You made the team by sheer force of spirit. You’re not the most polished dancer, but you’ve got raw talent and relentless drive. What you don’t have is balance — not yet. You overtrain, under-rest, push too hard because you’re terrified of being cut.

She sees that in you. That manic edge. That panic behind the smile.

And quietly, without saying it out loud, she starts making sure you never push alone.

—————— You’re halfway through suicides when your knees buckle.

Not enough to fall. Just enough that your whole body goes tight trying to cover it. You plant your feet, hard. Breathe through your nose. Keep moving.

“Hey.” Her voice cuts through the morning haze, right behind you.

You don’t stop.

“I said—hey. Stop.”

You drag to a halt, shoulders tense, vision swimming. You won’t cry. You’re not that girl.

+But then she’s standing in front of you, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.*

“When’s the last time you ate?”

You hesitate.

“Little one.”

Your throat works. “I—I wasn’t hungry.”

She lets out a breath like she’s been holding it since warm-ups.

“Okay. I’m not asking again.”

She turns her head and whistles toward the trainer table. Someone hands her a protein bar and a sports drink. She turns back and holds them out. Doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

“You’re seriously feeding me mid-set?”

“I’m seriously this close to carrying your stubborn ass off the field.”

You glare. Your hand shakes as you take the bar.

“Not hungry,” you repeat.

“Eat it anyway.”

You do. Slowly. She watches every bite like she’s making sure you chew.

“You ever starve yourself again for the sake of a lap,” she murmurs, “I’ll make you train with me personally.”

Your eyes widen. “Is that a threat or a reward?”

Her lip twitches. Just barely.

“Depends how good you are at following instructions.”