The Thomas Flair - E.J. Russell Page 0,20

Sol wasn’t a fan of Glen Thomas—understatement—but Tony had dropped comments in the last week about how invested his father was in his comeback. “He thinks I might be worth something again.”

“I’m sure the appropriate people have been notified.”

Danny patted Sol’s back. “Yeah. Barry'll handle it. Head coach and all.” He glanced over his shoulder at the other guys who were collecting their stuff and heading toward the door. “He told us all to take a break. That goes for you too, I guess. See you later?” Sol nodded jerkily, and Danny buffeted his shoulder once, then strode away.

I never wanted him to get hurt. I never wanted that. Besides, he and Tony had started to reestablish their friendship. If Tony were to disappear again…

Sol started to shiver as sweat dried on his back and chest. He yanked a T-shirt out of his bag and pulled it over his head. “I’ve got to go.”

Xiao finished mopping up the spill. “Yes. To eat.”

“Right. Eat. I’ll do that.”

But first, he needed to make sure Tony was okay. If that meant lurking outside his door until the coaches and medical team left, then Sol was ready to camp out all day if necessary. I’ve done it before.

As he walked out of the gym, the floor seemed too far away for his feet to reach and black spots danced in the corners of his vision. Okay, maybe I need to eat first. And check my levels.

But afterward? He had a door to stake out.

Tony lay on his bed, an arm thrown over his eyes, as the Center’s doctor held a murmured conversation with the physical therapist at the door. Maybe it’s not a physical therapist I need right now. Because his headspace was more cluttered than his overstuffed gym locker.

He hadn’t been living under a rock since Rio, for fuck’s sake. Granted, until this season he’d only seen the team compete in broadcast events, and other than Chad, he hadn’t encountered any of them in the meets he’d attended this year.

Up close and personal though? Oh my fucking God.

Danny’s p-bar skills were stronger than Tony’s had ever been. Eddie’s vaults had so much amplitude that Tony had jokingly checked his shoulders for wings. Although Rahul’s high bar routine didn’t have Tony’s—say it, asshole—flair, it was solid. More than solid enough to stand up internationally.

Then there was Sol, and damn. Just damn. Sol on horse and floor was a thing of such beauty that Tony wanted to drop to his knees.

So he did.

And if he let everyone believe it was for another reason? All the better.

Dr. Song arranged a whole freezer full of ice packs around his knee. “I’ll want to do an MRI later. How does it feel?”

Tony lowered his arm and manufactured a wince. “Could be better.” Noncommittal. That’s the ticket. Besides, it wasn’t a lie—although his surgery had been successful, his knee still wasn’t 100%. That’s why he’d scaled back his floor and vault skills to the minimum he needed to make the team.

“Rest for a bit, then we’ll take you down for the scan. Keep it iced and elevated until then.” She pointed at the crutches that the PT had leaned next to Tony’s bed. “And stay off it. Those are just for bathroom emergencies, understand?”

“Sure, Doc. Thanks.”

Dr. Song patted his shoulder. “Try not to worry. It might be nothing more than a strain.”

“Right. Got it. No worrying.” Tony swallowed against the lump in his throat as she left the room. Don’t have to fake that.

After the last days training with the other guys here at the Center, seeing their focus, their seriousness, their spirit, Tony felt about ninety years old and as deflated as his last flat tire—and delivered performances to match.

Why the hell did I fall for that PR bullshit? These guys are the ones who should be seen, who should be celebrated. I’m a fucking dinosaur. He snorted. A fucking driven dinosaur.

Bailing before the trials was the only sure-fire way to clear the path for everyone else, because his fingers twitched with the need to feel the rings, the high bar, the p-bars—all so different, but all of them etched in the calluses on his palms. Once he mounted the competition podium, excitement and adrenaline flooding his veins, he wouldn’t—he couldn’t—deliberately throw an exercise.

Of course, the way his practices had been going, he couldn’t hit a routine with a sledgehammer. But he also couldn’t take the chance that the selection committee would swallow the PR hype too. Selection