CHAPTER ONE 

I always bleed.

Palms, shins, elbows, face—name a body part, and I’ve seen it stained red.

Bleeding was inevitable when I'd spent the majority of my life throwing myself at inanimate objects, with gravity fighting my every move.a

In any other universe, I’d be called insane.

But here, I was just a gymnast.

“Alright, go clean up your hands, Scar. You’re ruining my mats,” Coach Caldwell said, waving a dismissive hand in my direction.

“You saw that, though, right?” I asked, stepping off the mat beneath the uneven bars and heading for my grip bag where my emergency gauze and tape were waiting.

I’d just finished my last routine, and my palms were officially shredded.

Rips—or torn bloody calluses, as normal people called them—peppered my palms.

Blood was trailing down my wrists. 

I probably should've stopped ten minutes ago. 

But then I wouldn’t have stuck that double pike perfectly.

I fought a smile, the satisfying rush still pounding in my veins. This feeling? It was downright addictive.

“Yes, I saw it,” he sighed. “Now just do it at the meet without all the theatrics, would ya?” He gestured to the dramatic display of crimson staining my palms.

“I will,” I said, my high not dampened in the slightest by Caldwell's unimpressed response. I’d probably respond the same way if I had to coach an adrenaline junkie day in and day out.

I wrapped my palms methodically, the sting barely registering as I continued thinking about my dismount. It had been a perfect double pike. I could almost picture the skill diagram from the Code of Points.

I wish I had filmed it. I don't think I'd missed a single angle.

“Head home. I’ll see you on Monday,” Caldwell said.

“I was actually hoping to—”

“I said, go home, Scarlet. You know the rules. Rest the day before a meet. Your hands are going to need it after today.”

I nodded, biting my tongue.

Caldwell preferred we all take breaks before a meet, but there was just no way I was sitting at home tomorrow.

I had a key to the gym. I would just do some light conditioning, nothing intense. 

I headed into the locker room and was immediately greeted by metal doors slamming and bags jostling. 

“I think you can do the half twist on floor, Laney. Don’t psych yourself out,” Mia said as I walked by. 

“Maybe Scar should just do it. I can just compete on vault instead this time.” 

I tugged open my locker and shook my head. “You need to try this once, Laney.”

“Your scores are more consistent, though,” Laney pouted. 

It should've been a compliment, but instead the word caught like a splinter beneath my skin.

Consistent. 

Sometimes I didn’t want to be the consistent one. Sometimes I wanted to be the wild card. The one taking risks and winning us big points for our team. 

“Laney, if you do this and nail it, we could score much higher,” I reminded her. She'd had a particularly rough start to the season with a bad case of the twisties and had only recently gotten past it. I knew she could do it. But that was the thing about gymnastics: it was oftentimes not our bodies holding us back, but our minds. 

“I know, but if I screw it up, I pretty much mess us over.” Laney bit her lip and tucked a stray brown curl behind her ear. 

“Bigger risk, bigger reward,” Mia reminded. “You can do this. I believe in you.” She touched Laney’s shoulder, using the “motivational voice” she always used when trying to get one of us to perk up.

Mia was our sunshine person. No matter how badly practice went, she somehow found a way to make everything feel less catastrophic.

If we were the stars of an animal cartoon, Mia would be an adorable, energetic bunny rabbit, Laney would be an untrusting calico cat, and I'd probably be a stubborn goat. You know those stupid mountain goats that try to climb mountains sideways thousands of feet in the air. That would be me. 

I was a stupid, stubborn mountain goat. 

“I guess so,” Laney shrugged. 

“Look, I’ll step in if you really need me to,” I finally relented as I swung my bag over my shoulder. “But you got this.” 

“Thanks, Scar,” Laney said, her brow still furrowed. I could try to convince her longer, but it was something she would have to come to terms with on her own. I just hoped she found the courage once Saturday rolled around.

“See you both at the meet!” I yelled out.

Their goodbyes faded behind me as I walked out of the gym and headed toward the back of the parking lot, where my beat-up 2005 Toyota Corolla was waiting for me. When I got inside, I immediately plugged my phone into the auxiliary cable and turned on my music.

