Citius (The Scent of Victory)
Prologue – Morgan
Prologue
Morgan
Gymnastics World Championships, Montreal
B right lights danced across the darkened sports arena like shooting stars, swirling and pulsing in time with the hype music. Stylized cartoon gymnasts tumbled across the video boards, performing vaults on a hypnotic loop—a taste of the thrills yet to come.
“Standby,” an event staffer called.
I stood in the athlete entrance tunnel with seven other international gymnasts, waiting for the event to start. The air was thick with anticipation. We earned the eight highest scores during qualifiers, securing this chance to compete for the vault world title— my world title—and we all wanted it.
“Ready, champ?” my teammate, Grace Arata, asked over my shoulder, fingers tapping an excited rhythm against my back. Pheromones with the effervescent fizz of lychee soda tickled my nose.
Our scent-blocking leotards and the constant stream of pheromone neutralizers pumped into the arena dampened her excitement, ensuring her pheromones wouldn’t disrupt the other gymnasts.
No one thrived in competitive environments more than Grace, our team’s sixteen-year-old wunderkind—and the newly crowned queen of omega women’s gymnastics.
After leading us to the team gold medal, she won the individual all-around title by a comfortable margin. The media couldn’t get enough of her .
I was a grizzled old-timer in comparison, a few weeks shy of twenty-two, with more than my fair share of talent and success. But at my age, most elite omega gymnasts were on the verge of retirement. A mature omega body, with its wider hips and lower muscle tone, struggled to defy gravity, something the uneven bars liked to drive home every time I touched them.
At five-foot-four, I was considered tall for an omega gymnast, which made me less agile and aerodynamic than someone like Grace—a barely five-foot-one teenager whose body had yet to develop fully.
With any luck, I had another year or two of competition left in me.
“Of course I’m ready. The real question is,” I said, turning to playfully pinch her cheek, “how are you going to beat me with such sloppy landings?”
Grace’s competitive streak emerged, puffing up her cheeks and squaring her shoulders with determination. “Oh, you are so going to regret saying that!”
Her words landed like a jovial tap from a sparring partner rather than a true challenge. While Grace routinely earned big scores, she also made avoidable mistakes—knees too bent, not getting enough height, and taking steps on the landing.
You lose the advantage of doing more complex, higher-scoring vaults if you don’t fight for every tenth of a point. That was the key difference between Grace and me. She trusted her inherent talent to place somewhere in the top three, while I was a stickler for technique and clean execution, which led to consistent results—almost always good enough to win.
That’s why I was heading into the event final as the top qualifier, and Grace squeaked into fourth despite our comparable number of total possible points. She hadn’t beaten me head-to-head yet, but it was only a matter of time—and I welcomed the challenge.
The cartoon gymnasts transitioned into a live broadcast of the entrance tunnel. Cheers exploded from the audience as the camera panned across us, a group of focused young women wearing a random assortment of warm-up gear. A strong security presence hovered out of frame.
Some girls stretched while others jogged in place.
The Canadian gymnast at the back of the line had her eyes closed, miming the lift of her arms and twist of her shoulders as she visualized her vaults. A native of the host city, Montreal, she was the home crowd’s favorite, earning robust applause when she appeared on-screen.
The camera zoomed in on Grace and me next, prompting a fresh wave of cheers. We wore matching scarlet leotards with a galaxy of crystal stars swirling around our torsos. I tended to keep my styling simple, but not today. Grace had insisted that our makeup match, too, hence the silver glitter eyeliner and the explosion of curly ribbons around the base of my brunette bun. A winning look, or so Grace claimed, better suited for her own rosy freshness and glossy black hair.
It was all too easy to imagine how we were being hyped up by the commentators—the sport’s new darling facing off against the defending champion. Who would emerge victorious, and what might it mean heading into an Olympic year?
The announcer got things started. “Please welcome your competitors for the omega women’s vault final!”
Bianca, the seventeen-year-old newbie from Italy, walked out first. She had performed well all week and seemed to take the pressure in stride, flashing a cute smile and love heart at the camera.
“Representing the United States of America, Morgan Van Daal!”
The announcer dragged out my vowel-laden name as I took a firm step into the spotlight and raised my arms to wave at the enthusiastic crowd. The heightened energy of the arena flowed over me. I couldn’t help but savor the heady thrum.
While the camera was still on me, I tucked my ring and middle fingers against my right palm, the hand sign for I love you . Then, I made a diagonal motion in front of my chest.
