Ripped - 8. Chapter 8

"Chavez! Straighten out that layout!" Coach Richards yelled across the gym. Owen groaned as he set up to run his punch-front layout again across the floor.

Bailey flipped up to a handstand on the high bar, letting his body hold the rigid vertical for several seconds before swinging down full out stretched to a complete a front giant, then a half turn to a piked endo. As he switched his hand grip, he felt the already irritated skin ripping open. The leather grips only did so much to protect their hands. Rips were inevitable. He faltered, re-adjusted his grip before completing his flyaway half-twist dismount.

He glanced at his hand, noting the edge of the rip.

"McIntyre, you look like you're struggling with your eagle grip today. Something going on?"

"No, sir." Bailey immediately shook his hand out, fisting his hand to hide the rip, and playing with the strap around his wrist. "Just needed to adjust my grip."

A curt nod and the coach continued his stalking of the gym, stopping to help Mateo on the parallel bars. Their team had the ideal number, since each of them could be working on an apparatus at any one time. Currently, Justin was completing a back uprise to an iron cross on the rings, while Luke was running up the vault ramp throwing Yurchenko 3/2s, and Cameron was flairing and scissoring on the pommel horse.

Bailey flicked his eyes around to his teammates as he stalked over to the chalk bin. He quickly covered his hands in chalk again, hoping to stop any bleeding from his ripped skin. The quiet focus here was part of what kept him sane. The intensity of pushing his muscles to extremes, to make his body do things most people wouldn't dream of trying, to soar, to fly... to forget.

He clapped his hands together, creating a cloud of dust, before turning back to the high bar. He stared at it a moment, his mind running through the moves his body needed to make. Then he jumped, fingers gripping the bar as he completed a couple simple tap swings before moving onto his routine, adding in a giant hop regrab and clear hip.

"You got it, Bailey! You can do it! Woohoo!"

His father's voice echoed in his mind. The last meet his father would ever see. Three months ago. State Championships. He'd placed first in everything but the high bar. His mother had even smiled, and both his parents joked about why didn't he get first in that event too. He'd known they were kidding. They'd been so proud, and he'd promised next time, he'd sweep all the events.

Yeah, next time. What was the point of next time if his father was just going to be ripped away from him like he had? In a moment of breaking down with his mom, he had screamed that he wasn't doing it any more, what was the point? She'd gripped his shoulders, the tears still streaming down her own face, as she set her jaw, shaking him.

"You will not dishonor your father's memory by quitting," she'd said, her face set. "He would never want you to quit because of him. You've loved gymnastics for years, and he... we... have supported you. Giving up now, would be like spitting on his grave."

His mother had always been the more impassive of his parents, always forthright, objective, practical. It was odd since his father was almost the opposite; he'd been the sentimental one, always there to lean on, to talk to. Maybe because he wasn't always around, his dad was especially diligent to make use of the time he did have with his family.

Only now, it was just him and his mom. And after that one blow-up, they hadn't talked about his father anymore, except to bring up how disappointed he'd be in Bailey's grades or performances.

"Okay! Time to hit the showers! And, Patterson, McIntyre!" the coach singled out Owen and Bailey, causing both of them to turn after they dismounted.

"Yeah?" Owen yanked the velcro strap on his grip free.

"Study for your test!" Coach Richards called with a chuckle.

"Yes, sir!" both of them called out in response.

Mr. Richards was also his US History teacher. In fact, almost all of the teachers coached one of the sports on campus, or at least assisted one of them. Some rotated what sport they coached, while others like Richards only did gymnastics. Bailey knew that his English teacher, Mr. Kirkland, coached lacrosse and cross-country, and his Trigonometry teacher, Mr. Prosser, coached the swim team.

Bailey left his grips on, fisting his hand to keep his bleeding palm from being visible. He'd deal with it when he got home. It wasn't very big, certainly not the worse rip he'd ever had. In his younger days, he'd had some pretty bad ones, especially before he even starting wearing grips. He'd spent several of his beginning years building up the calluses on his hands, toughing them up, so they'd be less likely to rip later. Still, even though he wore grips now, that thin piece of leather straddling his palm didn't always stop rips from happening, just helped minimize how often and how bad they were.

They trudged into Locker Room B, the locker room shared by the track team, baseball team, soccer team, and gymnastics. Locker room A housed the football, basketball, and lacrosse teams. Locker room C held most of the other sports—tennis, wrestling, fencing, and a few others. And D was the pool locker room used by the swim team—and of course, anyone using the pool recreationally. Bailey wasn't sure if the golf team had a locker area. He hadn't seen them use one, but they also had to go off campus to The Sands, the local golf club, so maybe they stored their stuff there.