Rap was my go-to. It was noisy, fast-paced, and "slightly obnoxious," according to my friends. But somehow it calmed me. As Agust D played over my speakers, I drove away from UCLA, weaving through Westwood toward my apartment, just a few minutes from campus.

After I parked and had a brief wrestle with my janky deadbolt, I entered the apartment and found my roommate, Jenny, studying at our kitchen table.

"Hey, Scar," she said without even looking up from her anatomy textbook. She sat cross-legged, wearing a pair of oversized pajamas with teddy bears on them. Her short black hair was pulled up into a claw clip in an impressive twisted contraption to keep it out of her face. And there was even a pencil stuck in the mix. She snatched the number 2 pencil from her hair and scribbled something in the margin of her book.

Jenny was studying for medical school, and most days when I came home from the gym, she was sitting in the exact same spot that I left her.

“How’s studying?” I asked as I plopped my gym bag in our mudroom and headed toward the kitchen.

“Oh, you know,” she said, not even looking up.

I nodded and reached into the fridge. “Want a sparkling water?” I asked, and she nodded.

“Sure, thanks.”

I grabbed her a can and went to carefully set it down amidst her mess of papers and books. Finding an open spot that wouldn’t cause condensation damage to her note pages proved harder than expected. After pushing aside a mountain of papers detailing DNA replication, I finally uncovered the faded oak of our dining table and set the can down.

“How was practice?” she asked on autopilot, still completely absorbed in her studying.

I took a sip of my water, then bit my lip, fighting a smile.

“Oh, you know, I fell and broke a few bones today on the beam. Nothing major.”

“That’s good,” she said, her bloodshot eyes still glued to the pages.

I chuckled and started toward my room.

“Don’t stay up too late. You need rest.” The older sister in me rose to the surface without my consent.

“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled.

I shook my head, a smile still on the edge of my lips as I slipped into my room.

I immediately headed for the shower.

Most of the things in our apartment were on their last breath and in need of replacement. But the water pressure was surprisingly phenomenal, resembling more of a Jacuzzi jet than a normal shower. And the feel of it on my tired muscles was divine. 

After thirty minutes, I finally forced myself out and dried off. Once I was cocooned in a plethora of towels, I jumped up onto the vanity to finally deal with my rips and reached above my head into the medicine cabinet for my first-aid bag. 

Before I started tending to the torn skin, I ran my hand under running water, and it stung horribly. 

I bit back a whimper.

Only after I could breathe normally again did I start clipping away the excess skin around my rips with fingernail clippers, gritting my teeth through every snip.

A few minutes later, I put the ointment on and covered everything with bandages. 

Just as I finished, my phone pinged. 

It was the little lullaby chime reminding me it was 9:00. 

My bedtime.

I was a junior in college, and my bedtime was 9:00.

I sighed, hopped off the counter, and killed the bathroom light. Leaving my reflection behind, I wandered into my room and flicked on my Strawberry Shortcake lamp—the one Laney and Mia gave me for my birthday, back when they thought the short-redhead jokes were original. The room filled with a soft, sugary pink glow.

I grabbed my brush from the bedside table and started working through the wet tangles. The dark red ends spilled past my waist, insanely heavy and far too much to deal with after a long day at practice. I really needed to just cut it, but I had a sort of attachment to it. My mom liked it long, and she used to brush through it every night until I became a teenager and developed an “I’m too cool for that” complex. But now, it brought back a nostalgic feeling I sought out more and more lately.

Finally, when all the tangles were worked through, I grabbed the pill box from the edge of the bed, took my vitamins and birth control pill, and pulled the covers over my body. My head hit the pillow, and I reached to turn off the lamp before stopping halfway.

My gaze caught on the row of gymnastics medals hanging above the dresser. One of the medals in the little banner I'd created using thumbtacks and string had fallen out of place.

I got out of bed and went to straighten it out, fastening it again with the thumbtack so it was secure.

I couldn't help but hold the medal in my hands for a moment, tracing the stamp with my fingertips.

Elite Qualifier 2021 

Bars 1st Place

I’d been fifteen. It felt so long ago, like a faraway dream.

