chapter one
White-hot sparks of agony light down my spine, scorching over my hips and into my thighs. I grind my back teeth together and clench my fists against the pain, blunt fingernails biting into the palms of my hand.
C’mon, Audrey, it’s nothing. Push through it.
Pounding my knuckles against the muscles of my calves helps distract from the ache as I sit on the floor, legs spread out in a split, waiting my turn.
The only sound in the sold-out arena is the reverberating squeak of the uneven bars lifting up into the rafters. It’s been like this for two days. One by one, we go up to the vault or the beam or the bars or the floor and perform while the crowd holds its breath.
I do too. If I don’t, it might become too much, and I can’t afford anyone noticing how much my back hurts.
Especially not him.
Coach Gibson—or Gibby to those of us on the United States Gymnastics national team—is patrolling the wells between the raised podiums, watching with an eagle eye for any sign of weakness. He’s everywhere all at once, cold and analytical, taking in every hesitation, every flinch, homing in on our weaknesses.
He stands to my left, wearing a red, white, and blue tracksuit, arms crossed over the swishy material.
“How’s the back, Audrey?” he asks.
“Great. Ready to go.”
His eyebrows rise, and he hums in disbelief, but he never looks away from my teammate and best friend, Emma Sadowsky, swinging on the uneven bars.
Gibby can stare all he wants; Emma won’t screw up. He knows it, even as he makes a show of looking critically at her handstands and the distance of her releases. She’s perfection.
Something as small as a wince from me, though? That’s basically admitting I’m in too much pain to go on.
Emma is a great gymnast, but even on her best day she’s not better than me on uneven bars. Of course, she’s head and shoulders better than me at everything else, which more than makes up for it. We’ve trained together since we were three, when our moms signed us up for Mommy and Me classes. Now, fourteen years later, we’re at Olympic trials.
She’s definitely going to make the team. As last year’s national and world all-around champion, she’s the favorite to win multiple golds in Tokyo. So far Emma’s accomplished everything we ever dreamed of as little girls, and now winning an Olympic medal is only a matter of time.
For me, just making the team will be a miracle. The pain doesn’t matter. Not really. Aside from the blissful days following a cortisone shot, my back always feels like this. The doctors said I should probably quit, but I told them to shove it. Then I apologized, and we settled for a compromise: retirement after the Olympics.
I only have a few more weeks of gymnastics left. Or, if my next routine goes wrong, just a few more minutes.
With athwackof her feet against the landing mats, Emma finishes her routine with a stuck double layout, her body arched through the two flips in that satisfying way that makes my fourth vertebra twitch. Or maybe that’s just from the roar of the crowd, screaming in approval for their golden girl.
Joy for my best friend floods through me as she salutes the judges and then waves to the fans. A spike of excitement courses through my body. The pain fades to the background. It’s almost time to compete, and my body and mind are on the same page.
I still have a few minutes to breathe because about twenty yards away, Chelsea Cameron, the reigning Olympic all-around champion, is about to start her floor routine. They keep the routines staggered for the TV broadcast, making sure the fans at home can see everything.
“You nailed that,” I say, standing as Emma jumps down from the podium, a fake smile plastered across her face. I’ve known her long enough to know the difference.
“I know,” she says, smoothing back her hair, hands still encased in chalky grips. She’s a ginger-headed white girl, and the chalk leaves a streak in her hair just a shade or two paler than her skin. I smile at that. It’s usually my own dark hair streaked with the chalk and not hers. “You’ve got this, Rey.”
“I know.”
She smiles, a real one this time, and some of the tension in my shoulders loosens despite Gibby still being right here. It might seem like his focus is on Chelsea, tumbling across the floor on the other side of the arena, but I don’t doubt that his attention is at least partially on me.
I swing my arms in circles and then stretch them above my head, trying to pretend I’m not completely aware of Gibby’s presence, that I’m totally dialed in on the routine ahead of me. He’s not much taller than I am, being a former gymnast himself, but the sheer totality of his power in my world makes him seem gargantuan.
He runs a hand through his jet black hair graying slightly at the temples. “Show me what you’ve got here, Audrey,” he says.Or else, I add in my head.
Chelsea lands her final tumbling pass. Her days as a top all-around gymnast are long over, but her name still carries the weight of Olympic gold and million-dollar sponsorships. Plus, even at twenty, she’s still badass on vault and floor.
I take a deep breath, pushing Chelsea out of my head. Gibby wants to see what I’ve got on bars, and I have to show him that I belong on the Olympic team, that I’m worthy of my dreams.
Okay, Audrey, hit this routine and you go to Tokyo.
