"Okay, seriously, what's up with you these last few days?" Tsia called out from the little en suite bathroom where she was slicking her hair back in a flawless ponytail.
"Nothing's up," Emily refuted. "I don't know what you're talking about." She was seated at her desk with her make up mirror open in front of her, applying a layer of foundation.
The two of them had taken over Emily and JJ's dorm room to get ready for the team photos being taken that day. JJ had scoffed as they'd opened their theatre cases of stage make up and joked about how no sport should require so many cosmetics. Emily had given her the finger and shoved her out of the room while JJ cackled.
"You're a fucking horrible liar, you know that?" Tsia insisted, poking her head out of the bathroom to fix her with a pointed look. "I've seen you smile more in the past week than the entire time I've known you..."
"Is there a law against being happy?" she retorted without looking away from the mirror.
Tsia rolled her eyes, returning to the bathroom to tame all the fly-away hairs with gel. "Besides," she called out again, "Chloe spends all day trying to provoke you and it's like you barely even notice anymore."
"It's called being mature."
She snorted. "Yeah fucking right." Hair finished, she marched back into the dorm room, hands on her hips, determined to get an answer no matter how many sarcastic remarks Emily fired back at her. "What's his name?" she demanded.
Emily let out an irritated sigh, but relented, "Derek." She couldn't help the little smile playing about her lips at the mention of his name, though she tried to disguise it as she applied a light blush to her cheeks.
"Derek Morgan? I fucking knew it!" she crowed triumphantly. She elbowed Emily lightly out of the way of the make up mirror to fix her lipstick. "What about Coach's 'no dating' rule?"
"Just don't fucking tell him," Emily said. "I'm already hanging onto my spot on the team by the skin of my teeth..."
"You're the best one on the team, he's not going to kick you out," Tsia insisted as if it were common knowledge and Emily certainly wasn't about to argue and admit to why that wasn't exactly true. "Are you done?" she continued, ignoring Emily's skeptical expression. "We're going to be late for the team pictures if you don't hurry up and finish putting on your face."
"You're such a bitch... Why am I friends with you?" Emily muttered, just loud enough for her to hear, making her bark out a laugh.
In Emily's opinion, the only good thing about team photos was that they got to wear their official competition leotards for the first time...
It wasted most of a day that could be spent training and half of the girls they were taking pictures of wouldn't even make it to the Olympics. (Not that she should be complaining because she wasn't all that sure she was going to make it either...)
Either way, she smiled for her headshots like her life depended on it. (Though she'd never admit it out loud, she had to thank her mother for ensuring she had plenty of practice smiling for the camera, even if she'd rather be anywhere else.)
The photographer, at least, seemed to love her – even if Ian was obviously less than pleased by her continued presence.
By the time she was done, her cheeks hurt from smiling and she had seven texts from Derek waiting for her when she checked her phone. (He'd become obsessed with the idea of them getting matching tattoos and had spent the last day and a half texting her ideas in the hopes of convincing her.)
"Dammit," Ian muttered under his breath, glancing down at his watch. "Where's Donaghy?"
"I think I saw her in the dressing room, Coach," one of the other gymnasts called out from her spot on the mat where she was stretching.
Muttering another curse, Ian glanced about the gym, lips pursed together, displeased. "Prentiss!" he barked out, eyes landing on her where she was smiling down at her phone.
She glanced up, one brow raised, not quite in challenge, but not entirely respectful either. "Yes, Coach?" she asked.
"Go to the dressing room and get Donaghy out here," he demanded.
Emily scowled. He could have chosen anyone on the team to get Chloe, but he'd deliberately chosen her, knowing full well the bitter rivalry simmering between them. She heaved an irritated sigh, but decided against arguing.
"Chloe!" she snapped, slamming the door to the dressing room behind her. "What's the fucking hold up?"
From one of the bathroom stalls there came the retching sound of someone puking their guts out.
"Chloe?" Emily said again, cautious, curious. "Are you...okay?"
"Fuck off, Prentiss," Chloe snapped.
She rolled her eyes. So much for extending an olive branch. "You're up next for pictures," she told her, "Coach says to get your ass out there."
Chloe emerged from the stall then and, without looking at Emily, she went straight to the mirror, examining her face for flaws in her make up like she hadn't just been throwing up.
Emily watched her curiously, brow furrowing the longer she stared. She let out a sudden gasp. "Are you... Are you pregnant!?" she hissed.
Chloe rounded on her, gaze absolutely frosty. "I have food poisoning, obviously," she said archly.
Emily wasn't buying it, though... Her perfect gymnast body – flat stomach, flat chest, narrow hips – was looking markedly less flat. "You fucking are!" Emily insisted.
The look on Chloe's faced looked like she'd very much like to slap her across the face, but wasn't about to risk everything by assaulting her. "If you tell anyone, I swear to God, I will make you regret it," she growled. "I will tell everyone you fucked Ian..."
She opened her mouth to argue, but could only make a strangled noise of protest.
"Good," she said, with false pleasantry. "So, we're in agreement." And, with that, she marched out of the dressing room as if nothing of life-ruining portent had just happened.