The Thomas Flair - E.J. Russell Page 0,32

announcement.

Sol joined Tony, who was sitting in front of his locker, his head bowed and his elbows propped on his knees. “Hey. Your rings routine was awesome.”

Tony looked up with a crooked smile. “Thanks. High bar, though, not so much.”

Sol sat down, not so close to him that their hips touched, not with the rest of the guys milling around. “But it was great yesterday.”

“Consistency’s important, though. Isn’t that what you always tell me?” Tony grabbed his warmup jacket out of his locker. “You, Danny, Rahul. You proved you could handle it today.”

“That doesn’t mean we’ll get tapped for the team.”

Tony lifted one eyebrow in a display of skepticism that rivaled Mr. Spock at his Vulcan best. “They’d be idiots not to take you. And none of them are idiots.”

“Still—”

“Can I have your attention, please?” James Ferguson, the men’s program director, stood in the doorway. The chatter in the dressing room died down. Ferguson smiled tightly at them. “I know all of you want to hear the committee’s decision, so without further ado…” He glanced down at the paper in his hand. “The 2020 Olympic team is Sol Ashvili.

Tony grinned at Sol, buffeting him on the back. “Told you.”

“Isaiah Daniels. Rahul Laghari.”

Sol held his breath. They were going in alphabetical order, and they hadn’t named Eddie, so maybe they were planning on him staying as a specialist.

“And Tony Thomas.”

Sol let his breath out in a whoosh and turned toward Tony, who was goggling at Ferguson as if he didn’t believe it.

“Eduardo Campo and Chad Horton will round out our squad as event specialists. Congratulations, men.” Cheers and applause broke out, some of it more enthusiastic than others. “Barry has your team warmups. Please change and wait in the tunnel for the on-camera announcement.”

Ferguson left. Sol stood, but Tony just stared at his locker. Sol nudged him with his knee.

“Come on, Thomas. Get your ass in gear. You’re going to the Olympics.”

I’m going to the Olympics. Tony’s hands shook as he folded his jeans and stuffed them into his duffel bag. Why did I think this was a good idea? Whose idea is it really? Did the committee pick him because he deserved the spot for his gymnastics? Or because of his internet celebrity? Goddamn Thomas flair.

What if he let the team down? What if he fell all the way off the high bar this time? What if he landed on top of the judges’ table in his vault the way Paul Hamm did in 2004?

“I should have stuck to jumping off cliffs,” he muttered, and wadded up two T-shirts to jam them into the last spare inch. Who cared if they were a wrinkled mess? He was only going to visit his dad, and if Dad couldn’t find something convenient to rag on Tony about, he’d invent something. Maybe if Tony looked like a slob, it would head off any comments about his performance at the trials.

“Tony?”

Tony jerked at the sound of Sol’s voice. “Jesus. Way to sneak up on a guy.”

Sol chuckled as he walked into Tony’s room and leaned against the dresser. “You’d have heard me if you hadn’t been so busy talking to yourself.”

“Oh yeah. That.” Tony zipped the duffel. “Maybe I’m visualizing my packing.”

“Visualizing doesn’t involve words—otherwise it would be called verbalizing.” Sol smirked at him. “And you should try it. It really works.”

“Uh huh.” Tony peered out the door. Most of the team had already gone—they were all taking a week off before training camp started. But his roommate Eddie was still around, although Tony hadn’t heard him come back from lunch yet. “Your parents picking you up?” Sol’s family still lived in Arvada, so they didn’t have far to drive.

“Yup. They’ll be here in about an hour.” Sol scuffed the carpet with one sneakered foot. “You could come too. They’d love to see you. They’ve missed you.”

Tony sighed. He’d missed them too. Sol’s parents, Pavle and Marika, were awesome. They were originally from Georgia—the one in Europe, not the one in the US. Tony had loved teasing them about it when he was a kid, running in and out of their house as freely—more freely actually—than he did his own. “Making a peach pie today, Mrs. Ashvili? I hear that’s a specialty where you’re from.”

God, I was an annoying little shit. But Marika had just laughed. She’d actually started making peach pie whenever Tony was expected for dinner. And Pavle hadn’t ever complained about driving Tony home from the gym when Dad forgot because