Page 165 of Salto

“Sorry for what?” His voice was dangerously quiet.

“For doing the dismount, for telling you not to touch me⁠—”

He straightened, shaking his head instantly.

“No, don’t do that.”

“Don't do what?” I asked quickly, my eyes narrowing. “I’m just telling you I’m sorry, Rove. Okay? Because I am.”

He shook his head again, and stark strands of blond hair fell across his forehead with the action. He reached up, brushing them back in one swift motion.

“Don’t apologize for doing the dismount.”

“What should I apologize for then? You asked me not to do it. I did it anyway and I collapsed in front of the selection committee.”

His gaze darkened with an emotion I’d never seen. He took a step closer, leaning down toward me. His left hand gripped the railing.

"Do you honestly think this is about the dismount and the selection committee?" His voice rose a little. "This started long before you saluted the judges for that routine."

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

He retreated, taking back the step he’d just taken.

"There has been something going on in your head since before we left for Florida. Since you saw that doctor. You haven't talked to me, not really.”

His jaw tightened. "And I haven’t been able to reach you, Scarlet. You’ve completely shut me out. That's what I'm angry about. Four days ago, you stopped letting me into your head and that's not what we agreed to. When you struggle, I step in. When you need someone to lean on, I'm here. We're a team."

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Sometime over the last few days, you decided to do this all on your own. And it’s been agonizing watching you crumble right in front of me.”

Whoa.

I felt tears well in my eyes. Fast.

No. Don’t do this, I told myself. Don’t you dare break.

“No—” I whispered, turning away from him and reaching up to hurriedly wipe away the stupid tears that were forming.

“Scarlet,” he said, and I watched from the corner of my eye as he reached for me, but then stopped himself. His hand fell back to his side.

“Please, look at me,” he pleaded.

The tears fell, leaking onto my cheeks, and I shook my head, sucking in a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry.”

“Talk to me,” he begged.

I shook my head again.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.” He swore under his breath, running his hand through his hair again. “Kulta, please.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “The doctor—” I couldn’t even look at him as I said it.

And then the dam broke.

It was just too much to hold, and I crumbled.

“The doctor said I might have endometriosis.” The pain in my chest surged—saying it out loud was almost too much. “And that I should meet with another doctor to see if I need a surgery to diagnose it.”