Bailey quickly yanked his bag from his locker and nearly ran to the showers. Justin was yanking off his practice compression shirt, flinging it into his locker, and Bailey couldn't help but sneak a peek back at him. Justin was tall and lean, his back muscles rippled as he leaned down to strip out of his gym shorts.

Of course, that brought to mind the football player he'd been doing pushups with. Now, he had some huge muscles. The cut out tank hid nothing of those bulges... and those legs... god, what were those... tree trunks? Gorgeous tree trunks at that, flecked with fine dark hair.

Fuck. What was he thinking? Those kind of guys never looked at him twice, except to maybe throw a slur his way, or a punch. But then this guy—Declan, wasn't it?—he hadn't been the one being an ass in the weight room. He'd actually seemed a little... nice, maybe?

Still...

He turned on the water, closing the shower stall door behind him. This was one feature of the school he'd loved—private showers in the locker room. He hated others seeing his body, and, well, it was harder to hide... it... if he had to change or shower in front of everyone. None of his teammates ever commented on his locker room routine—to take all his toiletries and clothes to the shower with him and change in private.

After stripping off his grips, he rinsed his hands in the hot water, hissing at the sting as the water hit the open skin. He shook it out, peeling away the loose skin. He'd have to cut some of it around the edges, he noticed. It bled a little more, but he figured he'd deal with it when he got home.

Completing his shower, he threw on his usual attire of a hoodie and jeans—which he realized seemed to be even baggier now. He probably needed to work on making sure he didn't skip meals, or Coach Richards was going to notice soon and say something, maybe even to his mom or the counselor. And he already saw the counselor more than he wanted to. His father's Colonel had insisted both he and his mom see someone—whether it was the base chaplain, an outside therapist, or even a grief support group.

Bailey had refused to go with his mom to the chaplain, instead figuring he could get by with the school counselor. Ms. Tardin was nice enough, but Bailey wasn't interested in baring his soul to anyone. Not Ms. Tardin, not his coach, not his mother, not even Justin. So the once a week meeting he endured, assuring her he was coping just fine, was enough.

He threw his grips in his locker, having wiped away the bloodstains in the shower, and threw his towel in the huge laundry bin. He stuffed his dirty gym clothes in the small duffle bag he used to transport clothes back and forth. Leaving the duffle in his locker to pick up before he left campus, he hauled his backpack over his shoulder.

He heard a couple of the other showers shut off, and Justin padded out shaking the excess water from his blond hair. The locker room door opened, and voices exploded throughout the room as the cross country team poured in. They were one of the biggest teams, since some students didn't have the affinity or desire to participate in other team sports. Bailey had watched them on occasion, as he loved to run himself, and he knew many of them were really good.

He scuttled past the sweaty guys, jostling his backpack with his sore hand as he made his way out of the gym building. He followed the covered promenade between buildings to Grainger Hall, the main building housing the dining hall, all of the offices—the dean, counselors, administrative personnel, and the teachers—as well as the school store and conference rooms. The center boasted a three story Rotunda with a depiction of several scenes from history on it.

Bailey had discovered early in the semester that there were lots of nooks along the stairs and hallways that offered quiet study areas. Usually, the third floor was relatively empty, and he could escape there for a while before he had to be home. Today, he was hoping the rain would dissipate before he had to make the eleven block trek home. Maybe he'd even have dinner in the dining hall before he left.

If it had been a nice day, he might have absconded to his favorite place—the bleachers by the track: sitting either up on the highest bench when no one was around or slipping under the bleachers if the track was busy with too many people. It was quiet there too, and nobody had ever bothered or noticed him. And he could escape with... it... in peace, allowing... it... to muffle the torment in his soul.

"Bailey, wait up. I need to talk to you."

Damn it. Bailey paused on the second floor landing as Justin caught up with him. "What? I need to study for Richards's test."

"Show me your hand."

Crap. How had Justin known? Bailey rolled his eyes as he turned for the stairs.

"Don't walk away from me," Justin snapped louder, grabbing his arm and spinning him around.

"I'm fine," Bailey said, clenching his hand as he tossed his long bangs from his eyes.

"Let me see," Justin insisted.

Bailey heaved out an exasperated sigh before finally unfurling his hand for his team captain.

Clenching it had caused it to bleed a little, making a smear of blood over his palm.

