Page 28 of Stroked Hard
“Hollis, Hollis, Hollis!” my mom cheers as I walk toward my family who is not only decked out in the gaudiest shirts I’ve ever seen but are holding blown-up pictures of my head on sticks. Just fucking great. I can only imagine what NBC thought of that.
“Hi, Mom.” I wrap the little five-foot-six woman in my arms and kiss the top of her head, being sure to stay away from the visor she’s had ever since my first Olympics. It’s supposed to be like an American flag wrapped around your head, that’s at least how my mom describes it.
“You did so great,” she coos while hugging me with all the gusto she has, which means she’s swaying me back and forth, or at least trying to.
“Not really, but thanks, Mom.”
My dad points, wiggles his finger at me as he approaches. “You had us sweating there for a second.” My mom releases me just as my dad grabs the back of my neck and kisses me on the forehead before pulling me into a giant bear hug. I’m two inches taller than his six-foot stature but he has a few more pounds on me, making his bear hug effective.
“Just trying to keep things interesting,” I joke and look around. “Where’s Holly?”
“She took off for the bathroom—”
“I’m right here,” her voice rings outs.
Turning around, I look down to see my sister roll right up behind me. She looks just the same, long dirty-blonde hair in waves, the same vivid blue eyes as mine, toned arms from having been in a wheelchair, and her muscle deteriorated legs strapped to the bottom of her wheelchair. Even though it’s been years since the accident, I still get nausea from seeing her. She could have been in the trials this week; she could be going to Rio.
Fuck, who am I kidding? If she were able to walk, she most definitely would be going to Rio. She was the best female diver in the country. Hell, she put me to shame when she was at the top of her game, and I’ve been the best in the world for the past eight years.
“Are you just going to stare at me or are you going to come down here and give me a hug?”
“Sorry,” I say shyly, leaning down to hug her. Fuck, will I ever get used to her in a chair? Will I ever lose this all-consuming guilt when I’m around her? “How are you, Holls?”
“Could be better. I spent the last hour agonizing over you and your idiotic dives. What the hell was with you today?”
“Holly,” my mom chimes in, “he made it to Rio.” The way my mom says that makes it seem like Holly wasn’t there for the entire competition, which I know she was. I got the angry texts.
“I’m aware, Mom. What I want to know is where’s your coach, and why the hell did you wait until the last dive, your hardest dive, to finally claim a spot?”
I wrack my brain and then shrug my shoulders in question. “For the drama of it all?” I tack on my most charming smile but it fades quickly when I see Holly is about to rip me a new one.
“Bullshit, where is Coach Ted?”
Knowing she won’t give up until I tell the story, I give in. “Coach Ted and I got into it before the competition. We’ve been clashing ever since we started working together. I asked him to try to cater toward me as an athlete and apparently he wanted nothing to do with that, so he left right before competition. Pretty sure that threw off my entire dive.”
“Pretty sure?” Holly questions. “No, it most definitely did. You looked like shit out there.”
“Gee, thanks, Holly. You’re so kind.”
“Just telling you how I saw it. You’re so much better than that, Hollis, diving wise and mentally as well.Heshould be sacked.”
“I know.” Looking around, I see a lot of bystanders. I need to sign some autographs and take pictures, and then later we can talk in private, so I ask my family to meet me in my hotel room. I would rather not air my dirty laundry in front of the public eye, who can easily record us givensmarttechnology.
After half an hour of sticking around the venue, I make my way back to the hotel, my stomach growling. On the way up to my room, I bust open my cherry Pop-Tart as an appetizer before dinner.
Opening the door to my hotel room, I half expect my mom and dad to throw streamers at me out of celebration but instead of happy faces, I’m greeted by an angry one.
Holly.
Shit, she’s not going to let this go.
“Wow, you’re a lovely sight to come home to,” I say sarcastically, taking a bite out of my Pop-Tart and shutting the door.
“Why don’t you take a seat, we have some talking to do.”
I sit across from her on the couch, my mouth full of Pop-Tart, with zero desire to talk about today.
“I don’t want to talk, Holly. I dove horribly, case closed.”
