more years to practice. “Yes, that’s right.” Two medals that should have belonged to somebody else, proof of how he’d failed the team. Failed Sol. Although in his father’s eyes, the failure would always be about the medals’ color, not whether Tony had stolen the opportunity to win them.
“After Rio, though, you stepped away from competition for years, at least in gymnastics. Why is that? Did you become disillusioned with the sport?”
Tony fought the deep sofa cushions and sat up, his blood firing with a familiar crusading zeal. “Absolutely not. I fell in love with men’s artistic gymnastics when I was seven years old, and I love it still.”
Quinn’s expression turned sly. “It seems not everyone in the USA feels the same, though. At least not about the men’s side. It’s the women’s team that gets the glory and the endorsement deals.”
“Yeah, well, they deserve it. They’re Olympic champions, multiple world champions. They’ve worked damn hard, and many have paid a price they should never have been asked to bear. I don’t want to take anything away from them. But I don’t think Americans have a true appreciation of the men’s program. The number of colleges that field varsity NCAA men’s teams has shrunk to sixteen. There are eighty-two women’s programs.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“The truth?”
“Of course.”
Tony arranged his face into a perfectly serious expression. “It’s the uniforms.”
That surprised a laugh from Quinn. “The uniforms? Seriously?”
“Did you know that it’s written in the rules, the official Code of Points, that men can’t wear black uniform pants? Black socks?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Think about it. White socks aren’t sexy. Neither are those baggy short-shorts that fan out like skirts when we twist on a vault. And as for our competition shirts…” He turned to the audience again. “Would you be more likely to watch a gymnastics meet if we competed shirtless?”
He grabbed the hem of his polo and cocked an eyebrow at Quinn. She grinned and nodded, so Tony ripped off his shirt—to the wild applause of the audience—and struck a cheesy bodybuilder pose.
“To be successful in men’s gymnastics, you have to be strong, so if you’re talking about guns?” He flexed his biceps. “Absolutely got you covered. But compared to, say, divers? We’re at a huge eye-candy disadvantage. Divers are up on their board or platform, bare-chested in those tiny tight trunks. And swimmers are always getting high-tech upgrades to their suits, and water sheets off their muscles every time they climb out of the pool. Gymnasts? We’re covered in chalk and wearing stirrup pants that weren’t even cool in the sixties.”
Quinn tapped a perfectly manicured finger on her knee, the red polish matching both her lipstick and her Louboutins. “Interesting point. So you think the low of popularity of men’s gymnastics is because of what you’re wearing?”
“Well, there’s our size too. Most gymnasts are on the short side.” Tony stood up, gesturing for Quinn to rise too. Since she was nearly six feet tall—taller with her crown of locs and stiletto heels—she towered over him. “I’m five-eight, so I’m on the tall side for my sport, but compared to swimmers, or God forbid, basketball players?” They both sat again. “A female Olympian once likened us to cuddly little Ewoks.” Tony scrunched up his face. “Dead unsexy, let’s face it.”
“I’ve heard that some scientists believe that gymnastics actually impedes growth because of the extreme stress on your bodies.”
“That might be. But it’s also true that the taller you are, the tougher it is to be a top-level gymnast because it’s harder to propel a longer body through the exercises.” He shrugged. “It’s just physics. So are you a good gymnast because you’re short, or are you short because you’re a good gymnast? The jury’s still out.”
Quinn nodded. “Although you migrated away from the gym after Rio, you certainly weren’t idle when it comes to competition. Dancing With the Stars. American Ninja Warrior. A different challenge every week on your XBL channel.”
Tony shrugged again. “What can I say? I’m an adrenaline junkie, and I love the thrill of competing.”
“You had surgery last year. Was that from a bad high bar dismount?”
Tony snorted, because it really was ridiculous. He’d had injuries over the course of his gymnastics career, of course. Every gymnast did. You couldn’t avoid it. But that’s not how he’d torn his ACL. “Nope. Bad skydiving dismount.” He tapped his knee. “But it’s 100 percent now.”
“And you’re back in the gym. Back competing now.”
“Yes I am. I’m working with Andrei Nicolescu.”
Her