Tess Marshall was running on adrenaline and three hours of sleep. Overnight, she and her teammates had crisscrossed Texas along narrow county roads that cut through dried-up oil fields and stands of oaks gnarled by the wind and the years. Her body ached from being wedged between the driver’s seat and the main bench, the narrowest sliver of space in the van. Pressing her cheek against the cool window, she watched first light break over the Houston skyline. They had been chasing sunrise to arrive on time and the massive concrete buildings and construction cranes rising in the distance were nothing like home.

           “Look alive ladies. Daylight’s burning,” Coach Selena called, her voice sharp and commanding. “Grab your gear and get moving.”

           Tess and seven other high school girls from Ashvale, Texas piled out one by one dragging their bags. Most fought back yawns as they squinted into the glare bouncing off a four-story gymnasium at the far edge of the parking lot. It dwarfed everything Tess had ever competed in. She wiped her sweaty palms on her shorts.

           “These judges don’t care how long you’ve been on the road. Shake it off. My gymnasts are strong. A champion smiles through her pain.”

           Across town Tess’s mother, Naomi Marshall, sat stuck in traffic along the Katy Freeway. She did not have time for this gridlock. Not now. And certainly not for a gymnastics meet that was destined to devour most of her day. She was already behind on three deadlines, and yet here she was, in an airport rental, inching forward bumper-to-bumper.

           She had already missed the morning production meeting back home and would likely spend the rest of the day texting edits from the bleachers, pretending to follow whichever event Tess was in. God, she hoped the Wi-Fi worked. Still, the alternative, being a no-show in Houston, was unthinkable. Tess did not need her; she had her teammates, her coach, her earbuds. No, Naomi wanted to be in those bleachers because the other moms would be there. Her reputation depended on being seen, present, perfect. She had made a career out of being Ashvale’s most beloved news anchor and Tess’s mother wrapped into one tidy package. Any suggestion that she had chosen one over the other and people would talk.

           So, she did what she always did. She smiled on cue. She wore the right clothes. She feigned enthusiasm. Tess was her only child and, truth be told, Naomi had no idea how to be a mother. She had simply become damn good at faking it.

           At the gym, Tess limped through the front door and paused in the hallway to stretch her hip. Blake trailed behind nonchalantly re-wrapping her wrist.

           “Need a brace?” Blake squatted to meet Tess’s eyes. “I’ve got extras in my bag.”

           Tess nodded toward the wrap on Blake’s knee. “Sure you can spare it? Not looking so great yourself.”

           Blake smiled and unzipped her white leather duffle, the letters B.L.A.K.E stitched across the top in bright Rockstarz red.

           “I’m basically running a pharmacy out of here—bandages, tape, painkillers, you name it.”

           Tess forced a grin. “Impressive. If gymnastics doesn’t work out, you’ve got a backup plan.”

           “Don’t knock it,” Blake laughed as she reached for a compression wrap. “I’m one sprained ankle away from a thriving side hustle.”

           Tess winced and adjusted her hip. “Thanks, but it’s not gonna help. I just took some meds, and it’s still killing me.”

           Blake cocked her head. “Wasn’t it your knee last week?”

           “It was. Now it’s everywhere,” Tess said.

           Blake grinned. “You know what Selena is gonna say.”

           Without missing a beat, they spoke in unison. “Pain is temporary. A gold medal is forever.”

           At fifteen, Tess barely brushed three foot ten. Everyone at school towered over her; she was often mistaken for a third grader. When she was little, doctors tossed around the term Failure to Thrive, which made her sound less like a child and more like a wilting houseplant destined for the compost pile. They offered guesses, ran what seemed like a million tests and, when nothing panned out, eventually shrugged their way back to “let’s wait and see.” So, her height became less a medical emergency and more an everyday hassle. She could not reach the kitchen sink or see herself in the bathroom mirror. But in the gym, her size was a superpower.