There was a sort of nothingness, honestly, when I stared at the words.

It wasn’t hope. Or excitement. Or dread.

Just a quiet ache. The kind that came from wanting something you'd already convinced yourself wasn't possible.

I sighed, let the medal fall back into place, then climbed into bed and turned off my lamp. The light-pink glow disappeared, plunging my room into darkness. I closed my eyes, hoping sleep would come quickly enough to drown out the feeling still lingering inside me.

When I finally did fall asleep, I didn't dream of anything. It was just a normal, familiar darkness.

Predictable.

Like everything else always seemed to be.

​

​

CHAPTER TWO 

After every home meet, my family celebrated at STK Steakhouse in Westwood Village, just a few blocks from Pauley Pavilion.

The restaurant buzzed with an electric sort of energy, and the adrenaline still coursing through my veins made me feel untouchable. 

Our team had taken first, and I'd scored highest on both bars and beam. 

As my family and I followed the hostess to our table, my dad couldn't stop talking about how he thought the judge had robbed me of a perfect score.

“You deserved a ten on that bar routine, sweetie,” my dad said as we were led to an open booth by the window. 

I smiled but didn't remind him that college gymnastics wasn't scored out of ten anymore. To him, I'd earned one anyway.

Around us, some of my teammates were clustered together, laughing and reliving routines. Laney had done her floor routine flawlessly and finished strong enough to earn us the team title, and now she was celebrating with her family a few tables away.

“Yeah, I agree,” my mom added as we all took our seats. “They were being stingy. They could’ve given that to you.”

Before I could respond, the waitress asked for our drinks and if we were ready to order. I got a Dr. Pepper and the biggest T-bone I could find with a side of fries. I was starving. 

“I watched the video you took,” I said to my mom. “There was a slight leg separation in my Jaeger release.”

I always studied the footage after meets. I sort of obsessed over technique.

“Yeah, I saw it too,” Jamie said, not even looking up from her phone as her thumbs moved across the screen.

“Thanks, J.” I rolled my eyes, but a smile tugged at my lips.

She was always honest. Brutally so.

And I appreciated that.

Jamie was seventeen and a complete firecracker. Her hair was freshly dyed purple this month and twisted into a messy topknot, exposing her silver ear cuff that flashed in the dim bulb light above our table. She was insanely stylish and determined to get into fashion school. Tonight, she wore a patchwork cardigan that hung off one shoulder, a thin cami underneath, and baggy sweatpants cinched at the sides with bows.

“The purple looks good on you, J,” I said. 

“Thanks,” she said, looking up for a second and then glancing back at her phone. We had the same brown eyes, but hers were slightly lighter, almost hazel. And she was definitely prettier. I tried not to think about the fact that she had a few inches on me, too. Five-five and still growing, while I’d been stuck at four foot nine since I was in ninth grade.

“You texting someone?” I pressed. “A boy maybe?”

“Nah, just a friend. I have a group art project due on Monday.”

“Come on, Jamie. Can you not use your phone at the dinner table?” my dad urged gently, and Jamie sighed.

“Fine.” She set the phone down and folded her arms across her chest.

A few moments later, the waitress came over with our orders. My mouth watered instantly.

“You looked comfortable tonight,” my mom chimed in. 

I knew what she meant. Comfortable was her way of saying I didn’t look like I was in pain.

“How have you been feeling?” Dad asked. “Any pain when you’re competing?”

I hadn’t expected the topic to come up so soon. I would’ve rather talked about classes, Jamie’s high school life, or anything else, really. Pain wasn’t high on my list of favorite dinner conversations.

“Um… just a little when I land,” I said, munching on a fry. “Nothing serious.” 

I’d learned the hard way that honesty made them worry needlessly. 

“That’s a relief. I'm glad the new birth control seems to be helping,” Mom said. 

“Yeah, me too,” I mumbled. 

“Well, just remember you don’t have to push yourself too hard,” she continued. “College gymnastics is enough. It really is.”

I paused, a piece of steak skewered on my fork.

