Page 159 of Salto

I kipped, cast to handstand easily, and then prepared to swing into my low-to-high bar transition.

It was on the swing down that the pain in my back flared.

I did my best to relax the muscle around it, telling myself to breathe through it. I used the technique I’d been taught, and I continued, not missing a beat.

Twenty more seconds.

I caught the high bar and swung up into another handstand, preparing to move into my pirouette.

But it was there, in that handstand, that the pain returned.

Except it wasn’t a flash or a quick twinge like the ones I was prepared for. It wasn’t something relaxing or breathing was going to help.

It was unlike any pain I'd ever felt.

The fast-paced whirlwind I was experiencing suddenly slowed down.

I was seeing everything in slow motion now.

It was hot and searing, radiating through my pelvis, my hips, my back—until it felt like half my body was on fire.

I gasped, my arms threatening to give out.

And it was in that moment that I had to make a split-second decision.

"Red," I heard Rove call out to me below. "Don't."

Red, don't.

He could see it.

But I couldn’t cave to it. I had to endure it because I knew the pain I was about to feel wouldn't be nearly as horrible as the pain I'd feel afterward if I gave up now.

So I ignored him.

I bit down on my tongue to stop a scream from escaping, tasting the metallic tang of blood, and went into the Tkatchev.

I flew up over the bar, straightened my body, and by some miracle, caught the bar.

How, I wasn't certain.

But the agony that followed was blinding.

I never closed my eyes when I did my routines, but I don't think I would've been able to finish if I hadn't.

“Scarlet—”

His voice was there again.

It was a desperate plea this time.

Only five more seconds.

One more giant.

One more dismount.

"Don't. Touch. Me." I muttered the demand through my clenched teeth.