Flight .
It was the message I sent to my family at the start of every competition. With four parents and six siblings, it was rare for more than one to attend an event in person. My youngest siblings had only seen me compete on screen, but they loved cheering me on, even in replays. So, I found a simple way to reassure them that I could feel their love and support, no matter the distance between us—a gesture they returned in droves. My phone was full of heartwarming selfies of my littlest siblings flashing the flight sign, reminding me once again that my family was my wings.
“Also representing the United States, Grace Arata!” She bounded onto the stage and waved, her megawatt smile shining brighter than all her glitter and rhinestones combined.
A security officer followed us across the dimly lit arena floor to the athlete seating area in front of the vault, where we removed our shoes and warm-up gear. When the arena lights returned to full brightness, the announcer called the first group of competitors. I followed Bianca up the short stairs to the competition platform. Grace and a powerhouse vaulter from South Korea followed.
The Italian coach adjusted the springboard and safety pads while we checked our wrist guards and chalked up. Warm-ups only lasted a few minutes, so Bianca quickly took her first practice vault.
She launched off the springboard with sufficient speed, but her hands connected with the vault at an odd angle, which upset her balance and ruined her momentum—landing on her knees, out of bounds. The crowd murmured with concern. Bianca stared at the mat until her coach took her by the elbow and guided her to the side.
Coach Hager, my longtime mentor, got to work. Despite the gray streaks in her cropped black curls, she was still as trim and powerful as when she competed as an elite omega gymnast two decades earlier. I tried to watch her adjustments, but Bianca kept pulling focus.
She exchanged rapid words with her coach, gesturing angrily at the vault—as if she wanted to pound it into the ground.
What a weird reaction.
Grace and I exchanged a worried glance. Taking a nasty fall during a practice vault would rattle anyone. Bianca had almost no time to regroup.
Coach Hager signaled that everything was ready and moved to the side. A pulse of pure adrenaline shot through me.
Time to fly.
Centering myself at the end of the runway, I took a deep breath, vault mechanics flashing through my head. My twisting spiral of a vault was far more difficult than Bianca had just attempted. And it happened to be my favorite.
I shot forward, arms pumping as I tore down the runway. Nearing the vault, I lunged forward, my torso rotating and legs swinging overhead. My back faced the vault as I landed on the springboard, which propelled me into a powerful rebound.
Despite being half-turned as I shot over the vault, unable to see what was coming, I had a clear mental map of my position in the air. In the next millisecond, my left hand would connect with the vault, becoming a fulcrum for the rest of my body.
Both hands needed to make contact before I pushed off. Just connect and—
The contact came half a heartbeat too soon .
Bianca’s gesture made sudden, terrifying sense. The vault height was wrong.
My left hand skidded across the suede covering. I couldn’t get my hips over my shoulders. My legs whipped forward at full force, wildly off-balance. Any semblance of control was gone .
Time slowed, leaving me suspended mid-air, mind racing. I couldn’t panic, I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to land safely.
I must land safely.
Tilted sideways and disoriented, I fought to maintain proper form, even as I plummeted toward the ground at a ruinous speed. My legs only needed to go a little further, just a little more—
I landed on my neck.
My limp body hit the mat with a sickening thud—an unchecked force that rattled every joint, leaving my arms and legs splayed at unnatural angles.
Someone screamed. No, not someone. Grace.
A mix of sour blackberries and brittle herbs singed the tip of my tongue. Coach Hager. She knelt beside me in silent terror. That was the only word for it. Never in all her years as my coach had I experienced her pheromones like this. Wretched. Almost inconsolable.
The oppressive silence of the crowd weighed on my chest. I gasped for air, unable to catch my breath or come to terms with what just happened.
No, this wasn’t right. The warm-up wasn’t over. Grace was waiting for me. We were going to share the podium. I had to defend my title. It was impossible to accept going down without a fight. I refused to surrender.
Get up .
My shoulder twitched, trying to follow through, but I couldn’t. It hurt too much to move.
Suffocating beneath a tangled mess of delirious thoughts, my conscious mind struggled to hold on. My vision blurred. Touches like pinpricks drifted across my shoulders and arms, trying to communicate with me, to help me. Sounds tumbled around my head, but I couldn’t decipher the words.
I couldn’t smell Coach Hager anymore. Had she left? No, she’d never leave me. Never abandon me like this.
Where was Mom? I wanted my mom. I wanted—I wanted to vomit.
And then… Nothing.
Three months of nothing.