           “Here’s our locker room.” Selena waved her hands as if she was directing traffic at an intersection. “Shower and change into your leos. Look sharp,” she barked. “We need to take our turn warming up on the equipment.”

           Thirty minutes later, the girls stepped onto the arena floor, identical in their neon red leotards and glittering eyeshadow. Tess glanced at Blake’s thick brunette bun, pulled tight and perfect. Effortless. Tess’s hair had a mind of its own. Blonde wisps floated free, no matter how much gel she used.

           The space seemed to swallow the girls. Music blared from speakers, the ceilings towered overhead, and rows of bleachers lined the walls. They stopped to take a few breaths.

           “You got this, Tess.” Blake shouted over the soundtrack. “Nail that beam routine and you’re headed to state.”

           “Just need a clean mount,” Tess said. “Fun fact: I only get nervous on solid ground.”

           “Once you’re up there, it’s all over,” Blake said. “Just keep telling yourself that.” She twirled toward the center of the gym, moving in rhythm with the music. “The judges will be speechless,” she called before striking a final pose.

           Tess was stifling a laugh when a sharp, familiar voice sliced through the noise.

           “Blake, stop clowning around and stretch. You need to get to the uneven bars.” Selena barked. “And Tess, wrap those ankles before you warm up. You can’t afford a sprain.”

           It was mid-March and the Rockstarz were grinding through their sixth out of town meet. Every girl was desperate to qualify for finals, despite aches and injury. This late in the season, everyone seemed to be holding themselves together with tape and grit. You were not really a team player unless you hobbled from one event to the next with an ice pack in hand.

           Tess sat on the mat and felt the steady pull of athletic tape as the trainer wound it carefully around her ankle. She glanced up at the bleachers, where parents trickled in, some clutching coffee cups and others checking the floor for their daughters. Blake’s mother and father waved and held up homemade posters that shouted, GO ROCKSTARZ! And YOU’VE GOT THIS GIRLS! But Tess saw no sign of her own parents.

           Her mother loved to make a splashy entrance. At work, Naomi never missed a deadline, but at meets, she had often shown up just in time to see her daughter take the stage. Tess had wondered whether those last-minute arrivals were a matter of necessity or design. Naomi joked that gymnastics was an acquired taste: two hours of boredom followed by one minute of sheer panic. But this time Naomi was cutting it close. Was her mother’s plane late? Maybe breaking news had kept her in Ashvale. Wouldn’t be the first time she worked on a day off.

           Her father was absent too. Dickie Marshall had never once seen her compete. Gymnastics was just not his sport. He was a personal injury lawyer who drummed up most of his business on the golf course. Had she taken up that game, she was sure he would be following her from tee to green, eager to relive every stroke.

           “Spot me?” Cat called.

           Tess slid the springboard into place. Cat took a quick run, launched herself, and landed on the balance beam. Tess yanked the board free and nudged the mat back into place.

           “I’ve got her,” Selena said as she stepped next to Tess. In a low voice, she added, “How’s that leg? Saw you limping earlier.”

           “Only hurts when I move,” Tess replied with a grin.

           “Ninety seconds,” Selena said. “Ninety seconds of perfection on the beam is all that stands between you and finals. Push through that Tess and you’re headed to Austin to compete with the best.”

           Tess moved toward the chalk bin, trying to ignore the pinch in her hip. Around her, teammates stretched or quietly mapped their routines, too focused to notice her. So, when a calm voice behind her said, “Hey Tess, you hurt?” she nearly jumped.

           She turned. It was Sadie Robinson, of all people.

           Sadie was a year older and, at least in Tess’s mind, light-years better. Tess had studied everything about her. Those clean lines, that impossible focus, even the way she practiced like the gym belonged to her. Tess would have been thrilled to capture even a fraction of it. And she was not the only one. Every gymnast looked up to Sadie. If anyone was headed for the big stage someday, it was her.

           “Nope, just fine,” Tess lied, unsure why.

