Chapter 2 - Tyler
Tyler, Stephen, and Corwin were cross-tumbling, taking turns throwing their floor passes diagonally, when it happened.
Tyler set up for his round-off, handspring, full-in double pike like usual.
But as he snapped into a clean pike position, legs straight and body jackknifed, he felt that catch in his back, sharper than it had been in years.
The floor was rushing up at him and he couldn't get his left leg down, and he almost panicked. The landing was a sprawled mess.
Tyler lay on the floor, frozen in place.
Pain flared like a knife, so sharp he wanted to puke, but the numbness was worse.
He was locked there, left leg tingling and immobile from left buttock to toe.
Even his right leg felt odd. Panic fluttered in his chest as he tried to breathe.
You've done it this time, wrecked your spine.
His heart pounded like it wanted to beat its way out of his chest.
“Bannichek! What the fuck do you call that?” the coach bellowed.
Tyler swallowed hard and rolled over. He almost puked again out of sheer relief when his left leg moved underneath him.
He wasn't paralyzed. He hadn't put himself in a wheelchair.
He closed his eyes, ignoring the little voice in his head saying “This time” in Eli's voice.
“Sorry coach!” His words came out hoarse and he swallowed again. “Slipped on the take-off.”
“Well don't fucking do it again. You took a year off my life there. You need to see the trainer?”
Tyler tentatively hauled himself upright and took a step.
His left leg was still oddly numb, the floor more pressure than sensation under his bare foot.
But it would hold his weight and the pain was only pain.
Everyone on the team had that. Bad knees and ankles, repetitive motion wrist injuries and inflamed tendons, it was all part of the game.
He took another couple of steps and decided he wasn't about to fall over. “No coach, I'm good.”
“Well, walk it off and then get your ass back here and do that pass right. I want enough height for me to walk underneath you in that second rotation. You hear me?”
“Yes, coach.” Tyler stepped off the floor onto the tumble strip, bouncing on his toes.
Sensation was coming back. He could still detect a little one-sidedness to his jumps as the left leg gave slightly.
But each bounce was better. His back hurt like hell, but he'd already maxed out his ibuprofen for the morning so his back would just have to lump it until noon.
He did a couple of rebounds, and then threw a basic handspring, handspring, whip pass down the strip.
A nagging voice in his brain asked why the fuck he decided to do a whip, when he'd just jerked his back around big-time.
Another thing to ignore. It was fine. He was fine.
Tyler made his way back to the corner of the floor to wait for his turn to redo that double pike.
By seven p.m., he just wanted to go home. He could barely move. He thought nothing could possibly break through his fatigue, but the lurch of adrenaline when Coach Andre grabbed his arm outside the locker room proved him wrong.
“Bannichek, in my office.”
Tyler stood in front of the desk as the coach sat heavily in his chair and then held Tyler’s gaze for a long silent moment. Tyler shifted from one foot to the other. There was no reason he should feel guilty, like a kid brought up in front of the principal. He tried to seem relaxed.
“That was quite a fall you took on floor. Was it your leg, your back again, what?”
“Nothing, just a slip. No damage.” He’d let a trainer check him over at lunch break as ordered, and heaved a sigh of relief when they spotted nothing except new bruises on his hip and forearm.
“I want you to see the physiotherapist tomorrow morning before we start.”
“But I'm fine.”
“Maybe. But all afternoon you were holding back a bit.”
“Not intentionally,” Tyler said in protest. “I mean, I'm sorry, I'll do better tomorrow.”
“I hope so.” The coach looked narrowly at him. “You earned your place here. You were spectacular in the Trials. But the closer I watch you, the more I feel like there's something wrong. I've been watching the films. You favor your left leg a lot.”
“A muscle thing,” Tyler said quickly. “It warms out pretty fast.”
“Mm. You also fall a lot, though. That full-in double wasn't the first time I've seen you completely miss a landing, and I've gone back over the video three times and I can't see the slip on the take-off.”
Tyler winced inside, although he tried to keep his expression calm. He knew they were being recorded, but had hoped nothing would show that the coach could use against him. “I've been thinking I might wear shoes for tumbling instead of bare feet. Might get better traction.”
“That seems like a big change to make just three weeks out from the Games.”
