie,” Erik urged, pointing to the empty bars. “You’re up.”
I shook my head clear of thoughts and reached down into the chalk bucket. This was my last warm-up routine and I wasn’t ready. I needed everything to slow down. If I could only go back in time and get a better night’s sleep. If I could have just nailed this routine one more time in practice. My chest was already tight and the more I tried to tell myself to calm down, the less I felt in control of my own body. Is this what a nervous breakdown feels like?
“It’s time,” Erik said, rattling my brain.
I rubbed my grips together and turned my attention to the bars. I swallowed down the lump in my throat and jumped up to start my routine. I tried to hit every skill with confidence, but midway through, I felt the sting of tears in the corners of my eyes. Before they could stain my cheeks, they bowed to centripetal force as I rotated around the bar and leapt from my face. Every handstand was a second too short. My arms were shaky and weak. I nearly missed my hands on my final release move, and in the end, I dismounted with an easy backflip, a skill I’d competed when I was eight.
I couldn’t look at Erik as I walked away.
There was nothing to say; I was losing my grip.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Brie,” he called out, trying to get ahold of my arm, but I jerked free and kept walking. I couldn’t talk to anyone. Molly was standing near our bags, watching me with a careful expression. She pitied me, but I didn’t need her pity. I needed my body to cooperate.
“Hey.”
Erik’s hand hit my elbow as I brushed by him and he pulled me back gently until I was staring at his chest. His hands were on my shoulders, slowly massaging the muscles there, easing the tension building up inside me.
“Take a deep breath,” he said, tilting my chin up with his finger.
I frowned. “What?”
His blue eyes met mine and for the first time that morning, I could feel myself starting to relax.
“Some things are out of your control, but not your breath, so breathe in with me, okay?” He dropped his hand back to my shoulder and together, we inhaled slowly. I watched his chest filling up with air and my own followed suit.
He nodded. “Hold it for another second.”
I did.
“Now let it out slowly.”
He smiled. “Good. Again.”
I didn’t know how he was doing it, but my stomach was loosening and the stress I’d felt only a moment earlier was starting to disappear. Before I knew what I was doing, I leaned forward and engulfed him in a tight, all-consuming hug. His heart beat against my cheek and I squeezed my eyes shut, taking in the moment for as long as possible.
His voice was smooth and confident as he continued, “When you get up on that bar, imagine I’m the only one watching you. I’ll be two feet away, ready to catch you if you fall.”
And what if I’ve already fallen?
What then?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Brie
Winning gold in individual all-around finals had been an accomplishment that never seemed attainable. Even as I stood on the podium, clutching my bouquet of flowers and waving out at the crowd, I expected someone to force me from the dream. I clutched the bouquet to my chest as tight as possible, prepared for someone to try to rip them from my clutch and apologize about the mistake. How could a girl from nothing make it to this point? I felt a million miles away from my old life in Austin—the alarms that rang before the sun rose, the stiff, discolored seats on long public bus commutes, the stinging of ripped hands, and the lonely nights that never seemed to end.
I stood on the tallest podium as tears spilled down my cheeks. I was tired and sweaty and sore. I’d had a long day of competing, but the adrenaline pumping through me made it easy to stand up tall. The national anthem streamed through the speakers and I glanced to my left, meeting Molly’s eyes as she stood on the podium to my right.
“Congratulations,” she whispered, reaching out to clutch my hand. We stayed linked through the remainder of the anthem, and with both of my hands occupied, the tears slipped from my cheeks and down onto my leotard.
Erik had been by my side all day, helping me breathe when my nerves tried to take over and pulling me into tight hugs after I’d finished one perfect routine after another. On television, his embrace probably looked identical to the ones doled out by the other athletes’ excited and supportive coaches, but between us, I’d felt something more. When I’d finished my final routine, he’d gathered me into his arms and whispered in my ear.
“You did it. You won.”
He hadn’t even seemed shocked about it, not like I was.
I looked up and scanned the crowd, trying to find him. There were people everywhere, reporters and Olympic staff crowding around, but he stood just to the side, in front of everyone else, wearing an easy smile. When our eyes locke
d, his smile widened and I held his gaze.
“I did it,” I mouthed.
He nodded, once.
After that moment, the rest of the day was a blur. I was ushered off the podium and directed toward my first interview. Erik stayed close, standing by my side as the NBC reporter doled out question after question. I tried in vain to suppress the tears so I could answer the questions without sounding like a blubbering mess.
After that, I was swept away for more interviews and photos. Molly stayed close by my side and as much as they wanted to interview me, the bigger story involved the two of us. Only once before had two American gymnasts snagged both gold and silver in the individual all-around competition. They tried to scoop the story of resentment or hatred between us, but Molly only squeezed my hand tighter.
“She deserves that gold medal more than anyone I know,” she insisted with a firm tone. “Besides, silver works better with my complexion.”
For the remainder of the day, she and I were photographed and interviewed by dozens of reporters. It was one of the best, most exhausting days of my life, and by the time we made it back to the condo, I couldn’t believe I had to wake up the following day for more.
After that day, the event finals dragged on for four solid days. I rode the shuttle with my teammates and walked into the arena, ready to compete. I tugged off my warm-up clothes and stretched, going through the motions that seemed to get easier with each day. Lexi won first on vault as she’d predicted, and Molly won first on bars. I won first on beam, tipping back into skills that were as natural as breathing. Bars and vault weren’t my strongest events and though I did win a bronze medal in both, I was counting on floor to bring my gold medal count up to four.