She noticed immediately when I stilled. “I just mean that you don’t have to chase something bigger to prove anything.”

Most athletes would kill for parents like mine. Will and Lucia were gold-medal parents. They were endlessly supportive, never pushing unrealistic expectations onto me and always trying to remind me that I was enough. They were good people. They always had been. And I loved them fiercely.

I just wished that sometimes, they’d push me a little harder instead of always trying to protect me from myself.

“I’m not planning to,” I said.

They relaxed at that. Just a little.

“We just want you healthy,” Mom said gently. “And happy.”

“I am happy,” I replied.

It wasn’t a lie… not really.

Dad smiled. “Good. That’s all we want, sweetheart.”

“Hey, Scar?” Jamie cut in suddenly.

“Yeah?” I said quickly, grateful for the shift in conversation.

“Could I come down and stay with you in a few weeks? For spring break. Just a day or two?”

I sat up a little straighter, caught off guard by the sudden request. It had been a few months since we'd spent any real time together, just the two of us, and even longer since we'd had a sleepover.

If I was being honest, I'd felt like a pretty terrible sister. Home was only an hour away, but I didn't make it back nearly as often as I should have. Before college, Jamie and I had been a lot closer.

“Oh—uh… yeah,” I said. “I don’t see why not.”

I ran through the timing in my head. It would be after the season ended. I might actually have a few days off, and Jenny would probably be in Virginia visiting her family.

“My roommate will be gone,” I added, glancing at my parents. “And I’ll have a short break. If Mom and Dad are okay with it, I think that should work.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Mom said immediately, beaming. “The two of you having some fun.”

“Cool.” Jamie gave a small smile, then turned back to her food like she hadn’t just done something extremely out of character.

I glanced at my mom, giving a small shrug. She winked at me. “It’ll be good for you two to spend some time together.”

The waitress came by to refill our drinks, and the conversation drifted—classes, work, normal everyday things. It was nice to see my family and talk with them.

But a little later into our meal, as my dad was prattling on about some massive new construction job he had been hired onto, my gaze wandered across the room to another table where a few of my teammates sat.

Eva, a new freshman who joined the team this year, was showing a group of people at her table something on her phone. It looked like they were replaying her vault routine. Her performance had just barely edged mine out tonight.

She was incredible. Olympic-level talented.

Her friends leaned closer as she talked, and I caught the words "elite scout" drifting across the restaurant.

My grip tightened slightly around my fork, and I tried very hard to focus on the food in front of me.

Caldwell had mentioned something about an elite gym wanting to scout Eva. She'd slipped through the cracks for sure, but not for much longer. She very well might be picked up in the next week or so to pursue an Olympic career.

I told myself it didn't sting. That college was most definitely enough. Because it was. I really didn't need more right now. Most people only ever dreamed of becoming a college athlete. I should be grateful for the opportunities I did have.

But it was the same thing I'd been telling myself for years now.

And no matter how many times I repeated it and tried to dampen the feeling, some small part of me still stubbornly burned for more.

It was, of course, at that very moment that I felt a small ache in my back. The one that never truly went away. I’d worked myself extra hard during the meet, and I was feeling the repercussions more than usual.

I looked away and asked my dad another question about work.

And for the rest of dinner, I simply let myself burn.

* * *

It had become a ritual to spend my only day off at the beach. Every Sunday, I drove to Muscle Beach in Santa Monica and spent hours swinging on the bars. They had outdoor workout equipment right on the sand, and it was my favorite place to relax.

I parked about a block away in the free parking and made the short, five-minute walk to the beach. It was barely nine o’clock, and it was pretty dead when I arrived, except for a few people who were up early to run.

I kicked off my shoes and walked across the sand, letting my feet disappear beneath the thousands of sparkling grains. The salty breeze filled my lungs, and for the first time all day, my mind stopped replaying routines and scores. Out here, there were no judges, no coaches. No expectations. Just the ocean.

I headed for the waves first, running up to the edge and letting the foam roll over my toes. It was so cold it caused me to shiver, but I welcomed the chill. I held my arms out, letting my feet sink deeper and deeper with every pass of the waves. 

