Page 18 of Salto

That was Caldwell's explanation?

He was going to call my complicated chronic endocrine disorder an injury? Injury made it sound temporary. Like I'd pulled a muscle and would be back to normal in six weeks.

I tightened the strap on my grip a little harder than necessary.

Still, I supposed it was easier than explaining the truth.

I glanced over at the two of them again, only to find Rove watching me.

My stomach did a Shaposhnikova, and I quickly looked away, unable to take the pressure of his gaze.

I was such a pansy.

The feeling of being watched never faded.

I told myself I was imagining it. Rove wasn't watching me specifically—he was watching everyone.

Besides, I wasn't even considering elite, and Caldwell had made it abundantly clear I wasn't in the running anyway.

It shouldn't have mattered.

And yet, for the rest of practice, I kept replaying the moment he'd looked at me after the Shaposhnikova.

Like he'd noticed something.

Something I hadn't meant anyone to see.

CHAPTER 7

“Alright, girls! Bring it in.”

Practice had been four hours long.

Four straight hours of feeling like I'd been slightly electrocuted.

We pushed up from the floor, cooldown stretches forgotten, drifting toward the coaches and forming a semicircle around them.

I wiped my palms against my thighs as I took my place near the edge of the group.

Caldwell gave a brief nod toward Rove, then stepped back, leaving the space to him.

“I’ve had some time to go over my notes,” he said, voice even.

I heard Mia let out a shaky breath next to me. A few girls shifted, restless, waiting for him to get to the point.

“I was impressed.”

My fingers reached up to fiddle with the end of my ponytail.

Rove glanced down at the paper in his hand.

“We’re hosting a team tryout camp next week,” he said. “If I call your name, you’ve been invited to attend.”

Nobody moved.

Even the restless shifting stopped.

“Eva.”