Chapter 2 - Tyler #2
“What? For some kind of miracle pill? The real miracle is that you're still walking around on two functioning legs, especially after the reinjury in '09. Look, for most people with thoracolumbar instability the issue is pain, sometimes lots of unbearable pain. But when I read your file I see “numbness in the left leg, weakness in the left foot, groin pain, leg pain, loss of sensation...” You have nerve root signs and what may be cord compression signs. And the imaging shows a lot of unstable movement and disc protrusion.”
Tyler raised his gaze as far as the doctor's mouth. The man was still talking but the words made no sense. He had a nice mouth though, almost as nice as Eli's although his lower lip wasn't as full.
“Tyler.” The doctor sighed. “God, I have a love-hate relationship with people like you.”
Tyler jerked his gaze away from the man's lips. Gay? Am I that obvious?
He must have looked startled because the doctor clarified, “Athletes.
You work really hard and you do the rehab despite the pain, but you take 'go slow' as a space-filler and 'complete rest' to mean three days at half-speed.
Your body is talking to you loud and clear when you get those shooting pains.
Your spine wants you to stop abusing it.
All that motion in your back is causing degenerative changes, and the more you train, the worse it's going to get.”
“But I can probably make it a couple of months right now?”
“Maybe. Or you could twist the wrong way tomorrow and blow a disk or cause a shearing injury. My advice to you would be to cut back to a sane level of exercise, with back precautions, and to consider stabilization surgery.”
“What's the recovery time from that?” Tyler asked slowly. “Maybe after the Games.”
The doctor just shook his head. “I'll send you a written report with some articles on surgical options. When you decide you want a functional back more than you want a medal on a string, call me.”
So now Tyler sat here on his bed, twisting that report between his hands.
Eventually he stuffed the envelope in the inner pocket of his gym bag.
He'd made it this far, through the Trials and into training.
All he needed was three more weeks. And for people to fucking believe in me instead of calling me crazy.
He had another long, painful night, moving from lying flat out to standing to pacing when the catch in his back got bad.
And then in the morning he dragged himself into the gym and convinced the physiotherapist and everyone else he was fine.
He tried not to think about Eli, not about Eli's fatigue or his words, or how it would feel when Eli walked out the door.
But occasionally over the next two days, when he really needed a lift, he let himself remember that one soft moment…
Eli's eyes gold with affection. Maybe someday soon. ..
***
In the end, he wasn’t even doing a difficult skill, just a simple front-full that a level-seven kid could probably do.
He got a nice punch and some height, his body remained arrow-straight through the single rotation, and he stuck the landing, already thinking about the next move.
But when his feet hit the floor there was just a little roll, a tweak, and that damned pain shot from his spine down his hip and his whole left foot went as numb as a block of wood.
Instead of a rebound takeoff into his front one-and-a-half he staggered sideways and fell.
For a moment he sat there, his palms flat on the blue carpet, his mind frozen in shock.
“What the hell?” Assistant Coach Gregory was at his side in a moment.
“Bannichek, I swear to God, what is with you?” The coach's face turned thundercloud dark.
“Everyone else on this team is stepping it up and you're just getting more erratic.
One minute you're flying like you did at Trials, the next you're chickening out of a move a little girl could do. How many times did you open up your bar dismount yesterday?”
Tyler stared at the floor. Three times. Three times he'd opened the triple to a double, to make sure he stuck the landing. The pain of remembering was as bad as the fire in his groin and thigh. The coach was right. He was fucking up. He didn't belong on this team with these guys. Not anymore.
“There's no time for this!” the coach went on.
“This isn't just about you anymore. When you get to London, you're carrying this whole team's hopes with you.
You screw up like that, and every one of these guys goes down with you.
I don't know what your problem is, but get your head out of your fucking ass and fix it!
This is the best team I've ever coached, hell, maybe the best team I've ever seen. We have a shot at the gold. But we need you giving it a hundred percent, all the time. You hear me?” He peered at Tyler's leg and frowned.
“Jesus, bleed all over the floor, why don't you?”