"I knew it. I thought I saw blood on your grips." Justin carefully inspected his wounded hand. The other teen's warm fingers caused him to recoil. Too many times guys reaching out to him ended in fists to a tender body part or bruises from a restraining grip.

He could barely stand to be touched now. His parents occasional hugs and pats on the back had been his only source of comfort for so long. And then the one person he needed comfort from in the aftermath of his father's death rejected him.

He yanked his hand free. "It's just ripped, that's all. It happens."

"We both know rips happen, it's part of the sport. But you're part of this team, and as such you will not hide injuries from Coach."

"It'll be fine. A few tea bags tonight, and I'll be good to go tomorrow."

"Tomorrow you'll lay off the bars, rings, and the horse. Focus on floor and vault to give that a chance to heal." Bailey opened his mouth to object, but he knew arguing with Justin would be pointless. "Good. Now, have fun studying."

Bailey turned to head up to the third floor.

"Oh, hey, did you want to stay over this weekend? Brett's going home, so I'll have plenty of room."

This was a fairly common offer, if not from Justin, one of his other teammates might ask. He knew what they were trying to do—to get him out of his comfort zone a little, to get him to relax—but he had always turned them down.

"No, I can't—"

"You never can, Bay. I'm sure your mother can live without you just one weekend."

"S-She's lonely. With... dad... gone and all."

Justin just nodded, his eyes soft with understanding. Bailey could see it hurt Justin to know how much pain Bailey was going through at the loss of his father so recently. "Okay, well, maybe I'll catch you tomorrow morning."

"Sure." Bailey shrugged, knowing Justin would never stop trying to draw him out.

Bailey headed past Justin to the next set of stairs for the third floor. He saw Justin heading back down to the main floor, catching up with some of his other friends—Bailey thought some of them were from the swim team, maybe the track team. Hell, they could be from the basketball team, and Bailey probably wouldn't know. It seemed Justin was friends with just about everyone.

Well, except that Chris Vasser guy. Bailey chuckled to himself thinking about how Justin and the rest of his team stood up to the entire football squad. Of course, it was unlikely the whole football team was made up of arrogant jerks like Chris and Eric.

Bailey rounded the top of the stairs, catching sight of someone already sprawled in one of the chairs. He faltered for a moment, but the guy was grinning widely as he glanced towards Bailey. He looked familiar, yet...

Oh, that guy. Um, Declan, the push-up guy. Hmm, Bailey hadn't known he came up here. But then again, Bailey had been in a fog most of his time at Heritage, just trying to get by, not wanting to talk to anyone.

He started to offer a hesitant wave of greeting, but they guy's head was already turned back to his book. Instead, Bailey ducked down the opposite hallway finding a comfortable chair in his own nook. Even though he could hear a couple people in their offices still, he knew no one would pay much attention to him here.

He took a moment to breathe, dropping his head back on the leather chair. He pulled his notebook from his backpack. He needed to study for Richards's test, and he had to finish a paper for his English teacher Mr. Kirkland.

Just thinking about the paper made him break out in a sweat. He'd never been very good at writing, hated it even. He usually managed to pull low B's on them, most of the time. And in his previous years that had been acceptable. Yet now, a B wasn't enough. And he was terrified to write this first major paper and find out he couldn't pull the grade his mom expected him to get—for his father.

He couldn't fail him.

"Fuck," he whispered, breathing heavily. He clenched his hand, intentionally biting his fingernails into the still tender rip. His other hand pressed on his hip—it from yesterday.

The zing of pain shot through him, overriding his panic, and he held his breath, clinging to the blissful silence in his head that focusing on the pain gave him.

The one on his hip didn't offer much help as it was healing too well already, but the rip on his palm... that was fresh...

He kept digging in, even knowing he should stop before he made the rip worse. He floated for several moments on the blessed release the stinging in his hand gave him. When he felt the slick of blood under his fingers, he managed to pull open his hand.

Bailey stared at the small drops of blood pooling in his palm. It wasn't much, but those small drops represented his hurt, his anger, his panic, his fears, his grief...

No one wanted to see him cry. He'd be teased mercilessly. Lashing out only got him in trouble. As his mother told him—he "needed to deal with his grief, his father's death somehow, just like she was."

She'd found it in her bottles of wine.

And he'd found it.

****

After studying, Bailey had headed to one of the computer labs to start on his paper since it was still raining. The less time he spent at home, the less chance his mother would find fault in something he'd done, or didn't do. At one point about a third into the paper, he noticed the rain had finally died down to a drizzle. It was already closing in on seven-thirty, so he probably needed to head home. His mom expected him no later than eight each night, but only if practice ran late. She'd always asked if he could try to make it back in time for dinner. It was the one thing she attempted to still do with him.

