Xiao deserved the spot. He’d been in the Chinese training program before his parents had immigrated to California when he was in his teens. He’d never pursued competitive gymnastics in the US, choosing to follow a sports training and coaching path instead. “That’s… that’s great. I mean it. And it’ll be great to have you there.”
Xiao placed his hand, palm down, on the desktop near Sol’s arm, as close as he ever got to touching any of his athletes without permission. “Will your history with Mr. Thomas interfere with your preparation? Your training?”
Would it? It already had, hadn’t it, since Sol had avoided doing a basic skill for three years just because it had been named for somebody who shared Tony’s last name—and wasn’t even related. But he couldn’t lie to Xiao. That wasn’t what their relationship was based on.
“I don’t know. I hope not. But he could be a disruptive influence.” Hell, he’s already a disruptive influence, if only in my head.
Xiao studied Sol’s face. “He won’t be sharing quarters with you at the Training Center, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
God, that hadn’t even occurred to him. What kind of nightmare would that be? “But what if he makes the team? We’ll all be in the same suite in the Olympic Village.”
“You are anticipating trouble again. You must treat this as you’ve learned to treat your routines—focus only on the moment, on the skill at hand, not on the next one coming up nor on the one just past. You cannot control the choices of the selection committee, nor can you control Mr. Thomas’s behavior. Railing against his mere presence hurts nobody but you, and you, you can control. So I suggest you begin to do so.” He nodded at the empty shake cup. “Are you stable enough to drive home?”
Sol nodded. Stable enough to drive home? Sure. Stable enough to train in the same gym as Tony Thomas?
Not in a million years.
Standing in front of the USOPTC, Tony grinned up at the phone atop his selfie stick.
“Good morning and welcome to the Xtreme Bucket List channel. Take a look at where I am, Xtremists!” Tony panned to show Pikes Peak and then back to the entrance of the Training Center. “That’s right. I’m in C. Springs, about to head inside for the next big item on the list: training with the US national men’s artistic gymnastics team.” Tony hunkered down on the sidewalk, assuming a serious expression—not hard to do with his insides feeling like they were banging around his ribcage. “Now some of your XBL comments over the last few months have been skeptical that stepping away from the BASE jumping and slack lining and free climbing isn’t extreme enough, that I should be living up to the promise of the channel and going for the big thrills, the big risks. All I can say is, seriously, dudes?” He made a get-real face. “Have you ever tried to qualify for a second Olympic team?”
He beamed at the camera, mostly to reassure himself, because walking into that gym, facing the team, facing Sol, was the biggest risk he’d ever taken, and he still wasn’t sure he was up to the challenge. If that PR guy from the USA Gymnastics men’s program hadn’t kept hounding him, he’d probably still be running from it. “Here’s the thing, though, folks. Privacy in the USOPTC is pretty intense, so I won’t be able to share my training with you, or post videos of the other athletes. But I’ll update you when I can. And who knows?” Another cheeky grin. Sell it, Thomas. Sell it good. “Maybe I’ll have good news next month when the selection committee names the team. For now, Xtremists—” He tapped his chest over his heart. “Peace out.”
Tony huffed out a breath and stood up. Now or never. And never wasn’t an option—he’d tried that, and it hadn’t worked nearly as well as he’d hoped. He faced the entrance, his heart doing a Yurchenko in his chest. Sol’s in there. I’ll see him again.
But Tony seeing Sol wasn’t the issue. It was the fact that Sol would see him—and Tony wasn’t entirely sure Sol would like what he saw.
He’d thought about texting Sol, calling Sol, hell, sending Sol a fucking telegram, about a hundred times a day since Rio. He’d thought that it would get easier, the farther Rio faded in his rearview. That as soon as he’d put enough space—both in time and actual distance—between him and