in a week.”
“I think you’re psyching yourself out.”
“Is that so?” He grinned crookedly. “Abandoned biochem for psychology, have you?”
“I know you’re not a fan of our mindfulness sessions, but they really do work, if you give them a chance. To paraphrase Yogi Berra, gymnastics is 90% mental and the other half is physical.”
Tony chuckled. “Stick to biochem. Math is clearly not your strong suit.”
“I was paraphrasing. That math is all Yogi’s. Personally, I’m an ace at precise mental computation after years of calculating my carbs.” Sol traced the weird paisley pattern in the comforter. “The only thing you’re getting now is a chance to compete. To show what you can do at the trials, the same as the rest of us. If you don’t deliver…” Sol shrugged. “The coaches aren’t stupid. They want us to win maybe more than we want to win ourselves.”
“I doubt that very seriously,” Tony said dryly.
“You know what I mean. US gymnastics is at a crossroads.” For some reason, that made Tony flinch, but Sol carried on. “The men may not have the scandal hanging over us that the women’s team does, but we don’t have their star power either. We need the best possible team if we expect to turn our program around.”
Tony met Sol’s eyes, and his expression was almost painfully hopeful. “You really think the best possible team includes me?”
“It could. If you get your head out of your ass and back in the game.”
Tony barked a laugh. “Tell me how you really feel.”
Sol turned sideways so he could face Tony. “I really feel that the best competitions, the best meets, the best results, are when everyone performs at the top of their ability. When we don’t depend on mistakes from other teams or other gymnasts to put us on the podium.”
“You always were an idealist. I see that hasn’t changed.”
“Do you disagree?” Sol leaned forward, reminding himself that inhaling Tony’s scent wasn’t appropriate in this conversation, especially when Tony was bare-chested and Sol was wearing nothing but a T-shirt and his compression shorts. Where’s an industrial-strength jock strap when I need one? “Do I need to remind you that you were the one who said that? To me? At our very first competition when I was just a level four and you were a level six?”
“Are you really going to base your whole sports philosophy on the words of a twelve-year-old? I was probably talking about a World of Warcraft arena match.”
Sol frowned. “For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you?”
Tony raised his eyebrows. “Other than a bum knee?”
“There’s nothing wrong with your knee.” Tony opened his mouth to respond, but Sol held up his hand to stop the stupid words. Time for a little tough love. “Nothing more is wrong with it today. You’ve jumped out of airplanes and off cliffs as well as off every piece of apparatus in the gym so you can tell the difference. You know what I think?”
Tony pressed his lips together, but even that didn’t hide their fullness. “I’m sure you’re about to let me know.”
I think I know your triggers, Tony, and here’s Number One. “I think you’re so afraid of losing, that you refuse to even try.”
Tony jumped up and whirled to face Sol. As Sol had expected, he didn’t favor his knee at all. You are so busted. He jabbed a finger toward Sol’s face. “I am not afraid of losing.”
“Yet you’re taking yourself out of the running before the competition even starts. With a totally bogus injury. ‘Oh, poor me. I could have been a contender, but my knee, my knee.’”
Tony scowled and crossed his arms. “Shut up.”
“Why, Tony? Isn’t that what’s happening? You’re giving yourself an excuse? A legitimate reason to give up?”
“I told you.” Tony’s eyes flared with anger, something Sol didn’t know was actually possible. “I’m not afraid of losing at the trials.”
“No?” Sol made a point of looking around the room, at the half-filled suitcase, at the clothes scattered on the carpet. “Because it sure looks like you’re running scared. For no reason.”
“Fuck you, Sol.”
Ah ha. We’ve fallen back on generic insults. We must be getting close to the real reason. “That’s not an answer, Tony. That’s avoidance.”
“Look, I’m not afraid of losing the trials, okay?” Tony turned and smacked the flat of his hand against the wall. His shoulders sagged, and his head drooped as though it were too heavy to hold up. “I’m afraid of winning.” His voice was so soft that Sol wasn’t entirely