I had pushed too far.
“Go,” he said. “Now.” His voice quiet and calm before dismissing me to return to his work.
I fled his office and retreated to my bedroom, slamming the door just as the tears started to fall.
Gymnastics was everything to me—it was my heart and soul, the air I breathed. It was the one thing that allowed me to be me. To express myself creatively in the way I chose, not how someone else decided for me. I’d rotated between eating, sleeping, and flipping for as long as I could remember. The competiveness, the challenge of mastering a new skill. The way I defied gravity—my heart soaring, the sound of applause, the gasp from the audience—made the sacrifice worth every bit of pain and manipulation my body went through. Nothing could take that feeling away.
It was the one place I could be free from the restraints my family’s name had on me.
My name is Adrianna Rossi. I’m fifteen, and a competitive gymnast. Elite gymnast, to be exact. Or I would be, as soon as I had the right coach.
I had completed all levels required according to USA gymnastics in order to move forward and test for elite. It was only a matter of time before I held the coveted rank. I trained day in and day out for this. My days consisted of four-hour training sessions in the gym, a tutor to homeschool me, and a private chef to prepare my calculated caloric meals.
As I fell onto my bed, devastation hit me hard. The rejection crushed my heart and it felt like my dreams were slowly being ripped away.
Like most hungry gymnasts, my ultimate goal was the Olympics.
If I graphed the training along with my age, I could possibly compete in my first Olympic Games by twenty. Possibly, being the key word. While twenty was still considered youthful by normal standards, it was ancient in the gymnastics world. Though, it wasn’t unheard of to compete in The Games at that age. One of my favorites, Svetlana Khorkina, competed until she was twenty-five years old and in three Olympics, the first being when she was seventeen. Oksana Chusovitina, competed in six Olympic Games, also starting at seventeen. So my goal wasn’t completely farfetched, I just needed the proper training. I was good, but I wanted to be great. And the only way to be great was to train with the best.
Though I was young, I wasn’t naive. I knew what kind of mental and physical abuse my body would go through in order to reach the professional level. I needed a drill sergeant with a sharp eye.
Needed it, and wanted it.
I didn’t fully understand why my dad objected to me leaving. I knew he thought of gymnastics as a hobby, but he’d always done anything to placate me. He never told me no and usually threw money at whatever my heart desired. It wasn’t as if he spent much time at home anyway. Frank Rossi was too occupied with expanding and maintaining his real estate empire. Rossi Enterprises was one of the top developers, with properties worldwide. He left my mom in charge of raising my brother and me, which was a joke.
When I first began gymnastics at three years old, my mother used to sit at my practices and attend my meets. It was all about appearances back then, but I was young so she really didn’t have much of a choice. However, the older I got, the less of an effort she made. I think the last meet she came to I was twelve years old. Mom was usually too busy with her charity work or trying to keep my older brother, Xavier, out of the media.
At first their lack of interest bothered me. I wanted them to want to be there, to watch me tumble and flip and balance on the beam. To see me move up to another level or stick a dismount without wobbling. I craved my parents’ attention like all children do, but after years of begging, I eventually gave up and learned to adapt to their indifference. Nowadays, Mom rarely came to practice, and neither of my parents attended many competitions.
Their actions forced me to be independent, something I quickly learned to value. That being said, I refused to give up. I wouldn’t let anything, or anyone, take my goal away from me.
I WASN’T SURE how much time had passed when I heard a faint knock on my door. I cracked my eyes open and was surprised by the darkness surrounding me. Another louder knock sounded, and I prayed it wasn’t my mom.
“Yeah?”
“Ana?” Relief coursed through me at the sound of my dad’s voice. “Can I come in?”
A fatigued sigh rolled off my lips as I sat up on the edge of my bed. “Come in.”
Dad opened the door, flipping on the light switch as he walked in. A quick glance at my reflection in the mirror on the adjacent wall had me pulling back in shock. My face was blotchy and swollen from crying. Hair lay stuck and matted to my face. I was a hot mess.
I squinted at my dad, trying to adjust to the light, the sorrow in his heavy eyes showed. It was clear he was remorseful over his decision and the way he reacted. The last time I’d seen him, he was dressed in a clean, crisp shirt and tie. Now the tie was gone, a few buttons were undone and his sleeves were rolled up. He was disheveled and worn out, and I knew I was the reason. I’d acted like a spoiled brat and argued with him, something I always tried to refrain from. Usually it was my older brother who caused so much turmoil for my parents, not me.
“Yes, Dad?” I tried to lighten the tension. A soft smile charmed his face. I was a daddy’s girl through and through, and he knew it.
“May I sit with you?” I nodded, and he sat next to me, the mattress dipping a little. He moved the tangled hair from my cheeks and eyed me carefully.
“You look like you’ve been crying, which can only mean I’m at fault.”
I flattened my lips and cast my eyes down. “I may have been.”
“I apologize, sweetheart.” He ran a tired hand down his face. “About the gymnastics...”
“Yeah?”
“Listen, it’s not that I don’t want you to do it, it’s that I don’t want you moving so far away on your own. You’re still young and the world is a dangerous place. What if something happened to you? I wouldn’t be able to get to you fast enough.”
My voice softened over his concern. “Dad, you’re always traveling for work.” My words caused him to wince, and I instantly felt terrible for stating the fact. But it was the truth, and I had to get my point across. “What would be the difference?”