Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
T he Rossi name was a curse.
I swear it was.
We were rational yet highly emotional people. I could be the jaw dropping girl in the room, your confidant, and your worst enemy.
All at once if I had to.
And in those rare times when I was on the receiving end—because karma—I loathed it. I prided myself on being practical and levelheaded, but when my emotions slithered under and took root, spreading their vines when I least expected it, I acted just plain old stupid.
It was early Friday morning, twelve hours before our flight departed for the elite qualifier meet where I would test both Optional and Compulsory routines, when I woke up feeling downright weak.
It was horrible. I didn't even have the strength to panic.
I was lethargic and unable to process my thoughts and so physically drained that I called my mom.
Holding up the phone was a job in itself.
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Much to my surprise, she had gotten on the phone and within minutes had a private doctor on the way to my condo.
It was one of those luxuries of the American Express black card.
She heard the brittle tone of my voice and seemed legitimately concerned for my well-being, but then I replayed the conversation in my head and caught her last words.
I anticipate your youthful appearance, my darling daughter. I scowled.
Diagnosis: Severe exhaustion and fatigue.
The doctor had to administer an injection of a high dose of vitamin B12. The next two times I'd have to do it myself since he'd prescribed an extreme dose until I got home and scheduled an appointment to see him.
It didn't take long for the dose to kick in.
I had a burst of energy and positive attitude.
I felt confident, eager about competing in my first meet with World Cup since I started.
I wanted to test elite, and I wanted to make my team proud.
If that meant I had to stick a needle fifty times over in my leg, I would.
We had a five-hour flight to the Las Vegas meet, where we'd go eat dinner and then straight to the hotel to check in and head to bed. I wouldn’t see my parents until after the meet.
The coaches were adamant and enforced a rule that we not have any kind of contact with them, but I knew they were there.
I sat by Madeline the entire time and read a book.
I didn't want my focus to deter sitting next to Kova, and I wasn't in the mood for Reagan's shenanigans.
I was nervous and jittery.
At dinner, I barely looked in Kova's direction, despite sitting right to next to him, which he orchestrated to happen.
It took every fiber in my body not to lean in and inhale his scent deeply into my lungs.
He smelled divine while sipping on vodka.
I couldn't think of oranges and cigars without thinking of him.
It wasn't like I was upset with him, I just lost all sense of self-control when I was around him and I couldn't afford to do that right now. I really wanted to win. So I put myself in the zone and blocked out all distractions.
Once back at the hotel, the teams split up and went to their rooms. Since the elite were such a small team, we all roomed together. None of us uttered a word, just went on with our normal routines and went to sleep.
Gymnasts were well-groomed and disciplined little soldiers.
And it's where I found peace the most.
My thigh was sore the next morning where I had to give myself an injection. There was a slight discoloration around the sight, but nothing that a little makeup couldn't fix. I hoped it wouldn't bruise until after the meet.
Other than that, I was feeling fan-fucking-tastic. My energy was through the roof. Like I’d had a bunch of energy drinks.
After a quick pep talk from the coaches, we had podium training at the site.
We marched in dressed in our matching leos and sweats.
Hair pulled back in slick ponytails with globs of gel combed through so not one single strand would fall out of place.
My nerves started to kick in once we arrived, though I was oddly calm.
Podium training was very structured and organized with limited time to warm up and get used to the equipment.
I had one chance to swiftly readjust all my routines so the timing was correct and find my mark to focus on.
Stone quiet and determined, I prepared for something I had never done.
Not every meet had podium training because not every meet is on podium. In regular gyms like World Cup, there was no podium, and every apparatus was anchored to cement.
On podium, nothing was cemented. The events would be raised three feet off the floor so spectators had easier viewing. It's why on television some judges were level with the apparatuses and some were not.
While it was safe and regulated and wouldn't be visible to the untrained eye, competing on podium wasn't the same.
The texture may be different on beam or vault, the bars may give more, and the floor could be softer or rougher and have more spring.
Usually a set routine was in place to only warm up specific skills set by the coaches.
That's why podium training was so vital.
Just another way to fuck with a gymnast's head, really.
Lifting my eyes, I tightened my grips and glanced around. I dipped my hands into the chalk bowl and visualized my routine.
The level of tension that radiated throughout the gym was thicker than a block of fresh chalk.
Never did I expect to see the coaches so overwrought with nerves.
All you had to do was watch the movement of their eyes and you'd know.
It was always the eyes that said everything.
If not, just about all their shoulders were stiff and tight, and they sauntered around with their hands on their hips, speaking assertively to their gymnasts.
While this was about the competitor and their talent, it also reflected on the coach.
It was always about the coach. They wanted to look as amazing as their golden ticket.
Reagan had just completed her dismount when she came over to the chalk bowl.
This was my first meet with her and surprisingly, she was calm and silent toward me.
I gathered she remember her first time testing for elite and how stressful it was.
I for sure thought she'd try to get under my skin and mess with my head, but she didn't. Thankfully.
My warm-up for bars came next. I stood in front of the low bar and lifted my arms toward it. Just as I was about to mount, Kova put a hand up. Stepping onto the mat, he walked around the cable cords in my direction.
"Listen, I want you to do your full routine first so you get a feel for these bars.
The equipment is different from ours, but if you keep your mind and body sharp, it will not be as bad as it seems. Do not stop when your heart drops, because it will, just keep going.
After you complete your routine, I want you to get back in line and think about what you need to adjust and only warm up those skills.
Small changes will add up to huge results. Do you understand?"
I nodded. "Which should I do first?"
"Compulsory."
I should've guessed he'd say that. Since compulsory had mandatory skills that every gymnast had to master, I'd have to prove myself capable before I could test Optional.
After I completed my warm-up, my nerves were a little jittery.
I stood in line retightening my grips for no good reason with a racing heart.
Kova had been right, every skill I did had felt different and I absolutely had to make some changes.
My swing gave more, and my heart splattered to the ground a few times when I released.
I knew it wasn't the best warm-up and that Kova would not be pleased, but I couldn't think about that right now.
I didn't look in his direction, even though he was probably waiting for me to look for him.
I just stared at the floor and visualized what I'd just done.
I had to get in tune with my body and think about where I would make minor adjustments.
I needed to calm my stressed nerves.
The biggest issue would be timing. Timing was everything and I needed to adjust it just right for the routine to be executed properly.
Just as I was about to go my last time, Kova pulled me aside.
"What are you doing?" I shrieked in a whisper. "I'm going to miss my turn!"
It'd been drilled into our heads that everything was on a strict schedule and there would be no exceptions made. I seriously couldn't afford to lose my spot.
Kova placed his hands on my shoulders and calmed me with his touch. Looking directly into my eyes, he said determinedly but with a touch of tenderness, "Do not crack. You got that? Do. Not. Crack." I bit my lip.
After a full year of working so closely together, he knew when the weight of the moment got to me.
"I can see it in your eyes—you got nervous and that is okay, it is normal, but do not let that affect what you came here to do.
Look into my eyes and see what I see. A warrior, a fighter, someone who gets kicked out but finds another way in.
You are braver and stronger than you know.
You are a fire that burns. Do not feed your doubts, Ria, feed your dream.
Do not lose your focus." I nodded feverously, annoyed I'd shown emotion.
"Now, do you want me to stand and spot you? "
I expelled a strenuous breath and nodded again.
"Look at me," he ordered. "Look in my eyes." He placed a hand on my shoulder and an eerie calmness seemed to wash over me. "Take a deep breath and release. Again." Then he smiled proudly at me and my stomach settled.