Page 71 of Salto

“Are you going to listen to what they told you?” he clarified, his eyes giving nothing away.

“Yes,” I said quickly.

“You promise?” he asked, his jaw clenching. “Because if you decide the doctors’ orders don’t apply to you, or you stop communicating with me, then this arrangement won’t work.”

I looked down at my hands.

“My body is complicated,” I said, clasping my hands tightly in my lap. “The more you understand, the less you’re going to want to coach me.” A weak laugh escaped me.

“This will never work if you don’t trust me, Red,” Rove said quietly.

Would this end the same way it had last time? With an injury? Would I chase my dream again only to have it crushed? The last few days had been brutal. A soreness currently radiated through my body, unlike anything I’d felt in a very long time.

But if I didn’t keep going, I would always wonder, what if?

I looked up.

“I’ll trust your judgment,” I finally said. “And I’ll keep communicating with you and the others. I promise.”

“Alright, good,” Rove said, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Then I’ll see you in thirty minutes for our next practice.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He simply stood, walked out of the office, and headed toward the gym.

I groaned and pushed myself up from the table to follow after him.

My mom called to check in on me at the end of the week, and it was so good to hear her voice that I had to blink back tears like a giant baby.

“So things are going well?” she asked me.

“Yeah,” I said, reaching for the pumice stone next to the sink. I sat on the edge of the tub and started filing down another thick callus on my palm. White flakes of dead skin drifted onto the porcelain below. Between the torn hands, aching muscles, bruises blooming across my legs, and the constant rotation of ibuprofen and ice packs, my body felt like it was being held together with athletic tape and sheer stubbornness. But I wasn't about to complain to her about any of it. It was what I'd wanted, after all.

“And you’re feeling okay?”

“I’ve been feeling good. Coach Rove has a bunch of techniques he’s been teaching me to help me manage the pain, and they’ve been working, so you don’t need to worry.”

“Well, you just let me know if you need anything, sweetie, okay? And let me know when we can come and watch your next meet.”

I thought about the Elite Qualifier coming up and felt a looming sense of dread. To stay at Vanta, I had to earn elite status at that meet. It wasn't about beating the other gymnasts. It was about scoring high enough to meet USA Gymnastics' Elite qualifying standard. If I fell short, my invitation to train at Vanta ended, and so did my shot at chasing the Olympic pipeline. If I qualified, I'd finally have my foot in the door. Then the real work would begin: proving I belonged on the National Team, competing at Championships, and earning an invite to the Olympic Trials.

For the first time in my gymnastics career, I didn't want my mom to come to a meet. The qualifier already carried enough pressure. If I failed, it wouldn't just be a bad routine—it would be the end of this dream before it had really begun. I didn't want my family watching that happen.

I hesitated. “The qualifier is kind of far away. Maybe you could come to the one after that?”

My mom paused as if sensing something was off. I wondered if she’d push me on it, but thankfully, she didn't.

“That sounds great. You just let me know when you want us there. We’ll make sure to do dinner afterward too.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I felt another lump form in my throat and had to swallow it back.

We talked about Jamie for a while after that, and how things were going with my dad’s job, until I couldn’t justify staying awake any longer.

“Goodnight, sweetie,” Mom said. “Get some sleep.”

I felt my heart clench with that familiar twinge of homesickness.

“Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too.”