The day my career ends

Hearing the mattress crunch under my feet, I straighten my back and wait for the judges’ approval; a nod. I then jump off the vaulting track, escaping the twinkling cameras. The commentator’s voice echoes through the cheering stadium, saying the ‘prodigy’ has climbed the top of the leaderboard. I am a name above Allie.

 “If you had straightened your elbows, your vault would hit the middle mark. You were almost at edge.” - coach says.

I nod but my eyes corner towards Allie at the diagonal edge of the stadium. She walks with her face directed at the leaderboard screen and somehow manages not to trip over tangled camera cables. Judging how she bites her upper lip, her mind is calculating the points her floor routine has to earn for her to win. She then spins around and I can see how her body slides to her left, before it balances. Not thinking much, I turn towards coach.

”The competition is fierce today. Is it because of the university recruiters?”

“I’ve seen worse. The 2000 Olympics for example”

I shrink back. No longer do I find myself trying to grasp her hand. Feeling my nose itch, I excuse myself, but her voice rings from behind:

“The break ends in five minutes. I want you back here until then.”.

Just like for any competition, coach, or simply Mom, writes a chain of saltos, twists and rolls for me to learn until I can execute them with my eyes closed. I actually perform that way. With my eyes shut, I imagine myself as Allie.

“You were incredible!” - I hear, though it’s not directed at me - “You beat Allie!”

I look back at the trashed corridor, where bags and cameras pile along the walls. A dust-like chalk covers every inch. Two girls in purple leotards with cut-imitating stripes, are talking to the girl I recognize as the current second place. She is also wearing the same leotard.

“Beating her is one heck of a deal! She trains more than anyone!”

The girl suddenly meets my eye.

“Your vault was also great. A back handspring like that is hard to execute.”

I scratch the back of my head. I can already sense the next comment; my coach, Mom, a national champion, is where my supposed talent come from. I’ve heard it a million times and I still don’t know how to reply. Yet, out of the blue, it’s a scoff.

“Trying to spy on other people? Don’t you have your Mom to help you win?”

I turn around, facing Allie head on. Her arms hang interlocked over her chest. I inch back, while mumbling a reply. 

“No… “.

I stare at our feet as she brushes past me. Her both ankles are tied in pre-wrap, however the layer on her left ankle is bulging out. I decide to trail behind her.

“I noticed during your vaul—-”

“Excuse me?”

Allie jumps and darts her eyes over my shoulder. I track her gaze towards a man approaching us with a smile. He holds university leaflets in one hand, whilst the other gestures in a wave like motion. Gestures towards me. I follow, but Allie’s hand nails me in place.

“Are you serious?! The competition isn’t over yet!” - she shouts.

His smile turns flat.

“I believe Miss Anders has already shown what she is capable of.”

He frees me from Allie’s grip. As we make our way back into the entrance of the stadium, I catch my last glimpse of her face. Her lip twitches, so do her eyebrows. But in the end, she spins on one foot and marches in the opposite direction.

The break ends and I await my turn by sitting on a bench in coach’s shadow. The first girl, the one I talked to before, climbs on a scene. She kickstarts her routine with a run that merges into a series of rolls. Coach X-rays her every stretch, move and wave as a way to estimate my chances in the competition.

“I’m really happy about the scholarship offer” - I say, trying to sound naturally, even though it feels like an advertisement - “This university’s famous for its bio-engineering program.”

The girl on the stage is now making a bow towards the judges, before waving to everyone in the stadium. Coach then turns to me. Her features blend together in the heavy shadow on her face.

“What do you think of that routine? Any comments?”

“She didn’t straighten her elbows?”

“Her posture during that walkover is one. She didn’t stretch her leg enough. With such mistakes, you can forget about entering the nationals.“

The scholarship paper rips in my hand as coach’s gaze return to scavenging a new contestant skip to the scene. Allie. She stands tight in the center. Her shoulders fall and she releases a steamy breath. Her hands are twitching, but she clenches them so tight that her fingertips turn purple. There is a thud.

Her routine begins. With one swift jump, she tosses herself into a cartwheel. Her spine bends back as she pirouettes in place. Arms stretch like wings and she catches herself just before her head hits the ground. I hold my breath. No eyes can catch her. Her limbs disappear, then appear a second after. She rises in the air, above the fog of chalk. Flashing camera lights reflect in the sweat on her forehead as her body coils together into a ball. Recoils as her injured foot touches the mattress. Her ankle snaps and she catches the hiss of pain mid in her dry throat, solidifying her stretched posture, like a statue in front of the judges.

The stadium roars and amidst the cheering and whistles I see the contours of coach. She is frozen, with her hand shielding her gaping mouth. I rise from my seat, tensing the muscles in my chest.

“Mom. I don’t want to be a gymnast.”

When I shut my eyes during a performance, I imagine myself as Allie. A girl whose career could have ended when she danced with an injured foot. A girl whose passion I could have never had.