When It Counts Read online

  When It Counts

  book two in the 2016 series

  Lauren Hopkins

  Cover art by Sarah Hopkins

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2016 Lauren Hopkins

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  As always, love and thanks to Mom, Dad, Ricky, and Sarah.

  Thursday, June 23, 2016

  43 days left

  “The Han documents at least show glimpses of compassion toward the lower classes, but in their own documents, the Romans show only indifference at best. Was the empire truly a ‘glorious’ one?”

  Suck it, Ancient Rome! I aggressively slam my pencil onto the desk, practically dance my way up to Mrs. Farnsworth’s desk under the jealous glares of my still-suffering classmates, drop my blue book on my teacher’s desk, whisper a hasty goodbye, and bid good riddance to AP World History and to my sophomore year.

  Two weeks ago, my life changed. But really? It didn’t, at all. Everything is still exactly the same, like I didn’t just win a gold medal at nationals and I’m not on my way to a potential spot on the United States women’s gymnastics team at the Olympic Games.

  In Boston, we were superstars. People recognized us at the airport, and not just my vastly more famous teammates. Me. They knew who I was and asked me to take pictures and sign autographs while I was getting coffee. When our flight landed in Seattle, dozens of people were swarming outside the terminal with balloons and streamers, and cameras from the local news filmed the whole thing, calling it a “hero’s welcome.”

  Now I’m normal old Amalia Blanchard again, nerdy high school kid who does homework and washes the dishes and casually trains for Rio in her spare time.

  “Get in, loser. We’re going shopping.”

  Okay, not everything in my life is normal. It’s definitely not normal to have Emerson Bedford waiting for you outside of your high school, top down on her BMW, blond hair glinting in the sun, quoting Mean Girls. Emerson Bedford, once my gym obsession, then my mortal enemy, and now one of my best friends. Life is weird.

  “How were exams?”

  I dump my backpack into the back of the car and hop into the passenger seat, slipping my sunglasses down over my eyes. “Great. I think. If not, who cares? I’ll just sign with Nike and become a Kardashian.”

  “Good plan. Speaking of, did you give more thought to the whole agent thing?”

  “I have a meeting with that lady who stalked me at nationals next week, actually, but my parents want me to wait until after the Olympics so I have time to give it more serious thought. Oh, and they also wanted me to talk to you and Ruby to get some perspective, hint hint.”

  “Well, I went pro when I was still a junior, so I’m probably not the best person to ask.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “Nah.” She doesn’t think about her response for even a nanosecond.

  “Okay, so…you’d say go for it?”

  “I personally don’t regret it because I was lucky. Everything worked out perfectly for me. I won world titles, I had the look advertisers were into, and I made a lot of money. One busted ankle, or a fall in the all-around final? I wouldn’t have anything I have today, and I would have regretted it for sure. I wouldn’t recommend going pro to anyone who didn’t have my exact career path, to be honest. And you can’t predict that, so you just have to hope for the same luck.”

  I nod, trying to take it in, but it’s so overwhelming. She sounds braggy, but for real, so many girls go pro after even the smallest bit of success when they first start out, but then they get injured or realize they peaked too soon and will never make a major team. They got an agent, signed the contracts, made meager amounts of money, but no more will come in and they’ve forfeited their NCAA eligibility. They trained for years and years, and got nothing in the end. No big endorsements, no college scholarships, nothing.

  For literally every sport but gymnastics, this isn’t even an issue. Football players, baseball players, soccer players…they’re normal kids in high school, get recruited into NCAA programs on full scholarships, play for four years in college, and then the big leagues pick them up and give them millions.

  Gymnasts, though, we usually peak before we get to college. We have to choose between the scholarship and making money, sometimes as young as fourteen, like Emerson. It worked out for her, but if your career implodes like a dying star, you’re screwed. You’ve made your choice and you can never take it back.

  So that’s where I am right now. If I don’t make the Olympic team, or if I make it but fail miserably, no one’s gonna want to give me any money. But even if I make it, win a medal, have my face splashed all over TV and magazines, I could probably have a solid income for a couple of years before the hype dies down and I fade into oblivion.

  To me, going pro sucks no matter how your career pans out, especially because I really want to go to college. Stanford has been my dream since I was in kindergarten, and if I don’t get in there, the University of Washington’s gymnastics program has been drooling over me since I was ten.

  But how cool would it be to kill it in Rio and star in a Nike ad, win Dancing with the Stars, and do a guest role on Grey’s Anatomy or something, and then use that money to pay for college? The best of both worlds.