With every retreat of the tide, it felt like it carried away a little of the pressure weighing on my shoulders.

After about twenty minutes of just enjoying the water, I got up, wiped my wet, sandy hands on my cover-up, and headed toward the metal bars a little farther up the shore. The moment my hands clasped the metal bar, muscle memory instantly took over. Here I could just swing. No intense flips or anything. Just the feeling of floating.

I found myself grinning from ear to ear. I went down the entire set, doing a flyaway off the last one, and landed in the sand. 

The sudden impulse to salute came over me.

And because I thought I was pretty much alone on the beach, I lifted my arms and turned to face the imaginary judges I’d conjured in my head.

What I wasn’t expecting was to find someone standing there.

Especially not a man with bright green eyes.

​

CHAPTER THREE

“Oh,” I said, dropping my salute and awkwardly tugging my cover-up back over my shoulder. 

It wasn’t like I was wearing a string bikini or anything. I had on an all-black one-piece I'd bought in high school and a cover-up I'd probably picked up during a Forever 21 sale that same year.

Still, I felt strangely disoriented. 

“I didn’t see you there.”

He wore a pair of tan shorts and a white T-shirt that left the entire sleeve of tattoos on his right arm exposed. The black ink continued up toward the base of his neck, tapering off beneath the stark blond strands that fell across his forehead and around his ears.

I immediately flushed. It only took my brain about three seconds to register just how attractive he was.

He smiled, not at all appearing fazed by my flustered reaction.

“I think I’d give that a ten. Maybe a small deduction for the wobble on the landing.”

I laughed, not expecting those words to leave his mouth.

He was maybe five-foot-seven, and clearly worked out. His toned biceps and solid calves were proof of his physical discipline.

“Oh, really? I don’t think I wobbled. I think you’re imagining things,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest as my eyes narrowed.

His lips pulled up in a lopsided smile, making his green eyes sparkle with amusement. They were such an impossible shade of green they reminded me of moss, which was ridiculous because I spent ninety percent of my life inside a gym, not wandering through forests.

“I might be, actually. I wasn't expecting to come to the beach and find a girl doing flips in the sand.”

“Oh, I'm very real,” I assured him, a thrill shooting through my blood.

What was I doing?

His head tilted slightly to the side. “Hmm. So you have a name then?”

“Scarlet,” I finally offered after a small beat of hesitation.

“Scarlet,” he repeated, like he was testing it out.

On a normal day, I would've never entertained this conversation. I didn't have time for flirting. Between practice, classes, recovery, and trying not to completely fall apart under the pressure of my own expectations, my schedule was already full.

“I'm Rove,” he said, extending his hand.

I accepted the handshake, and the calluses on his hands immediately caught my attention.

Not rough in an unpleasant way. Just enough that I instantly knew he worked with his hands.

My eyes flicked back up to his, and a nervous laugh escaped me.

“What?” he asked, one of his brows lifted.

“Nothing.” Where did you come from? I wanted to ask. 

“That sounded convincing.”

“I don't normally run into people here,” I admitted. Super attractive, tattoo-covered people... I didn’t add.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“And you like it that way, don’t you?”

Whoa.

My brain short-circuited. “Excuse me?”

“You like that no one comes here, don’t you?” His smile held an effortless confidence. “And I’m totally interrupting your workout.” He looked down as if some self-awareness was kicking in. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

He started to walk away, and I found myself taking a step after him. Like there was something pulling me toward him.

Don’t go.

“No, no, you’re not interrupting,” I said quickly. “I’m pretty much done anyway. It’s just, I was actually about to head out.”

He stopped and turned back toward me. “Me too.”

His gaze met mine again, and I noticed his eyelashes weren’t the same white blond as his hair. Instead, they were dark as night. I’d never paid such close attention to the color of someone’s eyelashes before. But I was having trouble not noticing everything about him.

“Want to walk together?” he asked, pulling me out of the spell I seemed to be under.

I hesitated.

I wasn't getting any weird vibes, and the beach was starting to fill with people. Plus, his car was probably in the main parking lot, and mine definitely wasn't. We'd naturally split off once we got there.

