“Audrey,” begins a tall blond woman, hair pulled back into a French twist, “what’s going through your mind now that you know your comeback was successful?”
Oh, that makes sense. They’re interested in a redemption story. Redemption from what? Pain, I guess. I’m still on such a high that I don’t even feel it, when normally sitting on a stool without a back would be the worst. Adrenaline is my new favorite thing.
I grin and bite my lip, but can’t stop myself from saying, “Don’t call it a comeback.”
A few reporters laugh, getting the reference. I’m from Queens, and LL Cool J’s “Mama Said Knock You Out” is probably way more important to me than it is to most people. The woman who asked the question furrows her brow in confusion, and I shrug awkwardly. “Sorry. It’s gymnastics. There are injuries all the time. We all go through them. I’m really happy I had enough time to rehab and get myself to a point where I could make the team.”
“Speaking of the team,” a tall man with long sideburns and hipster glasses cuts in, “what do you think about finishing in fifth place all-around, but making a team of four? Is that fair?”
It takes everything I’ve ever learned about dealing with the press to not roll my eyes. “That’s way above my pay grade.” I smile and shrug again. It’s something my dad, a surgeon, says all the time about decisions his chief makes at the hospital. “The way the team finals work can be complicated math, piecing together the top three athletes on each event, so I’m sure that had something to do with it.”
That’s exactly why I made the team. I’m top three on bars and beam. Chelsea is top three on vault and floor. Dani and Emma are our top two all-arounders, great across all four events. We’re four athletes whose strengths and weaknesses complement one another perfectly, adding up to three great routines on each apparatus in team finals. It’s just math.
An older woman I recognize as a reporter fromSports Illustratedasks, “Were you surprised to make the team?”
“Surprised? I don’t know if I’d describe it that way, but was I sure I’d make it? No way.”
“What’s it like going through this with Emma Sadowsky?”
I could kiss this reporter for finally asking a decent question.
Emma is a few stools away, fielding questions like a pro. Any skill I have at this kind of stuff, I learned from watching her. “It’s fantastic, amazing, and totally mind-blowing. She’s my best friend, and I don’t know how I would have made it through the last year without her. Seeing her in the gym every day motivated me to keep going, and going to the Olympics with your best friend? That’s ridiculous in the best way. A total dream come true.”
“Do you think she can beat Irina Kareva?”
“She beat her last year.” Even though I wasn’t able to compete at worlds last year, it was still super satisfying watching Emma take down Kareva. Everyone thought the Russian superstar was untouchable, but Emma beat her by nearly a point after Irina faltered on beam.
“Kareva posted a video of a triple-twisting Yurchenko last week. That gives her a huge difficulty advantage over Emma if she can hit it.”
That’s a ridiculously bigif. No woman has ever landed a triple-twisting Yurchenko in competition, and in that video Kareva’s looked pretty terrible. It’s the only thing I don’t admire about the Russian team. Their gymnastics can be beautiful, but they always seem to be chucking vaults way beyond their abilities. Not that I’m going to say that on camera. “Guys, again, that’s way above my pay grade.”
“You and the other girls were just verified on social media. How do you feel about that?”
The first thing that comes into my head pops out of my mouth. “Have you seen who they give those check marks to?” The reporters laugh, but there’s an NGC worker side-eyeing my flippant answer from over her shoulder. “I’m kidding. It’s amazing. Totally a dream come true.”
I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, and a sudden pain flares in my hip. I’ve been sitting still too long if the pain isn’t localized in my back. My eyes fly toward the NGC worker at my side, who somehow understands my need to be finished with these interviews.
“Sorry, everyone,” she interrupts, pushing through the group, “but Audrey has to get some treatment on her back before she stiffens up. Thanks for your questions. The girls who didn’t make the team will be made available to you in a few minutes.”
I slide off the stool and pick up the bouquet of flowers that I received after the announcement. Mom will be excited. She always feels like I’m missing out on normal teenage things, so she’ll be thrilled to press these flowers into a memory book like it’s a prom corsage or something. Olympic team or prom? Yeah, that’s not even close.
Speak of the devil. As soon as I leave the media room, I see my parents with the other girls’ families. Dad’s head of dark curls towers over everyone else, and Mom is tiny beside him, her long black hair hanging down her back. If I were ever allowed to take mine out of a bun, it would look just like hers.
People are constantly curious about the three of us. Mom was adopted from South Korea as a baby, and I definitely take after her in the looks department, so if it’s only me and her, people will just flat-out ask where we’re from or what we are, like it’s somehow any of their business and not super fucking rude. When Dad and I are out together, people just assume I’m adopted. Then my last name, Lee, adds another layer of confusion, because it comes from my Dad’s English ancestors, but that’s going way back.
“Audrey!” Mom yells when she finally sees me and they push past the security guard in front of them. Almost instantly, her arms are around me, pulling me in close. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie!”
“You were fantastic, Rey,” Dad adds in his deep rumbling voice. His large hand cradles the back of my head, drawing both me and Mom into a group hug. It’s a perfect moment. It’s the moment I’ve dreamed of since I was old enough to understand what the Olympics were. It hasn’t been easy on them, watching me all these years.
I wince when Mom squeezes a little tighter. Clearly, she feels me tense and pulls away immediately. “Do you need to go see the trainer?”
Nodding, I smile past the pain. “When we get home, I need to get a cortisone shot. Dr. Gupta said it should last me through the Games if I made the team.”
“Go on,” Dad says and motions toward the trainers’ room across the hall. “We’ll meet you back at the hotel. The NGC is throwing you girls a party.”
My eyebrows lift at that idea. I don’t exactly associate the NGC with parties—more like early curfews and surprise bed checks at three in the morning—but, hell, it’s the Olympics, so why not?
“I’ll see you guys over there.” I hand Mom the flowers and give them each a fierce hug before I turn toward the trainers’ room.