Bleed? Tyler looked down. Sure enough he'd reopened a half-healed split on his big toe and blood welled up, turning a spot on the floor dark purple.
The coach shook his head and handed him a tissue. “Go put tape on that and get your ass back here. While you’re at it, get your head in the game. You've got twelve seconds.”
Tyler wrapped the tissue around his toe and pushed to his feet.
For a second, he wondered if his leg would support him.
He felt nothing. Not the split toe, not the floor under his foot, nothing.
But when he took a step his leg moved the way it should and with a second step the familiar prickling of returning sensation began in his heel.
Five steps took him to his water bottle and rip kit on the sidelines.
His pulse pounded in his ears so loudly he thought everyone must hear it.
Another shock of pain ran from his buttock down his thigh, and he staggered before redistributing his weight.
The pins and needles in his foot hadn't yet subsided like they should.
Tyler stood watching his blood ooze red into the white tissue, staring at his foot that looked so normal—well, battered gymnast normal—and felt so wrong.
He had styptic and tape in the kit, but instead of opening it, he scooped up his things and kept going.
Behind him, Coach Gregory yelled, “Tyler? Where the fuck are you going?”
Tyler didn't even turn his head. He couldn't. He heard the familiar sounds of the gym, the radio in the background, the grunts of the guys as they worked, the slap of feet on an approach to the vault, the slight squeak of hands slipping on the pommel horse.
The air had the eternal faint haze of chalk, the thickness of heat and sweat, filling his nose and mouth.
Last time. Last time. Each step jolted from his heel to the top of his head, and he knew he was walking crooked, on legs stiff as stilts.
“Tyler?”
Leaving wasn't irrevocable yet. He could apologize. He could turn around.
The door closed behind him, cutting off the sounds and smells, cutting off that part of his life, with a simple thump as it locked into its frame, soft and heavy and over.
He reached back for the handle realizing his hand was shaking, watching his fingers land on the cool metal curve almost without volition.
But it was his choice to open those fingers and let his hand drop away. No. No going back.
By the time he'd reached Coach Andre's door, his leg was working fine, just a few prickles in his instep an ongoing reminder.
He bit his lip, wanting the pain, almost wishing that he was dragging the damned leg like a cripple, so this decision would be necessity and not choice.
You fucking coward. The whole reason you're doing this is to not end up like that. He pushed open the door.
Coach Andre was on the phone, yelling at someone about a reservation. He held up one finger to Tyler, making him wait until he finished reaming someone a new one. Tyler winced. That was nothing compared to what he’d have coming when the coach turned his attention his way.
He looked around the office. How many times had he stood here?
He had been at the facility long enough to have good memories and bad, moments of pleasure as his regular coach told him he’d earned a place in every individual event and a shot at the all-around title, other times when he'd got his ass handed to him for what the coach saw as a lackluster effort.
But every time, he'd felt a connection. He and his coach had been working together, using Tyler's body to create something amazing.
Now he felt like he stood on the other side of a pane of glass, seeing his coach from outside.
The coach didn't yet perceive the separation.
His irritated wait another minute wave was intimate.
But four words out of Tyler's mouth would change that, unless he lost his nerve and ran, or threw up right there on the rug.
Coach Andre finished his yelling, keyed off his phone, and glared at Tyler. “So, Bannichek, why the hell are you standing in my office in the middle of practice?”
“I....” Tyler swallowed hard. “Coach, I have to...fuck!” He bit his lip again, tasting blood, and blinked furiously. He was not, fucking not, going to cry like a baby in front of his coach.
“What?” Coach Andre leaned forward, pale blue eyes fixed on Tyler's face. “You have about three seconds to say what you need before I have you on the floor doing push-ups for wasting my time. Come on, I'm busy. What?”
“I have to quit.” There, flat out. He'd tried out a dozen other words as he walked down the empty hallway, words that explained things better, but those four were all he could force out of his mouth.
Coach Andre stared at him, eyes flat and hard. “I'm not in the mood for jokes.” When Tyler said nothing, the coach frowned. “Quit for the day? What are we talking about here?”