But I didn’t even need those justifications. 

I simply wasn't ready for the conversation to end.

“Um, sure. Why not?”

We started toward the concrete path, walking side by side with a couple of feet between us.

“So what brings you out to L.A.?” I asked, completely incapable of succumbing to an awkward silence.

“Work,” he said. “I’m from Carlsbad, actually, so not far. But I had a little business to do here.”

“Oh, nice. So the beach isn’t completely new territory.”

“No, but it’s never not impressive,” he said with a smile. “What about you? What are you doing here? School? Work?”

“School. I’m at UCLA. Studying Communication.”

His eyebrows rose, and another amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then he faced forward again. “So you don’t know what you want to do yet.”

“Hey, I could really want to go into Communication,” I said, faking a slightly offended expression.

He chuckled, and it was a deep, husky sound that sent a shiver down my spine.

My stomach dipped in the same way it did right before throwing a release move.

He was dangerously cute.

In a way that felt a little reckless.

“You could be, but there’s a ninety-five percent chance you are undecided.” A slight challenge entered his expression.

I sighed. “I am pretty uncertain what I want to do.”

“There’s time to figure it out.”

“I want to believe that, but it’s hard not to feel like the clock is ticking for some reason.” The truth left my lips faster than I intended.

“I get that,” he said.

We fell into silence for the next few minutes. Thankfully, it didn’t feel like I needed to try and fill it with anything.

We reached the parking lot pretty quickly, and a sliver of disappointment passed through me. There wasn’t a good reason to stick around anymore.

I gestured in the direction of my car parked down the road.

“Well, I’m parked further away, but it was nice to talk with you,” I said, meaning it.

He paused on the sidewalk next to the motorcycle spots. In one of them was a sleek black Yamaha.

“Wanna ride to your car?” he asked, gesturing to the motorcycle.

I laughed. “You’re kidding.”

His eyes seemed to almost sparkle at my reaction. “Does it look like I’m kidding?”

I gestured to the bike. “You actually drive this?”

His head tilted back, and a hearty laugh escaped him.

“Yes, this is my bike.”

Of course it was.

I shook my head. “You could die on that thing.”

One blond eyebrow lifted. “You could die doing a lot of things.”

“But, like, your chances are a million times higher,” I said, biting my lip and eyeing the death machine.

“It’s a toxic trait,” he admitted, reaching for the helmet hanging from the handlebar. His fingers adjusted the straps. “I have a habit of seeing if I can beat the odds.”

I stared at him.

He'd said it so casually, so confidently.

It should've made me roll my eyes.

But somehow, I could tell it wasn’t for show. He genuinely meant it. Like he’d faced the odds already…and won.

It intrigued me, and it really shouldn't have.

“I think I’ll settle for walking,” I chuckled. But there was a strange urge to step outside the boundaries I'd spent years building for myself.

Gymnastics was dangerous, sure, but it was calculated danger. There were mats, spotters, and techniques to follow. There was an illusion of control.

A motorcycle driven by a handsome stranger?

Not so much control there.

“Not the risk-taking type, I see.”

I smiled, already backing away. He really had no idea just how wrong he was.

But my adrenaline-rush parameters didn’t include motorcycles and handsome blond men that made my brain feel fuzzy.

“Not with strangers on motorcycles.”

His grin widened.

“Well, if I see you again next Sunday, you wouldn’t be a stranger anymore.”

My stomach twisted with a sensation I could only describe as butterflies on Pop Rocks.

I shook my head, a laugh escaping me as I failed to find words.

His grin faded slightly. “Hopefully I'll see you again.”

I bit my lip, fighting a smile. “Goodbye, Rove,” I said.

“See ya later, Red.”

He pulled on his helmet, then started the engine. It roared to life beneath him.

I didn't have a chance to react to the nickname he'd thrown at me. The growl of the exhaust made any response entirely futile.

With one last glance in my direction, he lowered the visor over his face and took off.

Then he was gone.

The rumble of the motorcycle faded as he disappeared onto the main road and out of sight.

​

​

​

THANK YOU FOR READING! You can Pre-order Salto now on my website or through Amazon!