I’m half annoyed that he doesn’t even mention me, but honestly, it’s probably better. I’d love to make his voice crack again the way it did when he freaked over my bars score.
Poor Chelsea has to lead off. There’s no shame in being more of a specialist, especially since she already won Olympic gold. She shouldn’t have to prove anything, but there she is, up on the beam and struggling to put together combinations that will keep her difficulty level competitive. She dismounts with a double back and then salutes with a chagrined shake of her head.
Jim and Cathy’s voices buzz in my head, but I zone them out as Dani begins her routine. Closing my eyes, I visualize my skills like I’ve done dozens of times in the past week. I let my arms travel around me, imitating the motions I’ll make once it’s my turn, trying to activate as much of my muscle memory as possible. The more familiar it becomes on the ground, the easier it’ll be once I’ve only got four inches of space to work with up there. Groans from the small crowd break through my trance, but without an accompanyingthwackof feet—or body—hitting the mat, I assume Dani’s had a small hiccup but not a fall. I open my eyes in time to see her dismounting with a roundoff into a double Arabian. She sticks it defiantly, clearly pissed at herself for whatever mistake she made.
It’s a 14.3.
Not a terrible score, but definitely not her best.
“You’ll get it back on floor,” Chelsea says to her, still offering her a fist bump. I put mine out too for what’s quickly becoming a tradition for us.
“Let’s go, Sierra!” Jaime yells as her best friend salutes the judges. I close my eyes again and run through it all one more time, slowly and then again at the pace the judges will be looking for in a great routine. Skills are important, but so is rhythm. By the time I open my eyes, Sierra’s routine is over, and Emma is on the beam, working through her connections easily enough. I glance at the scoreboard. Sierra got a 14.6. Not bad.
I’m up next, so I move toward the beam. “Come on, Emma, you got this.” I say it more out of habit than anything else as she launches for her dismount: two back handsprings into an Arabian double front. She takes a big hop forward after giving the skill a little too much juice, but better too much than too little on that particular dismount.
“All you, Rey,” Emma says as we pass each other. She must have heard me cheer her on while she was up there, the tiniest peace offering breaking through the awkwardness and animosity of the last few days.
Janet sets the springboard for me, and I test it out, making sure it’s the perfect distance from the beam. I wait for Emma’s score, rocking back and forth from toe to heel and keeping my breathing steady and even. Then the judges flip their scoreboard around. It’s a 14.7, right around where she’s been scoring all year.
Okay. My turn.
Narrowing my vision, focusing on the springboard, I picture hitting it at just the right speed to land lightly on the beam, then I exhale and go.
I bounce off the springboard, up and over then onto the beam. My feet are steady, so I immediately connect it back into the two layout step-outs. I salute to show control and move into the rest of my choreo to prepare for the next section. I don’t hesitate before moving into the triple turn—which again turns into a double, and then I lose my center and I’m folding at the waist, trying to keep my balance. One of my hands instinctively goes down toward the beam to stop my momentum, but I’m able to pull it away in time and find my center of gravity, holding myself still for a beat and then another, but that was a major mistake.
At least I didn’t fall.
I exhale and lift my chin in the smallest acknowledgment of the little victory. The rest of the routine flies by with only a few wobbles, and before I know it, I’m setting myself for the dismount, and I count it out in my head as I launch into the double back handspring and tuck my arms in to my body for the triple twist. It’s slightly under-rotated, and I twist into the ground a bit, but it’s a good landing, almost a stick.
I move off the mat, trying to clear my head, and that’s when I feel it.
A flicker in my back.
Fuck.
It was there, but now it’s gone. It hasn’t been that long since my last cortisone shot. It can’t be wearing off yet. It was the landing. The landing was a little short, so it hurt, and I’m just not used to it after feeling so good since the medicine kicked in.
That’s it.
I’m fine.
It’s going to be fine.
“Way to save it,” Dani says, pulling me in for a hug when I move off the mat to wait for my score. There’s still Jaime’s routine left in the rotation, so I have a chance to gather myself a bit before we move to floor, the last event of the day and the minute and a half of gymnastics that will decide my fate. I have to clear my head. No distractions, no pain. Just me and my floor routine.
“Jeez, this is going to be close,” Chelsea says as my score comes up: a 14.3.
It makes sense. I probably took about a half a point in deductions on that almost fall. A 14.8 would have solidified my spot. Now? Now I have no idea how this is going to play out.
My back twinges while I dig through my bag for some tape. I sit down and gingerly wind the tape over my ankles, careful not to pull my skin too tightly as Jaime goes up to perform.
“Let’s go, Jaime!” Sierra calls out, and we all applaud as she salutes and begins.
I probably shouldn’t watch, but I can’t help it.
The pressure is on her now to hit.
She does. At least, she does for the most part. Kind of. There’s a bobble here and there, but nothing major. On beam, a lot of little nothing-majors can quickly turn into a crap score.
