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I saw Kova nod from the corner of my eye. Fuck. I blinked rapidly. No tears would fall today. I refused. But that was 0.6 of a point right there.
I turned to face Kova. My eyes shifted between both of his trying to gage his thoughts, but then the crowd erupted, and not the way I’d hoped. Both of our heads turned in the direction of the scores.
My blood ran cold as I stared at the numbers in disbelief.
I was going to have a heart attack.
This was worse than hearing my diagnosis. By far, much worse. I could control stepping out…and yet I hadn't.
"How?" I asked, covering my mouth. "How?" This made no sense. There was no way my score could be that low.
I looked to Kova for an explanation, but he was already sprinting in the other direction.
Eighteen
I stood motionless and watched as my coach addressed the judging panel with poise.
He was submitting an inquiry. He was entitled to since he was an accredited coach.
Meanwhile, I did the math in my head and added up the difficulty and bonus points. I knew I’d stepped out of bounds, but I didn't deserve to drop to third place. That was a lot to lose. Usually I was very in sync with my body and movement, and trying to figure out where I had made errors was proving to be difficult. I replayed my routine in my head.
My gut told me I hadn’t made them. But the judges said I had. I frowned. I was scored on both execution and difficulty. Had my execution been that poor?
No, a voice inside my head said. There was no way. I may have been beyond drained when I stepped out onto the floor, and my joints felt swollen and inflamed, but I did not lack when I competed. Ever. I gave everything I had to offer, and then some. Every struggle I faced, every risk forgotten. I didn't hesitate. I sucked it up and expelled it out to perform.
Four minutes. Kova had four minutes to file the appeal to contest my score.
I watched the judges hand him a sheet of paper. He checked his watch. Dipping his chin, he turned and our eyes locked. He strode toward me, his long legs eating up the space between us. Kova was pissed.
"I need a pen," he said.
Quickly I shuffled through my duffle bag. I knew I had one because I'd stashed our notebook in there. I planned to write in it after the meet.
Handing the pen to him, he said, "Turn around and bend over."
I flattened my back and Kova immediately started writing. He spoke to himself in Russian, the pen hurriedly moving across my back. He had to answer the questions and then calculate my routine.
I turned my head to the side, and said, "The numbers don’t add up, Kova."
"I know," he snapped, but I knew it wasn't meant to be mean. He pressed down too hard and the pen poked me through the paper. I didn't flinch but Kova cursed. "What number did you come up with?" I told him. "Right. I did as well." Relief swept through me for the simple fact that I knew it wasn't just me who felt the numbers didn't add up.
Kova finished and I turned around. He blindly handed me the pen as he read. I watched as his eyes scanned over what he'd written, his lips moving. He glanced up. Eyes narrowing in thought as he recalculated the numbers one last time just to be sure. He glanced at his watch. Time was of the essence, so I kept my mouth shut and didn't tell him to hurry up. He knew.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a silver clip of hundred-dollar bills and walked toward the judges. He had to pay a steep fine to challenge my score to make sure I received credit for the skills I’d performed. If Kova proved to be correct, he'd get his money back. If he was wrong and the judges didn't feel they’d deducted unfairly, he'd lose his money.
Without a word, Kova returned to the judge's panel and handed them the paper and cash, then walked back to me.
I let out a tense breath. That was it. All he could do.
I chewed the inside of my lip, and the familiar metallic taste slid over my tongue. I chewed again. Cameras flashed and clicked frantically. Everyone was on their feet in anticipation to see what the outcome would be. The next gymnast couldn't compete until they were done with my score, so all eyes were on us.
Kova stood patiently next to me while we waited. If he was nervous, I'd never guess it. I folded my arms across my chest and he pulled me tight to his side. I leaned against him, trying to soak in his composure. The screen turned on and the judges leaned in to begin reviewing my routine, replaying it on the small television on their table that was only used during times like this to see if the correct points were awarded. It wasn't like football where every little thing was reviewed.
I broke apart from him and paced back and forth. I stared at the floor. I propped my hands on my hips. I looked up at the ceiling. I looked back at the judges. I cracked my knuckles. I looked at the score screen. I wiped my clammy palms on my leo. I looked at the screen.
Tension balled on the side of my neck.
Too much time had passed. Something wasn't right.
