The Thomas Flair - E.J. Russell Page 0,2
not the one he wanted to party with tonight.”
“Only because you’ve got a competition tomorrow.”
Tony sighed. “Yeah, about that.” His steps slowed to a stop in the shadow of a banner with the Games’ logo. “Do you resent it, Solly?”
Sol frowned, trying to make out Tony’s face in the dim light. “Resent what?”
“That I got moved up from alternate instead of you.”
“What?” Sol gripped Tony’s shoulders, noting the tension that turned his muscles into concrete. “No, of course not.”
“But it was always our dream to make the team together. To go to the Olympics together.”
“And we did.” Sol gestured to the paved walkway that meandered through the athlete’s apartment complex. “Here we both are.”
“But—”
“The one I feel sorry for is John Sinclair. If he hadn’t torn his Achilles a week before the Games, he’d be here and both of us would be sitting in the stands.”
“It could just as easily have been you they tapped. Probably should have been.” Tony peered up into the dark velvet sky. “You’re more consistent than me.”
“Yeah, but they needed somebody to match John’s strength profile—p-bars, high bar, rings. That’s not me. Now if they’d needed somebody on floor ex or pommel horse?” He shrugged. “Maybe. But you’ve got two years’ more international experience, not to mention two years’ more muscle mass. I mean you qualified for two event finals. Obviously the coaches knew what they were doing.”
Tony narrowed his eyes. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Tony’s shoulders lifted as he took a huge breath. “Okay, then.”
“I wish I could be down on the floor with you tomorrow, though.”
Tony’s smile was a crooked shadow of itself. “Me too.
They walked along in silence for a few minutes, Sol trying to work up the courage to speak, until Tony’s cell phone chimed in his pocket. He pulled it out and even the shadow smile disappeared.
“Text from your dad?”
Tony sighed. “Yeah. Big surprise, huh?”
“Let me guess. He’s giving you advice about tomorrow that’s a direct contradiction to what the coaches say?”
“He hasn’t gotten to that part yet, although I’m sure it’s coming.” He tucked his phone back into his shorts without responding. “His current song and dance is how Matt shouldn’t be celebrating his medal. It was only a bronze, and to Glen Thomas, nothing short of gold is good enough.”
Sol let his steps take him closer to Tony—not close enough to touch, but not far enough away to escape the scent of citrus body wash on Tony’s skin. Dammit. “Considering that’s the only medal the men’s team has scored at the Games”—he nudged Tony’s ribs with his elbow and lifted an eyebrow—“so far, anyway, that seems a little harsh.”
“Yeah, well, that’s my dad. He couldn’t resist adding a dig about how we men should be ashamed that the women’s team wiped up the floor with their competition while we dropped to fifth.”
“The women just performed outstanding gymnastics. It’s not like they tackled their opponents and knocked them off the balance beam or blocked a release on the uneven bars.”
“Dad probably thinks the rules should be changed to allow it. Full-contact gymnastics.”
Sol chuckled. “I think your dad’s idea about how gymnastics competitions work is a little skewed by his football mindset.”
“Gee, you think?” Tony’s voice was dryer than chalk dust.
“Well, never mind him.” Sol bumped Tony’s shoulder with his own as Team USA’s dorm loomed in front of them. “You ready for tomorrow?”
Instead of flashing his grin and puffing out his chest with his usual pre-competition confidence, Tony bit his lip, his gaze sliding away. “Are you sure you don’t hold it against me? If they’d chosen you, the team might have medaled.”
Sol gave Tony a get-real-dude stare. “Unlikely. Besides, despite how your dad feels about the lamentable lack of body-checking in gymnastics, the team medal doesn’t rely on one person. It’s a group effort. And you know as well as I do that anything can happen up there on the podium. That’s the nature of our sport.”
Do I tell him? What if he doesn’t feel the same? Will it psych him out even more?
The haunted look in Tony’s dark eyes decided Sol. I’ll wait until after he competes tomorrow, after the medal ceremonies. Because despite Tony’s weird lack of confidence—and since when did Tony Thomas doubt himself?—Sol was convinced Tony would be wearing at least one medal if not two at the end of the day.
“You can do something for me, though,” Sol said slowly.
Tony turned to him eagerly, as if he were hoping for Sol to assign some kind of