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“Just tell me what I need to know,” he says, cutting me off, annoyed at the interruption.
“It’s a high ankle sprain. No need to worry.” I know he won’t worry about this anyways. I would have to have something broken to get his attention—something that would put my scholarship in question.
He mumbles to someone, and I hear his hand slide over the phone, causing a muffled noise. When he returns, he says, “Take care of yourself. I need to go.”
“Okay, love you,” I utter, not expecting him to say it back. I’m right again. All I hear is a dial tone.
It’s time I realize that I have one family—the gymnastics team. Even the people I thought cared about me, like Chaz, were disingenuous.
I contemplate who designed popcorn ceilings while lying on my back. It’s something I need to know. Like why? Everyone I know has them, but fancy places have flat ceilings. I’m trying to think of anything except my ankle and what that means. I’ll be at least two weeks behind for sure.
Falling asleep with the help of an over-the-counter pain pill and the whizzing of the air conditioner brings peace. But I wake in a cold sweat, my torso jerking up from the bed. I can’t catch my breath. In my dream, I made it to the Olympics only to have it ripped away from me because of a torn ACL. I’m too old for the Olympics, but I still have dreams—ornightmares—about it.
Quit thinking about it, Adalee.
Outside my room, there’s all kinds of commotion, but I’m too tired to hop out there. Ginger is slurring her words, and I hear a guy, or maybe guys. I’m hurt, and she invites people over? Picking up my phone, it reads ten-thirty p.m. I must have fallen asleep instantly because it’s been four hours and it’s time for another dose.
I take another pain pill and drift off, thinking about how badly I wish I had a guy to snuggle me and tell me it will be okay. Someone to call and tell them how I really feel. The voices outside my room, although muffled, are loud and obnoxious. I limp outside and see Ginger asleep on the couch but Joe and another guy watching Sportscenter. I’m half asleep, and ask, “Do you mind keeping it down?”
The other guy scoffs, “Are you the fun police?” He doesn’t even turn his head to look at me.
Joe glances over his shoulder. “Sorry, we’ll be quiet.”
I pad back into my room, irritated. It’s been a week since Chaz and I broke it off. I cried…but not over him. I knew I didn’t feel any real connection down deep, but I loved having a boyfriend. I enjoyed having someone to talk to, but I was more of a trophy girlfriend to Chaz.
Of course, now, I regret the time I wasted. Time which would have been better spent chopping lumber or painting the faces on dolls. Yes, he was that bad. I guess sometimes you stay with a person because it’s hard to break up. The confrontation is uncomfortable. It’s easier to stay together, even though I knew in my gut he was all wrong for me. There were warning signals flying into the air from the very first date.
Mark my words—I will never date a cocky athlete again. I could never trust someone like him again.
When I wake up this time, it’s morning. It doesn’t matter what I do, my brain is trained to wake up at five-thirty every day. Gymnasts, like most athletes, are driven by a set schedule. College gymnastics took a while to get used to. Before college, I went to the gym from six to eight a.m. and then went to school at nine. Right after school, I went back to the training center for four hours, finally getting home around eight in the evening. Then it was dinner, homework and time to start my routine all over again.
The door squeaks open, and Ginger pops her head in. “I’m on my way to practice. Want me to wait?”
“No, I’ll drive over.” She gives me a curt smile, and I sit up with a throbbing ankle. I need the trainer to look at it, so I pull on a T-shirt and shorts. I slip on one shoe but the other foot is too swollen.
Arriving at the gym, all the girls come over to see how I am. Shannon is the only one that doesn’t give me encouragement. Instead, she says, “Hey Ging, I saw you with Joe getting all hot and heavy. Ginger smiles. She’s had her eye on him for a few months. We went to every baseball game that didn’t interfere with practice or meets. She’d paint his number on her cheek, trying to give him the hint. I didn’t even do that for Chaz.
But then Shannon says, “No wonder you're smiling, two guys one night. I saw you left the party with Joe and Hagan.”
Ginger’s face goes taut, then her chin moves back and forth. “You’re a vile person. I would never… just because you… oh, forget it.” Rumor has it that Shannon hooked up with two frat guys at the same time last year, but she’s never confirmed or denied it happened.
Since it’s summer, we’re working on our skills at a local gymnastics training center off-campus. Some girls left and went to gyms in their hometown since they had to move out of the dorms. There are six of us here for the summer, but Shannon’s the only girl with venom in her veins. She’s probably enjoying my injury and hoping it will give her an opportunity to sneak into the vault rotation.
The women’s coach for this gym walks in and blows his whistle. All the girls but me line up on the mat for stretching. I take the tape off my ankle and put a bag of ice on it and then make an appointment with the athletic trainer on campus for after lunch.
As I sit on the sidelines watching my teammates, my best guy friend from freshman year slides onto the bench next to me. “What happened?” he asks as his fingers skim from my thigh to my ankle. I shiver because it’s cold, but his lips turn upward as if his touch is affecting me.
Never again. He made a move on me and stuck his tongue down my throat. I’ve done my best to avoid him since, so it’s been awkward. Why can’t guys just be friends or take a body language course. We’ll let them know when we want them to kiss us.
“Tried a new vault and couldn’t stick the landing.” My voice is monotone, like it doesn’t bother me that he’s asking. But it does bother me that he’s asking, pretending to care about me. I tried to shirk it off and be friends, but he didn’t want that. He said I led him on. That’s why this is weird. Just another guy with a singular motivation—sex.
He asks me a myriad of questions that he already knows the answers to because all gymnasts have had high ankle sprains in their career. How long are you out? Does it hurt? I just nod my head. I don’t want to hear the sound of his voice. But then he says, “Come on, I thought we were friends. I heard you and douchebag broke up.”
Closing my eyes, I nod. That’s why he’s being nice—because he thinks he has a chance. “We did. I’m focusing on gymnastics. This year there will be no distractions.”
None.
ChapterFour