  “I don’t know what I want,” I exhale, my anxiety bubbling out of every cell in my body, which Emerson senses.

  “Chill, Mal. This is the absolute last thing you need to worry about right now. Just make it to Rio. That’s the goal. Cancel with the agent if you need to. Put all of that energy into training and making the team. Then make the decision.”

  That’s easy for her to say. She has an Olympic team spot and the huge endorsement deals locked down. Maybe nationals didn’t exactly go her way, and she’s been beating herself up about her beam fall for the past two weeks, but not one person doubts that she’s going to Rio.

  Everyone doubts me.

  ***

  After practice, I absent-mindedly push my balsamic honey chicken around my plate, leftovers from Monday heated up all week long because my paralegal mom is working late on a case and my dad’s stuck in the middle of nowhere for his new job changing the world at an underprivileged school. He’s only in Seattle on weekends now, and we probably won’t even get him back this week because he has too many meetings.

  Now that finals are over, I can’t even distract myself with studying. As long as I’m awake, the Olympics are the only thing on my mind, which is pure, heinous, beautiful torture.

  Tomorrow’s the two-week point before trials, and in seventeen days we’ll know who’s going to Rio. It’s mind-blowing. My future will be decided just like that, and I’m not supposed to think about it.

  That’s what Natasha says, anyway. My coach, Natasha Malkina, was a superstar champion Olympic gymnast before she retired and opened her gym — the Malkina Gold Medal Academy — and her advice is to take the process one day at a time. “Don’t think about the future!” she yells at me three thousand times a day. “Stay in the moment! Be present! Focus on the task at hand!”

  Great advice, when the task at hand is hurtling myself over the vault table or trying to stick my floor passes. But when I’m sitting at my kitchen table with nothing else to do, I’m going to freak out.

  Since nationals, practice has been all
about perfecting everything in our routines, building on what we’ve already accomplished, looking at the mistakes we’ve made, and figuring out how to never make them again.

  For most of my life, the mindset I use to get me through competitions has been like, okay, if I make a mistake, it’s not the end of the world. There’s always next time. Even at the open and nationals this year, I still had a next time. But with trials? That’s literally it. No next time. If I don’t hit here, if I don’t prove I am one of the best in the country, I’m done.

  Overdramatic much? For real, life will go on, but my Olympic dreams will be over forever. 2020 is out there, but I’ll be nineteen. It’s not old by any means for normal humans, but for gymnasts, four years is an eternity. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to make it through doing this all over again.

  When my teammate and best friend Ruby Spencer got injured right before the Olympics in 2012, she was my age. She was the best in the country and didn’t get to go to the Olympic Games because she ruptured her Achilles. Everyone assumed she was done forever, but because she’s Ruby, she doesn’t give up on anything without an epic fight. That’s how she won the national title two weeks ago, and that’s why she’s a lock for the Olympic team this year.

  Ruby proved that coming back at nineteen and kicking butt is totally possible, but I’m not Ruby. No one is, honestly. She’s not human. I know my body and my limits. I definitely don’t have another four years at the elite level of this sport in me. If 2016 doesn’t happen, 2020 certainly won’t.

  I groan, loudly, taking advantage of the one benefit that comes from an empty house — being fully ridiculous in a judgment-free zone. I scroll through my iPod until I land on Taylor Swift, blast “Shake It Off,” and start scream-singing my way through the house while I wash my dishes and get my bath ready.

  Tonight, instead of studying the history terms I had taped up to the bathtub wall, I will binge America’s Next Top Model. My dad bought me a million bath bombs over the weekend — apparently they make up for his absence and are going to parent me in his place — and I’m going full Zen, forgetting everything on my mind and saving myself from my full-blown midlife crisis at fifteen.

  “TYRA, SAVE MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” I bellow from my oatmeal and honey bubble cave, my laptop perched on the counter across from me.

  “Who’s Tyra?” my mom yells back, after apparently sneaking into the house like a ninja. “Amalia, are you okay?”

  I burst out laughing and sink into the water. Yes, I am totally losing it.

  Friday, June 24, 2016

  42 days left

  “Your first day of total freedom!” Ruby grins in the locker room before morning practice. She holds her hairbrush up to my face like a reporter with a microphone. “Amalia Blanchard, with school done for the summer, what are you going to do between workouts?!”

