Page 7 of Ruck Me Harder

So I guess I live with my siblings again. At twenty-nine, I would rather not have roommates. I would also rather not work three jobs to pay my way, but hey, I do what I need to do in order to survive.

That’s my motto: Do what I need to do.

Inside the house, Cari is sitting in front of the couch, foam rolling her legs.

“Hey,” she says as I hang up my coat. “Have you seen Al?”

I look behind me. “No? Isn’t he at practice?”

She shrugs. “He was supposed to have a date.”

With a hum, I step into the house and make my way to the kitchen. I’m starving.

“There are frijoles on the stove,” Cari calls as I open the fridge.

“Thanks.” I grab the glass container of meal prepped chicken and vegetables, dumping it into a bowl. After a quick turn in the microwave, I add in two scoops of black beans and mix it all together.

With three professional athletes in the house, food is a commodity. All three of us adhere to different dietary standards. Twice a week, one of us will make a few pounds of chicken breast and some vegetables, and then we can doctor it up to meet our individual macronutrient goals. I’ll be honest, I’m the best cook out of the three of us, but I also have the least amount of time. Alberto tends to throw things in the slow cooker, Cari likes to experiment with recipes, but for me, cooking is just another chore. It’s something I have to do. Especially as an athlete. If I want to eat, if I want to make sure I’m getting the proper nutrients to fuel my workouts, I have to cook.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it though.

I eat my meal standing at the kitchen island, scrolling through my phone. I have four hours off before I have to head downtown for my shift at the fancy steakhouse. Do I like serving pretentious twats overpriced steak and seafood? No. Do I depend on the paycheck? Yes.

Do what I need to do.

As I head upstairs, I tug on Cari’s ponytail, and she scowls and swats at me. But she’s hiding a smile as she does, so I don’t think she’s really upset.

I’ve claimed the master bedroom as my own. Al has the room we shared growing up. Cari has her old bedroom. The basement has our home gym. All three of us make use of it.

But as I collapse onto my bed, I can’t sleep. My mind is wired.

Vivienne Gallagher.

As long as we lived in Boston, there was always a chance we’d cross paths, but I could leave it up to fate to intervene.

And now it has, I guess.

Because of my sister. Her teammate.

When I thought about what would happen when I saw her again, I didn’t expect to freeze. I didn’t expect her to hate me. I didn’t expect her to go on a date with my brother.

But I froze.

And she hates me.

And for some unknown reason, she likes Al.

Not me. My little brother.

Al is a catch. He’s a professional hockey player in the prime of his career. I’m over the hill. I’ll probably be forced to retire soon. He makes more money than I do too. He makes more in one season than I’ll probably make throughout my entire career. Probably more than twice what I’ll earn, let’s be real. There aren’t a lot of endorsement opportunities for aging male gymnasts who can’t bring home medals.

Rolling over, I punch the pillow. I did bring home a medal. One medal. A team medal. I’m not dismissing the work our team put in to bring home that bronze. My four events contributed to our team score.

But it’s different from winning a medal in my own right. When it came time for my events, I failed. I couldn’t close it out.

World Championships are in six weeks. I want to be there. I want to prove my worth.

If I make it to Worlds, I might be able to make another Olympic roster. I can redeem myself.