           Sadie smiled, “Well that’s good. I told my coach you were the only one from Ashvale that might push us a little.”

           Whether Sadie meant it as a compliment or a dig, Tess felt heat rise in her chest. Sadie trained at one of the big Dallas gyms, and Tess suddenly felt the distance between them.

           Ashvale was wind and stubble and wide-open nothing. It was a dot in the Texas Panhandle where tumbleweeds the size of Toyotas tore across the highways and piled along barbed-wire fences. Tess planned on leaving as soon as she could. But for now, it was hers and she was not about to let Sadie Robinson make her feel small for it. She opened her mouth to say as much when a familiar hand settled on her shoulder.

           “Let’s get you to the floor,” Selena said and steered her toward a raised, spring-loaded platform at the heart of the gym. “This routine will be your first rotation. Then balance beam.”

           Tess took one last look over her shoulder at Sadie, who offered a quick smile that Tess could not quite read.

           “Don’t let her get in your head,” Selena murmured as they walked. “She has no idea who you are.”

           “Who I am?” Tess blinked.

           Selena looked toward the ceiling as if the thought were hanging there. “We spend the first twenty years seeing ourselves through the eyes of others.”

           She lowered her gaze.

           “And the rest of our lives trying to decide if they were right.”

           “That sounds exhausting,” Tess muttered as she scrunched her nose. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

           “You say that, but truth is, we all care,” Selena said.

           Tess did not answer. She was not sure she agreed, but Selena’s words stayed with her as they stood together watching other gymnasts run through their tumbling passes.

           “She’s here!” Blake nudged Tess and nodded toward Naomi who was making her way through the crowd in her three-inch heels and starched white blouse. Her perfectly manicured nails flashed a shade somewhere between power pink and don’t-mess-with-me coral. Naomi smiled at familiar faces and shook hands with anyone who reached out as she scanned the bleachers for an open seat.

           Cat leaned in behind Tess and whispered, “I grew up watching your mom. She’s like a celebrity.”

           “Ashvale’s finest,” Tess said with an eyeroll.

           “It’s like she’s running for office or something,” Cat giggled.

           “Welcome to my life,” Tess sighed before slipping two fingers beneath the tip of her tongue and unleashing a whistle sharp enough to cut glass. Naomi froze mid-step on the bleachers and glanced up. She scanned the gym floor, found Tess, and smiled. Tess gave a quick wave as Naomi settled into a seat near the top row.

           A moment later, the gym’s buzzer blared, cutting through the crowd noise like a starting gun. Selena paced along the edge of the floor, clipboard in hand, calling out last-minute corrections. Tess had learned to tune out the room noise and listen only to the sound of her coach. But lately she had not been able to escape something else—a hum bubbling inside her—a jittery mix of energy, nerves, and something closer to dread. The buzzer blared again, and the feeling surged. It was time.

           “Rockstarz, line up!” Selena snapped, corralling the team to the center of the gym.

           Tess and her teammates waved to the crowd as they made their official entrance, their smiles fixed and fake. They marched in a tight line behind Selena, who moved at the front with military precision. By the time they settled onto the bench, Tess could feel her muscles stiffening. The pain in her knee had begun to radiate toward her hip. Waiting was the hardest part of any meet.

           Eight gymnasts performed on the floor before Tess. Each routine looked airtight. There was little room for error. Tess shifted on the bench, her mind replaying her choreography in an endless loop. Her fingers twitched in time with the rhythm of her imagined passes.

           When Sadie’s name was called, the gym fell silent. Tess could not look away. Sadie’s program was difficult to showcase her power. Her opening tumbling pass was explosive, and her layout full seemed to hang suspended in midair. The crowd erupted as she struck her final pose. Tess cheered too, along with every other gymnast in the competition. Then a hush fell over the room as the judges tallied her scores.

           The numbers flashed. No surprise—Sadie had taken the top spot. For now. Tess exhaled. Her heart pounded. She was next.

