Page 48 of Ruck Me Harder

Cari frowns. “But—wait⁠—”

“I met Tony at the Olympics three years ago.” My face flames. “We went our separate ways and didn’t reconnect very well.”

Her eyes go wide. “You’re his bronze medal.”

“What? No.”

“He’s talked about you for the last three years. I didn’t know she was you!”

I bury my face in my hands.

Cari goes on: “They met the night before the team final. He says you’re the reason he won the bronze medal.”

“He’s exaggerating,” I deflect.

“My brother… he’s not good with people. He’s hard for other people to read,” she says slowly. “But when he lets you into his world? There’s nothing better.”

“I like him. I want to see where it goes.” That’s one thing I’m sure of. “I just don’t want to scare him off.”

“He doesn’t scare easily,” Cari says. “Give him some credit. Give him a chance.”

“I will.”

I just have to hope he’ll give me one too.

twenty

. . .

Tony

Despite some early distractions, once I was able to screw my head on straight, it turned into one of my best trainings of the past few weeks. It couldn’t have come at a better time; Ross, the national team coordinator, is at the training facility today.

After a break for lunch, Ross sets us into a mini competition. He wants to see our final routines, not just the bits and pieces we’re training. There are sixteen men on the national team plus another eight on the senior developmental team who have the potential to be named in the next year if their scores are up to snuff. Only nine of us train here at the national team’s facility; the rest are throughout the country, some are still in college or high school, at the gyms of their choice.

One bonus of training year round at the national team’s campus? We get more eyes on us. When Ross wants to see our progress, he can do it in person and not through a shaky video recorded on the coaches’ phones. We get extra chances for visibility ahead of formal selection camps, like the one coming up next week. Even though it technically will all come down to our results on the day of, the selection committee—Ross, Coach Jack, and a few other national federation staff members—will take our recent performances into account.

We run through full routines on each apparatus. The Worlds team will be composed of five men, plus two alternates, and the Pan-American Games, the next major competition a few weeks later, will consist of another five men and two more alternates. Altogether, there are fourteen spots to fill, and almost double the amount of men competing for them.

If I can put together a good showing today, and then another on the day of selection camp, I have a good shot of pulling away with a spot. The team needs my high potential scores on vault and floor.

I’m about to run through my floor routine when I catch a flash of black out of the corner of my eye. Turning, I’m surprised to see Vivienne in my gym, my sister by her side.

She’s wearing dark jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt, her hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. She looks effortlessly casual and put together in a way I envy. I’m not put together even with a lot of effort.

Cari waves and gives me a thumbs up. Vivienne checks me out, her gaze lingering on my thighs, exposed by my small shorts, before a slow, smug smile spreads over her face.

“So, that’s new,” Brody mutters, following my gaze.

“Isn’t that the chick from the bar?” Tommy says.

Dylan, the fucker, grins and waves at them.

Coach Jack clears his throat. “Do you need a minute, Gonzales?”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, trying to focus.

Brody shoves me forward. “Go say hi to your adoring fans.”