Out of Bounds (The Summer Games #2)(85)
My mother was crying hysterically on the other line. I could only hear every other word, but I heard the tail end of her message loud and clear.
“Come home and gather your things.”
I was getting kicked out.
Summoning energy from the deepest parts of my being, I grabbed my keys from the nightstand and drove to my house. I knew my detox would never finish until I’d confronted the source of the suffering.
The sun had set a few hours earlier, but the porch light was on, illuminating the pile of clothes and crap sitting outside on the grass. Everything that had once been inside my room was now sitting outside, thanks to my father. My gymnastics trophies were stuffed into a box and medals were spilling out onto the sidewalk. Half my clothes had ended up in the ditch, soaked through. I was bent down rifling through them, trying to find anything of value when the front door opened.
My father stormed out of the house like a bat out of hell.
“You ungrateful piece of shit,” he shouted, running to me like he was ready to tackle me to the ground. He’d never put a hand on me, so I didn’t try to block his assault; I should have. When his head connected with my stomach, I went flying back hard enough that my head split open on the concrete. The acute sensory pain came as a relief after enduring days of widespread dull ache. He pushed himself up with fury in his eyes.
“You think you can quit now? You think you know sacrifice, pain?”
His fist connected with my jaw and I nearly blacked out.
“I’ve worked my ass off to train you and if you’ve wasted my time, then get the f*ck out of my house.”
His boot hit the side of my back, right above my kidney, and I squeezed my eyes closed.
“You can’t even fight back. Can you?” he yelled, rearing back to land another punch.
I shoved my arm in front of my head, blocking his shots as he kept pounding his bloodied fists into me, over and over again.
Something inside me cracked that day. Maybe it was the loss of my father or the feeling of lying on that grass with blood running down my face, but after he wore himself out and turned his back to walk away, I felt stronger that I’d been even before taking the pills, even before the injury. I rose up looking like hell, but used the adrenaline coursing through my veins as the last well I could draw from.
Even in my weakness, I towered over him when I stood to my full height. He’d built me into this monster. I reached forward and gripped his neck, feeling the swollen veins in my forearm bulge and strain with the effort.
I could have killed him. I wanted to kill him. He was fighting me, trying to land a solid punch to my ribs so I’d back off, but I didn’t feel a thing. He’d made me numb long ago.
“I’m leaving this sport and I’m leaving you,” I spat. “And if I hear that you’re drugging other gymnasts, I will come back here and kill you,” I said, shaking him back and forth. “Do you hear me? This won’t be handled by the police. I’ll do what I should do right now.”
I could feel him starting to struggle to breathe, and it wasn’t until my mom ran out of the house, screaming for us to stop that I finally let him go and shoved him back into the grass.
“Erik!” she cried, hysterical. “Your head…”
I reached up and felt the blood seeping from my skull. My fingers came away dripping with redness, but I shook away the pain, gathered the shit I cared about, and left my father in the front yard cowering like the * he was.
The world never heard about my drug addiction or my father’s transgressions. I should have gone to the police and reported him, but I couldn’t do it. I just wanted to put it all behind me. I moved to Sweden to stay with my grandfather for a while, and I stayed up to date with news about my father’s gym. I never once heard about him mistreating other athletes, but I knew that didn’t mean a thing. I’d stayed silent; other gymnasts probably did too. I should have done the world a favor and killed him when I had the chance. The odds that he was an angel from that day forward were slim.
By the time I finished spewing details I’d kept under lock and key for the last ten years, Brie’s features were coated in horror. Her face had drained of color and she was shaking her head, willing the story away. She didn’t want it to be true any more than I did.
“So you’re right, Brie—we’re completely different people with completely different lives, but you’re wrong to say I don’t understand what it’s like to try to compete for someone other than yourself. I don’t want you to have to learn the same lessons I did.”
“I’m sorry.” She was crying then. “Erik…I didn’t know.”
I rubbed my jaw and tried to keep my tone even. I hadn’t planned on revealing so much to her that night and I was definitely not looking for her pity. I just wanted her to understand that we weren’t so different.
“It’s not important, really. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She stepped closer, looking as if she wanted to say more. Her gaze dropped to my lips and then back up. Her shallow inhales were masked by laughter from the group of athletes spilling out of a cab behind us. I watched her hand reach out for mine, but I shoved my hands into my jeans and rocked back on my heels.
“Get some sleep,” I repeated to myself as much as to her.
Before she could respond, I turned and headed for the coaches’ complex.