“Yeah, definitely. That’s the point.”
chapter six
“You seem tense,” Dr. Gupta says as he prods my lower back with his gloved hand. The analgesic gel is cold against my skin. The spot has mostly gone numb, but getting the rest of my body to relax after being in near-constant pain since the effects of my last shot wore off is a losing battle. The injury is chronic; it started more than five years ago, and the pain will never really go away as long as I’m training. Even then, I’m probably in for a life sentence of dealing with issues there.
But gymnastics is worth it. The Olympics are worth it.
Mom laughs from her seat in the corner of the exam room. “Have you ever seen her not tense?” she asks, and Dr. G laughs too.
“Stop mocking me and make the pain go away.” I deliberately add a whine to my voice.
“Unclench first,” Dr. G orders with a snort. “You know the drill.”
Breathing in deep and then letting it out, I try my best to release the tension from my muscles. It’s far easier for him to do his job if I’m relaxed.
I watch the screen to my left as the needle is inserted and the miracle drug is applied to my lower back. Dr. Gupta always puts a local anesthetic into the injection as well, and thus my back goes pleasantly numb almost immediately.
“Good,” he says, nodding to the technician operating the ultrasound machine. “Give yourself a minute, and then try and stretch out as much as you can.”
“Thanks.” I roll over and then sit up, letting my shirt fall back into place. The relief isn’t instantaneous. It always takes a couple of days before cortisone really works on me.
“Yes, thank you, Dr. Gupta,” Mom says, standing up to shake his hand.
“No thanks necessary,” he says, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into the trash can. “Bring back some medals and take a picture with me to put on my wall.”
Dr. Gupta is one of the best doctors in the state. A ton of pro athletes—including several of my beloved Yankees—see him regularly. He has a wall with pictures of all of them with Super Bowl and World Series rings, plus a couple with the Stanley Cup. I have one up there with my medals from world championships two years ago (a team gold and uneven bars silver), but an Olympics picture would be even more epic. Two gold medals are the dream. One for the team, another on uneven bars. Two medals to hang around my neck so I can pose with Dr. Gupta as he points at them with pride.
“Good luck in Tokyo,” he says with a wink before leaving the room.
I stand, still bracing myself on the exam table, and slide my sandals back on to my feet. I should probably be wearing sneakers for the support, but honestly, I always make sure to put together a look for my trips to Dr. G’s in case a Yankee or two is wandering around for treatment. I’d die of embarrassment if I ran into Aaron Judge while wearing schlubby clothes. My gold strappy sandals and matching gold sparkly nail polish set off the gold shimmery tank and hunter-green shorts I meticulously paired together last night. I reach down to touch my toes and then twist at the hips. Moving around after a shot is necessary to make sure the medicine gets where it needs to go.
“You ready?” Mom asks, hooking her bag over her shoulder.
“Yep!” I grab my phone and take a quick selfie with my thumbs up.
@Rey_Lee:Dr. G says I’m ready to go! Tokyo here I come!
And then a quick message to Leo with a picture of the gigantic needle that just went in my back because he’s a boy and he’ll be impressed.
Predictably, he replies immediately withAwesome!!
I already said goodbye to Dad this morning, and Mom is taking me straight to JFK to meet up with Pauline and Emma for our flight out to Los Angeles.
There’s a car waiting for us at the curb with my luggage already inside: two huge suitcases full of everything I’ll need. The trip to the departures gate isn’t long—Dr. Gupta’s office is only twenty minutes from the airport.
Mom holds my hand for the entire ride, and every once in a while she squeezes it. I squeeze back. Weirdly, I feel like I’m the one giving reassurance to her, rather than the other way around.
“You know how proud we are of you, right? No matter what happens,” she says, squeezing my hand a little tighter.
“I know.” I try to push away the feeling that she really meansEven if you don’t win.
We hit a little bit of traffic on the ramp leading to the drop-off curb, and I squeeze her hand again. She looks away, craning her neck to try and see past the driver’s head at whatever traffic is holding us up.
My throat thickens at the idea that I’ll be away from my parents for so long—almost a month. It’s weird because that’s never bothered me before. When I went to worlds two years ago, the separation was as long as this one will be, but this feels different, like it’s the end of something beyond my gymnastics career.
No. Stop it. Thinking about that is a bad idea, Audrey. No thinking about how there are only a few weeks left of gymnastics, a few weeks until you have to figure out the rest of your life. That the Olympics will be the most important experience of your life, and you have to do it without your parents by your side.
Sniffling away the emotion, I turn to the window, using my free hand to wipe away a tear that escapes. I can’t cry. If I cry, then Mom willdefinitelycry, and that’ll set off Emma’s mom, and we’ll all be sobbing messes in no time with Pauline rolling her eyes at us beingsentimental, her least favorite thing. So I swallow back the tears, and with a few deep breaths I smother down the emotion.
