Chapter 1 - Tyler #3
Stephen's bright smile dimmed for a moment and then came back full force. “Not that bad. Anyway, I figure one of you old guys might have to take it easy and give me a chance. Two alternates made it into the last Olympics. I'm looking on the bright side, well, bright for me.”
“Old guys. Right.” Tyler switched legs, despite the little twinge from ass to knee it gave him. That was probably just the muscles, not his back. Probably.
Stephen's grin was unrepentant. “Just kidding. Sit-up speed contest?”
“Not on your life.” But Tyler had to smile back.
He'd always loved being part of a team. Gymnastics was that odd mix, an individual performance that sometimes counted for a team score.
Doing his best for himself was great, but doing his best for a team?
That always pushed him one step farther, and this time that step would take him up onto the podium in London.
He pulled his leg higher, ignoring the pain. Life was just awesome sometimes.
By the time he dragged himself home that night, awesome had faded a bit.
Coach Andre was a tough taskmaster and he had a few favorite elements of conditioning that Tyler had stopped doing because they seemed to aggravate his back.
He could have told the coach, but that would’ve meant confessing that his back still hurt, which he wasn't about to do.
He could get through it. Going back to those exercises might even be good for him, to work some of the muscle groups he'd been neglecting, although right now he felt like road-kill.
For once Eli was home, sprawled on the couch with the TV on low while he drew in his sketchbook. He glanced up as Tyler dragged his battered carcass in the door and frowned. “The new coach was a slavedriver?”
“I wouldn't go that far.” Tyler wandered into the kitchen to get some bottled water and ice packs.
Eli set down his sketchbook and followed him. “Are you going to eat before you crash?”
“I should.” But bed sounded far more appealing.
“Here.” Eli dug in the refrigerator and pulled out a plate with a thick sandwich cut in quarters and a mound of grapes. “Eat that.”
“I can't eat your dinner.”
“I made it for you, doofus. I already had mine. I figured you might be dragging your ass after the first official training day.”
“Wow.” Tyler grabbed a piece. Through a mouthful of cheese and roast beef he muttered, “If you were gay, I’d kiss you.”
“I am gay. But given that you're spitting crumbs and just yuck, I'll take a pass. Do you want help with the ice packs?”
Tyler looked at him sideways as he wolfed down the food. “I thought you were mad at me. I thought you were moving out.”
“I am,” Eli said. Tyler's heart dropped painfully, even when Eli added, “As long as I'm here, I might as well lend a hand though, right?”
“Right.” Tyler was too tired to come up with any innuendo about where he wanted that hand.
He dropped his empty plate in the sink and headed to his room.
The bottle of painkillers stood ready and he popped a handful, chasing them down with the water.
Automatically he pulled off his shorts and T-shirt and stretched facedown in his briefs on the bed with the tub of ice packs beside him.
The bed dipped as Eli sat on the edge. “Just the usual?”
Tyler muttered into his pillow, “Tweaked my right knee on a landing off the vault.”
“Got it.” Eli's hands were competent as he pulled one layer of sheet over Tyler's skin and then placed the gel packs on Tyler's back, left hip, and butt cheek.
Tyler felt Eli's fingers slip under his knee, with the stretch of the chilled elastic webbing, and then the cold against his leg. He almost groaned with the relief.
“Better?” Eli's voice was low and soft.
“God, yes. Wonderful. Thank you.”
“Do you even count the ibuprofen any more before you take them?”
Tyler frowned against the bed. “Yes, Mother, I keep track.”
Eli smacked Tyler's right ass-cheek, hard enough to make him jump, and then replaced the ice packs onto the bad spots on Tyler's back with unerring precision. “Liar. Try to remember to take those off before your skin freezes.”
“Mmph.” Tyler meant to say something real. He had the feeling something important had escaped him in that conversation, and he should pursue it. But the ice was wonderful and every muscle in his body finally stopped twitching and began to relax. He let it all go and closed his eyes.
When he woke he knew it was hours later.
The world outside his blinds held the quiet of midnight.
The ice-packs on his skin had melted, and he brushed them aside and rolled over.
He was still sore, but the meds had kicked in and what he really needed was to pee.
He got up, stuffed all the packs into the Tupperware to stick back in the freezer, and headed for the bathroom.
Staring in the mirror after he'd finished, he noticed his hair was getting a little long.
He really needed to cut it, but he was oddly superstitious about changing anything this close to a major competition.
The dark-honey strands were halfway down his forehead, but still an inch from being in his way when he tumbled.
He brushed his hair back impatiently, staring into his own eyes.
Was this the face of an Olympian? He wasn't ugly, despite his lightly freckled skin and the round face that he'd given up hoping would become more defined as he matured.
Even in his teens, before he'd had this body, girls had seemed not to mind what they saw. So what did Eli see?
No. That wasn't what he was thinking about.
What about the sponsors and the fans? If he got a gold, better yet if they got a team gold, advertisers would be coming to him.
Finally, the money might start coming in faster than it went out for training costs and meet fees and travel.
He remembered his mother pinching his cheek and telling him she would buy a whole case of Wheaties when the box with his face came out.
When had that been? When he was seventeen, he thought, after he'd battled back from the spine rehab to compete at the elite level.
When she'd finally stopped fretting and believed that he was healthy again and still had a shot at their dream.
His chest ached. An icy stretch of road and a washed-out guardrail had kept her from ever seeing that Wheaties box, but he was finally making it happen.
He leaned toward the mirror. “Tyler Bannichek, Olympic medalist.” The title sounded damned good. He was almost there, and though Mom was gone, Eli would see him standing under that American flag with the anthem playing. Nothing was going to stop him.
Tyler left the bathroom and bumped into Eli coming out of his own room.
The collision sent his tub of ice packs tumbling.
He bent down carelessly to retrieve it, and felt that catch of pain shoot from his back, down his thigh, and into his groin.
Fuck! For just a second, he froze as the world swam with pain, and then he straightened.
He was sure he hadn't made a sound, hadn't let any sign cross his face, but Eli's eyes had gone dark in the dim hallway, and he shook his head slightly as he reached for the bathroom door.
That damned sanctimonious headshake. Tyler grabbed Eli's wrist. “What? Just say it!”
Eli looked at him steadily. “I've had my say. Didn't change anything, did it?” He twisted his arm free and disappeared behind the bathroom door.
Then the important thing Tyler had meant to discuss earlier floated to the top of his brain—Eli saying he was still moving out. Tyler had thought they were past that, that Eli had given up that stupid idea. He hadn't said anything about it all week. Although I've barely seen him all week.
He stayed in the hallway, waiting for Eli to emerge, until he heard the shower go on.
Damn. Eli took long showers, especially when he was mad about something.
Tyler couldn't pretend to be casually hanging around the hallway for half an hour.
Reluctantly, he fetched fresh ice from the freezer and headed back to his room, vowing to bring the topic up next time.