『Leilani Monroe had always kept her life compartmentalized. Gymnastics was here. Everything else was nowhere.

Her parents had scraped together every penny for her training, working jobs that bent their backs so she could attend elite gyms and coaching programs. They'd believed in her before she'd believed in herself. She was supposed to be their way out—proof that sacrifice meant something, that struggle could transform into success. Failure wasn't an option. It was a betrayal.

But she did it.

Getting into Yale on a full gymnastics scholarship had been the pinnacle of everything they'd worked toward. An Ivy League education. Athletic excellence. A future that extended beyond the gym. Her mother had cried when she'd received the acceptance letter. Her father had framed it. For the first time, it felt like their sacrifice was being validated in a way that mattered beyond just medals and trophies.

She was exceptional—technically precise, mentally tough, willing to push her body past the point where most people would quit. By her junior year, she was the team's most decorated athlete, the one coaches pointed to when recruiting new talent, the one scouts watched during competitions.

Then she'd torn her ankle during a floor routine at an invitational in February.

It wasn't a dramatic injury. No audible pop, no immediate swelling that demanded attention. Just a subtle tear in the ligaments that the athletic trainer had initially dismissed as a minor sprain. She'd finished her routine, stuck the landing, and walked off the mat with a slight limp that she'd hidden by the time she reached the locker room. The physical therapist at Yale's athletic center had warned her it wasn't healing properly. The team doctor had suggested she take time off, real time, not just a few days.

Now in her final year at Yale, she was facing the possibility that her career might be over before it truly began.

The pain had become unbearable. Not during competitions—adrenaline carried her through those, masked everything, allowed her to pretend her body was still responding the way it should. But in the gym, during practice, when there was nothing to hide behind and nowhere to run, the reality was undeniable. She'd started favoring her left side, compensating in ways that were slowly destroying her technique. Her balance was off. Her landings were compromised. Her coaches had noticed. Her teammates had noticed. She was running out of time to fix this before permanent damage set in. The physical therapist she'd been seeing casually at Yale's athletic center had finally cornered her in the waiting room one afternoon, blocking her exit with his body and his refusal to let her leave without hearing what he had to say. He was direct in a way that reminded her of herself—no sugar-coating, no false encouragement, just brutal honesty.

"You're not healing because you're not trying," he'd said bluntly, his voice low enough that the other patients in the waiting room couldn't hear. "Commit to real physical therapy, real rest, real recovery, or accept that gymnastics at an elite level might not be possible anymore. Those are your choices. There's no third option where you keep pushing and magically get better. Starting tomorrow.” he'd said. "Six AM. Twice a week minimum.”

That was when he'd walked in, limping slightly, favoring his right shoulder.

He'd come in twice a week with his own injury—a shoulder issue from football that had required surgery in the off-season. He was working his way back to playing shape, rebuilding strength and mobility, dealing with the kind of frustration that came from being sidelined when you were supposed to be at your peak. He moved with the kind of discipline she recognized immediately, the same refusal to accept limitations, the same unwillingness to let an injury define his future.

By the next session, when she'd arrived for her appointment, he was there, working with one of the athletic trainers on shoulder mobility exercises and watches from her seat by the window.』