           The announcer’s voice boomed across the gym: “Next competing on floor—Tess Marshall, Ashvale Rockstarz.”

           Selena caught her arm just before she stepped forward. “Stick to the plan,” she said. “Clean landings over flash. Give me a solid routine. You can do this.”

           Tess nodded, her chest tight. Clean landings would not cut it today. Not with Sadie in the mix. Gymnastics was how she had always imagined paying for college. But there were no scouts in the stands watching, no phone calls with offers. With only two seasons left, the future she had imagined for herself was starting to slip away.

           She stepped onto the mat and blocked out everything but the music and the routine in front of her. Her hands tingled as adrenaline coursed through her body. The hum of the crowd dissolved, and the chatter of judges faded into the background. Her focus narrowed to the floor beneath her and muscle memory guided her steps. Her first tumbling pass was a roundoff, back handspring, into a clean layout. She launched herself into the air, but mid-flight, her sore hip refused to respond, and she could not muster the power she needed. She managed to land cleanly but felt the lower trajectory immediately.

           “Something’s off,” Sadie said just loud enough for Blake to hear.

           “Shut up, Sadie,” Blake snapped. “She’ll be fine.”

           Tess pushed forward to her second pass, scaling it down mid-run. She dropped the pike and went with a simple front handspring. A third pass was out of the question. When the music ended, Tess saluted the judges and walked off the mat knowing it would not be enough. They would see the simplified routine, the loss of difficulty, and they would have no choice but to dock her score.

           Her chest felt heavy. She was not tired, she was disappointed. Embarrassed even. She stepped off the mat and collapsed onto the bench near Selena. Tess forced herself to sit through the polite applause.

           “Floor wasn’t going to be your event today,” Selena said as she crouched in front of her star gymnast. “Let it go. You still have the beam. That’s where you’ve got to shine.”

           Tess nodded, but her stomach twisted as the score flashed on the screen. Third place, for now. Sadie had the gold locked up, and Tess’s hold on the bronze felt shaky at best. Her pulse quickened as Blake stepped onto the mat for the final floor routine of the day.

           Blake’s routine was flawless, Her tumbling passes were crisp and clean, her landings rock-solid. When the scores were posted, Blake had edged Tess out of third place. Tess clapped and cheered, as she smiled through the sting in her chest. Her teammate and friend had earned a spot on the podium, no question about it. But that did not stop Tess from wishing her routine had gone better.

           “Fourth place isn’t so bad, Tess” Sadie said, smiling in a way that suggested she meant it.

           Tess bit her lip but did not respond.

           Blake slipped her arm over Tess’s shoulder. “Ignore her. You’re going to kill it on the beam.”

           Tess favored her right leg as she walked across the gym. The ache in her hip pulsed with every step, but she refused to limp. Not here. At the chalk station, she dipped her hands into the cool, fine powder. She took her time to work it between her fingers. She closed her eyes and whispered—chalk, rub, breathe. Hoping it would steady her.

           “Beam is yours, Tess,” Selena said from behind her.

           Tess kept her eyes on her hands, brushing away excess chalk as Selena’s words pressed down on her, tightening the pressure in her chest.

           “Focus on clean connections and stick the dismount,” Selena whispered. “Forget the pain. Remember how hard you’ve worked to be here.”

           Tess inhaled sharply, then exhaled. The beam stretched ahead of her—solid, patiently waiting. It did not care about her botched floor routine. It did not care about scores, or competition, or even sore hips. It understood what she was capable of. It demanded precision.

           The crowd faded and the sound of her beating heart filled her ears. Her hands gripped the edge of the mat as she bent one knee, ready to step into the spotlight. The beam had always been her refuge, her friend. Tess stepped forward, her every muscle braced for the moment she would leave the ground.

           “Tess Marshall, Ashvale Rockstarz, to the balance beam,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

           “You’ve got this, Tess!” Blake’s voice cut through her concentration like a laser. Tess did not look back.