Behind him, Coach Gregory yelled, “Tyler?Where the fuck are you going?”
Tyler didn't even turn his head.He couldn't.He heard the familiar sounds of the gym, the radio in the background, the grunts of the guys as they worked, the slap of feet on an approach to the vault, the slight squeak of hands slipping on the pommel horse.The air had the eternal faint haze of chalk, the thickness of heat and sweat, filling his nose and mouth.Last time.Last time.Each step jolted from his heel to the top of his head, and he knew he was walking crooked, on legs stiff as stilts.
“Tyler?”
Leaving wasn't irrevocable yet.He could apologize.He could turn around.
The door closed behind him, cutting off the sounds and smells, cutting off that part of his life, with a simple thump as it locked into its frame, soft and heavy and over.He reached back for the handle realizing his hand was shaking, watching his fingers land on the cool metal curve almost without volition.But it was his choice to open those fingers and let his hand drop away.No.No going back.
By the time he'd reached Coach Andre's door, his leg was working fine, just a few prickles in his instep an ongoing reminder.He bit his lip, wanting the pain, almost wishing that he was dragging the damned leg like a cripple, so this decision would be necessity and not choice.You fucking coward.The whole reason you're doing this is to not end up like that.He pushed open the door.
Coach Andre was on the phone, yelling at someone about a reservation.He held up one finger to Tyler, making him wait until he finished reaming someone a new one.Tyler winced.That was nothing compared to what he’d have coming when the coach turned his attention his way.
He looked around the office.How many times had he stood here?He had been at the facility long enough to have good memories and bad, moments of pleasure as his regular coach told him he’d earned a place in every individual event and a shot at the all-around title, other times when he'd got his ass handed to him for what the coach saw as a lackluster effort.But every time, he'd felt a connection.He and his coach had been working together, using Tyler's body to create something amazing.
Now he felt like he stood on the other side of a pane of glass, seeing his coach from outside.The coach didn't yet perceive the separation.His irritatedwait another minutewave was intimate.But four words out of Tyler's mouth would change that, unless he lost his nerve and ran, or threw up right there on the rug.
Coach Andre finished his yelling, keyed off his phone, and glared at Tyler.“So, Bannichek, why the hell are you standing in my office in the middle of practice?”
“I....”Tyler swallowed hard.“Coach, I have to...fuck!”He bit his lip again, tasting blood, and blinked furiously.He was not, fuckingnot, going to cry like a baby in front of his coach.
“What?”Coach Andre leaned forward, pale blue eyes fixed on Tyler's face.“You have about three seconds to say what you need before I have you on the floor doing push-ups for wasting my time.Come on, I'm busy.What?”
“I have to quit.”There, flat out.He'd tried out a dozen other words as he walked down the empty hallway, words that explained things better, but those four were all he could force out of his mouth.
Coach Andre stared at him, eyes flat and hard.“I'm not in the mood for jokes.”When Tyler said nothing, the coach frowned.“Quit for the day?What are we talking about here?”
Tyler swallowed hard.“Quit the team.Quit the Olympics.”The last word shook and he stopped.
“You can't.”The coach pushed his chair back and stood swiftly.“Bannichek, the Olympics are two weeks away.This is it, your life, my life, all the guys' hopes tied up in one goddamned package that's just within reach.What in God's name would make you quit?”His eyes narrowed.“I know your concentration has been shitty all week.Is it because you're gay and you got spooked?Is that what this is about?Is someone threatening to out you?Because I have to tell you, kid, no one will be surprised.We’ll handle it and at this late date no one is going to fucking care enough to matter.You hear me?”
“It's not…” He tried again.“Yeah, I'm gay but that's not what I mean.”The room swayed around him, his vision tunneled in on his coach's face.So damned ironic that he'd put so much time and fear into the issue of coming out, and here it was done and gone in a sentence, and not even a blip on his radar or the coach's.“I have to quit because I can't compete.I can't do the moves.”
“Explain.”
“It's my back.The numbness is getting worse.There are times when I land a skill and I can't feel my foot hit the floor.There are times when I go to take off and I don’t get the push and I can't tell until I start the rotations.I'm not consistent enough.I'm not good enough.Not anymore.”
“I’ve asked you about that.Why the hell do you think I sent you to the physiotherapist?He said you were sore and had some muscle spasms in your left thigh but…” The coach stared at him.Tyler gritted his teeth and kept silent.“You told him everything was fine, you told the trainers you could handle it.You said it was mostly a problem with your focus.A mental thing.”
“I lied.”Tyler rubbed his face and stared at the floor.“I wanted...fuck, I wanted to be okay.The numbness comes and goes.When I'm fine, I can do every skill.I can do all of it.The big stuff is easy as pie, and I feel like I could make that podium.And then I lose strength during a baby skill.”
“But most of the time you're okay?You hit your pommel-horse routine better than I've ever seen you yesterday.”
“Sometimes.”The physiotherapist hadn’t found anything on his neuro exam, and Tyler had been grateful for the moment of reprieve, but now…
“So maybe we just need to rethink things.Shuffle things around.If floor is screwing you up, drop the event.It means no shot at the all-around, but...”
“No.”Tyler forced himself to meet the coach's eyes.“I have to quit.The last two weeks, it's happening more and more, randomly, on just about everything.There are two weeks to the Olympics.Who knows whether I could still be good enough to compete by then.You put me out there in competition and I might bring home a medal, but there's a good chance I could fuck it up completely.And the doctor said...”
“Yeah, have you seen a doc?What did he say?”
Tyler dug in his gym bag.The envelope was there, battered, bent, and dusted with chalk.Two days he'd carried it around, hoping he could just stuff the letter back in the drawer at home.He laid it on the desk.The coach picked the envelope up, pulled out the enclosure, and began to read.Tyler knew every phrase by heart:spinal instability...thoracic and thoraco-lumbar disc herniation...weakness...and the killer, “in my professional opinion, continued participation in competition-level gymnastics makes the risk of further incapacitating neurological injury to Tyler Bannichek unacceptably high.”Doctor-speak forTyler is fucked.
“He said I might be okay, but I have instability from the old injury.There's a chance I could land wrong, twist wrong, just one time, and really blow my back out.He said if I don't want to take a real risk of ending up in a wheelchair, I need to stop.Now.”
“Doctors.What the hell do they know?He probably doesn't want to get sued.”The coach dropped the letter, stepped from behind his desk and paced to the window and back.“You have a shot at gold, Tyler.You know that.I've never said as much and I wouldn't want you to get cocky, but you have to be aware.You did well at Worlds last year, and this year you've kicked it up several notches.You have a real chance here to medal, maybe even all-around.This is the fucking Olympics and you're hitting the competition at your peak.And now you want to just walk away?”
“I don't want to,” Tyler said thickly.“But I don't want to end up where I can't walk at all.”