He couldn't deny her that.

After a brief detour to pick up his clothing duffle, Bailey headed out the main doors of Grainger Hall directly towards the front gates. They were never closed, just large iron-work decorations to give the school that prestigious look. There was a little 'guard' house next to the gates that usually held a security guard who would check in and out visitors, staff and students—to ensure random people didn't just wander around campus.

As Bailey passed by, he scanned his student ID at the scanner and marked himself as leaving campus. He waved slightly at the man, knowing the security guy would note his departure. Most students stayed on campus, so if one left, they wanted to make sure they came back before the ten o'clock curfew. Bailey, of course, wouldn't be expected back tonight.

"'Night, Mr. McIntyre," the man called.

Heritage Academy had been built near the original town center. After a fire had apparently wiped out most of the original buildings, the area had been mostly abandoned for several years. The town—looking to expand to city status—had moved its municipal buildings to larger, more modern quarters several miles to the south where there was room to grow and develop. All the larger box stores and chain stores as well as the mall were there. When Heritage Academy bought these several acres of land to the north of the newly sprawling city, and developers began to purchase nearby land for housing, interest became renewed in the old, lost buildings.

The old town center became Heritage Square. A place where several small restaurants and cafés emerged. A few specialty shops popped in as well. There was a fountain in the middle and parking lots were situated behind the buildings with new brick walkways leading between the shops into the square. It was perhaps two-square blocks wide, not huge, but quaint as the locals called it. Skirting the outsides of the square were a few essential stores. A drug store, a grocery store, and a couple of gas stations, were to be found, but if anyone was looking for Kmart or Costco or even a mall, they'd have to head south.

Bailey often enjoyed taking a path home that took him through the square. He enjoyed the cozy-town feel of it after having lived in bigger, major cities like Richmond. Other times, he might turn left out of Heritage's gates and make his way through Heritage Park to get to his neighborhood.

Today, Bailey just waved at the guard and headed across the street toward the Square. The coffee shop and the deli were most popular with the staff, especially if they wanted something other than dining hall food. The frozen yogurt place attracted a lot of students, especially on the weekends when groups of girls from the local high school would hang out there or at Heritage Park where a lot of the academy students went.

Yet probably the most popular store was the Carewell Pharmacy, the local drug store that had a little bit of everything—drinks, food, snacks, toiletries, lube and condoms, candy, school supplies, laundry soap... pretty much anything they might need or want, except clothing.

Bailey knew many Heritage Academy students had small refrigerators and microwaves in their rooms, so the stores offered a chance to have a little freedom from the standard dining hall fare.

Most of the time, Bailey never visited those stores, even though he passed them often. His dad had taken him and his mom to the frozen yogurt shop a few times over the summer. Now, Bailey could barely stand to look at it.

He trudged down the courtyard center, hitting the corner across from the Carewell Pharmacy before turning down the next street towards the housing developments.

"Look, it's that flyboy."

That had his head popping up. He glanced behind him, to see a mix of teens standing around outside the Carewell Pharmacy. He recognized Eric but not the other two guys with him who just chuckled before turning back to the girls they'd been chatting with.

Fortunately the football players were quickly distracted again by the girls flirting with them, so he was able to skirt them easily, making his way down the road where he turned again. Finally stopping in front of a beautiful two level brick house with a wide front porch that his mother had loved. Of course, he hadn't seen her using it much in the last several weeks. And now that he looked, the yard probably needed to be mowed again one last time as fall slipped in.

He quietly unlocked the front door, passing by the living room without even looking at it. He couldn't stand to see the folded flag mounted in a beautiful wooden display case with his father's name etched on a gold plaque that was sitting on the mantle of the fireplace. Pictures of his father in his uniform lined the mantle to both sides of it, some were of just him, one had just him and Bailey, another one was of his parents' wedding.

He hadn't spent time in that room since the Colonel had sat him and his mother down on that damn blue couch to tell him that his father had been killed by an IED in Afghanistan just days after he'd been redeployed. His mother did though. She sat there all the time, staring at the fireplace, the mantle, the flag...

One time he'd thought to join her, seeking comfort, maybe relief from the hurt and anger that kept building. But she'd left as soon as he came in the room, retreating to her own bedroom.

Now, he headed straight for the kitchen where he could hear his mother talking on the phone.

"...no, no, it's fine," she was saying, waving her hand, even smiling, "I can get Bailey to do it this weekend, if you'll be in."

Bailey stopped short, wondering what he'd just been volunteered to do.

