Page 111 of Full Split
"Oh, no you didn't," I tell him, and crouch into a position that lets him know I'm about to get him. He screams and tries to run, but his chubby baby legs get about three steps before I swoop him up and blow raspberries on his belly. Then I get tackled by his twin brother, and wail a series of "Oh, no! I'm so sorry! I give! Uncle! Uncle!" as the toddlers climb on top of me.
A little while later, after all the goodbyes and extra Uncle Niles tickles and Grandpa kisses, we lock up the gym. The sun is starting to set, casting long beams of gold across the floor. It's almost a shame to pull the shades closed.
"We might need to change our plans to take a family vacation after competition season this year," Wyatt says as we finish up. "If Aimee really is pregnant, we’ll need to change some dates or maybe plan something closer to home depending on how she's feeling and her due date and all that."
"Yeah, Disney might be a bit much. Maybe the beach instead? Or a lake rental?"
"That sounds nice."
"We'll figure it out," I say, kissing his cheek before we start ascending the stairs to the office. "We always do."
Wyatt cuts the main lights, and we head towards the office, discussing which athletes are most likely to qualify for regionals this year.
"I think Diana has a real chance to go all the way," I tell him. She's been with us for about two years now, and shows more promise every day.
Wyatt chuckles. "She's a firecracker, that one. Her fearlessness reminds me a little of you at that age."
I roll my eyes. "She's a risk taker, but she pulls it off. That confidence is hard-earned, and you know it."
"She's damn good," he agrees.
"It might be hard for her," I say.
"It was hard for you, too."
"Yeah, well." I smile. "I had a good coach."
Wyatt leans against the wall. "So does she."
His words hit me somewhere deep. My eyes sting a little as I look out over the gym. All around us, lining the walls as we walk up the stairs, are picture frames with photos and newspaper clippings of achievements that have meant more to me than every medal or title won.
We've been through a lot these last ten years. It's moments like this when it all floods back. The headlines, the pressure. The sick feeling of knowing the world was watching, waiting for me to slip, to fail, to be the wrong kind of story. It was hard, and more often than not it was invasive on an uncomfortable level.
But we made it.
We kept showing up. Kept speaking out. And somewhere along the way, we stopped being the story and started helping others write their own. Just like we'll help Diana write hers.
My eyes roam over the framed magazine covers, photos from protests, a tear-out of the first article that called me a trailblazer rather than a troublemaker. We put it all on the line—our careers, our reputations, our privacy. And it was worth it.
We fought for every athlete competing by our side, and for every athlete who will come after us. So they can walk in and focus on their sport instead of their gender, their pronouns, their appearance, or who they love.
We made space. A space I'm so proud of and grateful for.
Wyatt opens the office door, and I step inside to grab my bag. I feel him behind me before he reaches me, but I still gasp as I'm yanked back.
My back hits the door and he's on me, crowding me and looking down at me hungrily.
"Wyatt," I breathe. His fingers curl around my hips.
"I was going to punish you for calling me Daddy in front of Weston again," he says, his voice rough and gravelly. Before I can respond, he drops to his knees, and all my snark gets caught in my throat. "And don't think that I won't. But first…"
He nuzzles into the exposed skin of my thigh, his nose pushing just beneath the hem of my shorts. I groan when his tongue flicks out against my skin before he reaches up to my waistband and starts pulling my shorts down my legs.
"First, I need to show you just how proud I am."
"Yes, Daddy," I rasp.
Wyatt growls and I shiver, knowing I’m in for a long, long night…
