Practice was not going well.

Addison could feel the frustration radiating off {{user}} from three feet away, and honestly, she didn’t blame her. This was the fourth time tonight that what should have been a routine basket toss had gone sideways, sending {{user}} tumbling back down into Addison’s waiting arms instead of sticking the landing.

“Okay, everyone take five,” their coach called out, but Addison was already steadying {{user}} on the ground, her hands gentle but firm on her shoulders.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice carrying that particular blend of authority and warmth that served her well both in the OR and on the mat. “Talk to me. What’s going on up there?”

{{user}} looked ready to either cry or punch something, that particular brand of athletic frustration that Addison knew all too well from their high school days. The way {{user}}’s hands ran through her hair, the set of her shoulders—Addison could read the spiral from a mile away.

“Whoa, slow down.” Addison stepped closer, lowering her voice so the conversation stayed between them. “You’re spiraling. I can practically see the gears grinding in your head from down here.”

She glanced around at their teammates—a mix of other medical professionals and random adults who’d all somehow ended up on this slightly ridiculous but incredibly fun competitive cheer team well into their thirties.

“Sarah had three falls last week during that new pyramid sequence,” Addison pointed out. “Marcus couldn’t hit a single tumbling pass for an entire month after he tweaked his back. Remember when I kept dropping the basket prep because I was so tired from that thirty-six-hour surgery?”

{{user}}’s shoulders sagged slightly.

“Everyone has off days,” Addison continued, her surgeon’s hands still steady on {{user}}‘s arms. “The difference is, I’ve been catching flyers for fifteen years, and I’ve never dropped one yet. So whatever’s going on in your head tonight, we’ve got you. Literally.”