“I wear them for vault. I'm used to them.” The half-lie sat heavy on Tyler's tongue. He’d last maybe thirty minutes before going back to bare on floor, but he wanted to distract Coach Andre.
“All right. Do that. But I still want you to see the physiotherapist. And Bannichek?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You will tell me if there is a problem I need to know about?”
Tyler made himself meet his coach's hard stare. After all, this wasn't something the coach needed to know. “Yes, sir.”
Eli was home when Tyler slammed his way in the door. His roommate looked up from dishing himself ice cream and raised an eyebrow.
“Coach wants me to see the physio first thing in the morning,” Tyler grumbled.
“Do I want to know why?”
Tyler didn't know how he could fib to the coach with a straight face, but not even meet Eli's gaze. “Probably not, no.”
“Uh huh.” Eli took his bowl of ice cream to the living room and dropped down onto the battered couch.
Tyler trailed behind Eli and sat beside him. “I do the routines. That's what counts, isn't it? I can throw the big moves in competition when I need them. A slip or two in practice is nothing. The man practically chewed me out for falling.”
Eli sighed and licked his spoon slowly. Tyler's eyes followed the motion of Eli's tongue around the spoon, feeling his whole body come to attention. Dammit, he didn't have time for this either. Not now. Languidly, Eli scooped another spoonful and stroked it over his lips and tongue. Tyler wasn’t sure if he wanted to watch that tongue forever or stuff the damned spoon up Eli’s nose. He really could use a little of the support he used to get from Eli, but he was afraid he was more likely to hear an I told you so. What he couldn’t stand was feeling ignored.
“Aren't you going to say anything?”
“What do you want me to say? Sorry you fell? Glad you didn't fuck yourself up beyond repair, this time? So happy you convinced your coach you don't have a potentially career-ending—scratch that, life-as-we-know-it ending problem? What?”
Tyler shoved himself off the couch. “Never mind.”
“Yeah. You go pop another dozen pills and lie down on some ice and convince yourself you're fine.”
“Everyone competes hurt,” Tyler protested. “Greg is holding his breath hoping that cruciate he blew in his knee last September makes it through the trials.”
“So maybe you're all crazy,” Eli said wearily. “I don't know any more. I'll be out of here soon, if Derek can just scrape together enough cash to fix the brakes on his van. I'm looking forward to that sooo much. Just driving and listening to the radio, and no worries. I really need to get away.”
From me? Tyler hurt deep inside to think Eli would be happier far away from him.
But he fucking hated that exhausted look on Eli's face, too.
He said tentatively, “We fly to London on the seventeenth.
I'd love it if you stayed until then. But I could lend Derek some cash so you could get away after that.”
“Cash from where? You're as broke as I am.”
“I have some.” Not much emergency fund left, after paying for that last MRI himself, but a little.
“For damned sure I don't want you driving something with defective brakes. After the Olympics I should have some real money coming in.” He knocked his knuckles on the coffee table to avoid jinxing himself. “So I can loan you out of my rainy-day fund, if it would help you get a vacation. I want to.” Fuck knew he wouldn’t be here without Eli, the last two years.
Eli looked up at him and for a moment there was something warm and sweet between them. But then Eli's eyes grew remote. “Nope. I don't want you giving me money you can only get back by staying in the gym. Thanks, but no.”
Tyler slammed into his room with his bad mood fully restored.
He sat on the bed and reached for his drawer.
The letter from the doctor was buried underneath other odds and ends where he’d stuffed it the last time, as if hiding the letter would make the threat disappear.
He dug the page out of the envelope and ran it through his fingers for the umpteenth time, adding to its battered creases.
He didn't need to look at the words to remember what it said.
He'd paid cash for everything including the MRI, so there was nothing on his insurance record. He’d had to wait a while for an appointment, so it had been only a month before the Trials when he'd sat in that little exam room and waited for the doctor's verdict.
Dr. Krestman had been younger than he'd expected, and brusquer. He'd sat in his chair and given Tyler a cool look.
“So I gather you're not that attached to walking.”
“Huh?”
“You granted me access to your records. I'm not the first physician to tell you abusing your body with competitive gymnastics is a bad idea. I read a lot of kindly, thoughtful patient communications you clearly have blown off. Do I need to go through those again?”
Tyler had looked down. “No. But I was hoping...”