"Okay, thank you for everything, Daniel. You've been such a wonderful help. Bye now."

Bailey hated the way she nearly purred into the phone at the attorney. When she turned and noticed him standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her smile widened, and she ambled towards him.

"Bailey! Glad you're home," she slurred, and he suddenly noticed the half empty bottle of wine on the counter. That explained why she'd be 'glad to see him' because she never was. She barely acknowledged him these days.

"Daniel, needs you to sign a few things for your father's estate, some of the accounts he willed to you," she mumbled. "I did them earlier this week, but he was calling to remind me that I still need to bring you by."

"Daniel? Is that what you call Mr. Kirsch now?" Bailey realized he sounded a little bitter.

She frowned at him but apparently decided to ignore his curt remark. She gestured at the table. "I called him. I needed someone to talk to after—after getting those..."

Bailey glanced at the table. Spread there were more cards from half the base, offering condolences as well as checking in on them. Bailey knew the Colonel's wife had come by a few times as well as a few others, often bringing some kind of casserole that Bailey hated, even if it was an hour's drive from the base. The cards explained why she had probably opened a bottle of wine as well.

He should be glad his mom had someone to talk to, even if it was just their attorney; instead, it made him sick. He couldn't help but think just how friendly the lawyer had become with his mother in the absence of his father, and she seemed to be enjoying the attention. He knew she was trying to bury her feelings for the loss his father; it just seemed too soon to be accepting another man's attentions.

"Daniel was very kind to talk to me for a few minutes. Then he reminded me about needing to bring you by. I'd forgotten about it, and you get home so late. I have some casserole in the fridge."

He barely kept his nose from turning up. "I'll find something, mom."

"That's good, sweetie." She sounded a little floaty. He frowned, wondering if the alcohol was reacting with the antidepressant the doctor prescribed for her recently.

He watched her sink into the cushions of the blue couch. He wasn't worried that she was going to break down crying because she never did. Not in front of him. He knew she was trying to stay strong, smile, and keep Bailey strong and focused as well. And he knew he needed to do the same for her.

"He was so beautiful..." she mumbled. "So strong, so perfect..."

God, he couldn't stay to hear this again—her flouncing back and forth from glorifying his father to nearly pretending he hadn't existed—it nearly killed him every time.

Bailey grabbed a soda and an apple from the kitchen and ran for the stairs. He slammed his door shut, causing several medals to rattle on their display hooks. He dropped his bags and flopped on his bed. Staring at the ceiling, his fan twirling languidly above him, he rolled, curling onto his side.

He both loved and hated the wall he was now facing. The wall of a champion, his father had lovingly called it. It held every medal, trophy, or plaque that he'd ever won. Most of course were for gymnastics, but there were a couple academic awards mixed in there. His father had been so proud of him, so damn supportive, that it hurt to look at the awards and not remember the pride and joy on his dad's face when he'd won them. Bailey could practically pick out any one of them and playback in his mind his dad's reactions.

The 1st place state trophy. He'd cheered the loudest of everyone when Bailey's name had been called. The pride had radiated from the man, and Bailey had basked in his joy.

Even the 5th place pommel horse medal, which had Bailey loathing himself for the mistakes he'd made, had good memories in the end. His father had known how much Bailey was deriding himself for not doing better, and he'd taken Bailey's face in his large calloused ones:

"Bailey, you did your best. You know that, I know that. You will sometimes make mistakes, but how you handle them tells people what kind of person you are. You never blame someone else, and you accept your slipups, but never let them consume you, son. Learn from them, live with them, but don't dwell on them. I'm so proud of you, no matter what your score is, or where you place. The fact that you get out there every day and face the possibility of failure—of falling off that bar, of tripping up on the floor, of faulting on the pommel horse—that makes you one of the most courageous, intelligent people I know. And even prouder that that person is my son."

His eyes started to burn with the memories. He thought again about ripping them all down, throwing them out. But they were moments he'd shared with his father, and he couldn't yet let them go, no matter how painful it was to look at some of them right now. His father had lovingly built this display for him as soon as they had moved in. And Bailey just couldn't bring himself to touch it; mostly he just tried not to look at it—another reason to stay out of the house as much as possible, except when sleeping.

He stripped out of his clothes, seeking the tender spot on his hip. Yes, that one was almost healed, but he couldn't keep ripping open the wound on his hand—that one he needed healed ASAP for gymnastics.

So he scraped at the scabbing on his hip, creating just enough of a jolt to make his mother's melancholy fade away... without having to slice a new line to get it.