The Thomas Flair - E.J. Russell Page 0,21
committees got swayed by drama and internal politics all the time.
He grabbed a pillow and heaved it across the room. Fuck! When he was out there in the gym, on the apparatus, he felt whole and alive in a way he hadn’t since Rio.
Of course, he’d been with Sol for the first time since Rio too. He’s gonna hate me even more now.
Tony poked at the mound of ice packs covering his knee. Maybe Sol would accept the injury and let it go. Maybe I can go to the Games, anyway. Watch and cheer on the team. He clenched his fists. I may be strong enough to step aside, but I’m not strong enough for that.
He glanced at his cell phone. Andrei hadn’t been in the gym this morning, which was why Tony had needed to stage his little farce today. He should call and give him the news. Tony winced for real. Andrei would be pissed. Romanian pissed, which was ten times worse than regular pissed.
Because Andrei had worked hard too. He’d followed all the regs, petitioning to get Tony a spot at the trials. He’d swallowed his pride to beg Barry for an associate coach’s job at the USOPTC. He’d beaten Tony into shape on routines that could stack up in international competition—and gymnastics hadn’t stood still in the last four years. The Japanese team in particular were doing some phenomenal skills that really pushed the limits of the sport. Tony couldn’t help a grin. If anyone’s up for pushing the limits, it’s me.
But his grin faded, and he sat up, scattering ice packs over the comforter. They don’t need me, not really. Time to let the dream go. It had really vanished in Rio—Tony just hadn’t wanted to admit it until now.
He stood—on his completely uninjured knee—and grabbed his earbuds. He’d pack first, then call Andrei. By then, maybe he’d have figured out how to dodge the MRI. I’ll tell Dr. Song I want to see my specialist instead. If he was lucky, she’d buy it.
He dialed up a head-banging playlist and retrieved his suitcase from the closet. As he grabbed handfuls of underwear and socks, he tried not to think about what would happen next. He could hardly pick up his XBL activities right away, not if he was supposedly recovering from a torn ACL.
Shit. What am I going to do?
He’d never thought beyond the Games, which was absolutely moronic. He’d just blithely assumed he’d make the team, that they’d medal, that things would proceed the way they should have four years ago with the sport gaining the popularity that came with success. But none of that was guaranteed, anyway. Maybe I should have thought this through a little more.
Sol at least had plans for after his gymnastics career. He was taking a year off, then diving back into academia. He’s going to be a freaking biochemist, for fuck’s sake. The guy’s a flipping genius—and not just at actual flipping.
Tony had never had that going for him. It hadn’t been a hardship for him to drop out of college before he’d gotten his degree in Health and Exercise Science. He yanked open the bottom dresser drawer, the one that always stuck, and pulled out an armful of sweatpants. If I—
“Jesus!”
Sol was standing in the bedroom doorway, jaw sagging. “What the fuck, Tony?”
Tony let the sweatpants fall out of his arms and yanked his earbuds out. Belatedly, he remembered to lift one foot off the floor as if he were favoring his knee. “Um. Hi?”
Sol stalked over to him, flip-flops thwacking, and kicked the sweats out of the way. “What are you doing?”
Tony made an attempt at bravado, flashing his trademark cocky grin. “Packing.”
Sol’s nostrils flared, and Tony could almost hear him mentally counting one one thousand two one thousand. “Why?”
Tony shrugged. “Dodgy knee went out on me again.”
Sol nudged the fallen sweats with a bare toe. “That didn’t seem to stop you from doing the dance of the seven sweatpants. Are you injured?”
Tony sighed heavily. He pushed the ice packs aside and sat down where they’d lain. Jesus! Cold! “What if I said no?”
“Then I’d say get your ass back to the gym and work on your fucking dismounts.”
Tony set his jaw and glared up at Sol. “Really? That’s not the song you were singing the day I arrived. Weren’t you the one who said I didn’t deserve to take the place of a more committed athlete?”
Sol had the grace to look embarrassed. “I was angry.