  “I have literally no idea,” I shrug, waving her brush away, always grumpy on early mornings. “Seriously, the only appealing option right now is building a fort out of mats and sleeping the entire time.”

  “We’re getting lunch,” Emerson butts in. “My treat. You can even pick the place.”

  “How generous!” Ruby patronizes. “Does she get to pick the music on the car ride over, or is that taking it too far?”

  “Don’t make me uninvite you.”

  Ruby laughs. She and Emerson have never gotten along, and their career-long animosity became an all-out war when Emerson came to our gym a few months ago. They’ve actually become pretty good friends since nationals, where Emerson’s mom caused the most insane drama. The stress destroyed her mentally, costing Emerson what could’ve been her third all-around title in a row. Ever since, Ruby has been much more understanding, and the two have actually bonded over their different but similarly rough experiences in the sport.

  Emerson’s mom has been trying to get money out of her ever since she went pro, and while Ruby’s own family has been nothing but super supportive of her career, her injury four years ago nearly ruined her life. Before the mama drama, Emerson came off like this untouchable diva who stepped on everyone to get what she wanted, but after learning her story and struggles, Ruby said she totally gets it.

  “She’s trying to protect herself,” Ruby had said, psychoanalyzing Emerson after we returned from Boston. “It’s fight or flight. She feels threatened by everything and so she chooses to go on the offensive rather than waiting for the attack.”

  “You’re the same way,” I had responded, and Ruby, always hyper self-aware, fully agreed.

  “Exactly. That’s why we hated each other for so long. We’re both just trying to protect ourselves by lashing out at whatever we see as a potential threat.”

  They understand each other, they are loyal to one another, and they’re incredibly supportive teammates, but they still fight like first graders about everything under the sun. Even when there’s absolutely nothing to fight about, you can always count on them to figure something out.

  “Two weeks!” Natasha yells from the floor. “Why am I out here before you?! You’d think with two weeks until trials, you’d be getting early starts, not showing up late! Ten minutes of extra conditioning for every minute I have to wait!”

  Yeah, we are muddling through the morning. At least I have a week of finals as an excuse for my sluggishness. Ruby and Em are so lucky they’re done with high school and can focus solely on gym.

  I finish pinning my hair up and we run into the gym right into our laps before the national team warmup. Once we’re sweaty and out of breath, we form a line in front of Natasha for a few announcements.

  “As I yelled earlier, we’re down to two weeks until our first day of competition in Atlanta,” she smiles. “That’s twenty practices left here in Seattle. Twenty workouts to turn you from national-level competitors to Olympic athletes. Is that sinking in yet?”

  No, I’m only slowly turning into an anxiety-ridden clump of muscle and skin as my brain deteriorates into mush.

  “Your next twenty workouts are fully planned,” Sergei Vanyushkin, a former US Olympian and Emerson’s personal coach who moved here with her from Chicago, continues. “For conditioning, we’ll alternate between strength, cardio, shaping, and plyometrics. We’ll take it somewhat easy with full routines and hard landings for now so we don’t burn you out, so if it’s a hard-landing vault day, we’ll use the tumble track for floor, and if it’s a hard-landing floor day, we’ll vault into the pit. This morning we have vault drills, bars skills, beam routines on the floor, and one full floor routine before a half hour of strength and cardio. Ready to work?”

  “Yes,” we respond in unison.

  “…Sir,” Ruby giggles. Sergei winks at her.

  I roll my eyes. I’m pretty sure Ruby has been lying to me about her relationship with Sergei since he arrived at our gym two months ago, pretending like there’s nothing going on, but constantly sneaking off to hang out with him, flirting with him at practice, and generally acting like an idiot. Emerson and Natasha are so wrapped up in other things — ahem, themselves, ahem! — so they’ve never picked up on the little things I’ve seen, and while it’s super creepy and against the rules to date a coach, it’s not my business to clue them in.

  Morning workout is actually pretty easy, all things considered. Compared to doing full routines, getting through skills on their own is easy, and doing beam routines on the floor? It’s not even work! If I could do beam on the floor in competition, I’d get a perfect execution score every single time.

  As a drill, floor beam helps us get through full routines without worrying about falling, something that keeps us up at night enough as it is. Sometimes it’s good to just make things a bit easier so we can focus on perfecting our movements, making our connections fluid, and letting our muscles memorize the feeling of being steady on each big skill.

  “Perfect, Amalia,” Polina, our assistant coach, says after my full set. “I have faith that you can do it just as well on the beam.”