Chapter 1
Mackenzie
Florida is sticky. That’s the only way to describe it. Not hot. Not muggy. Sticky. The kind of heat that glues your clothes to your back and your toddler to your hip.
Emerson’s arm is looped around my neck, her curls damp with sweat as she babbles a made-up song about blueberries and a unicorn. I’ve stopped trying to understand the lyrics. It’s just her background music at this point.
I shift her higher on my hip and nudge the door open with my elbow. “Inside, thank God,” I mutter as the air conditioning hits us like a miracle.
Nikki’s already at the kitchen table, laptop open, phone balanced between her shoulder and cheek. She gives me a quick wave, mouthing trainer call before clicking something on her screen. There’s a pile of moving boxes still stacked by the back window, even though we’ve been here for almost two weeks.
I set Emy down and she immediately bolts for her toy bin, humming the blueberry-unicorn anthem like it’s Top 40 material.
I sink into a barstool and take a deep breath. The Olympic Trials were two weeks ago. I still hear the announcers in my head sometimes—Mackenzie Knox delivers under pressure again… strong case for Paris…
Except it’s not Paris yet. It’s Jacksonville. And I’m still figuring out how to train like an Olympian from a city that doesn’t even have a legit elite gym.
“You check out that place in Orange Park?” Nikki asks once she’s off the phone.
I nod, slowly. “Yeah. It’s fine. Clean. Equipment was decent. But it’s… I don’t know.”
“It’s not Beam Queen HQ?”
“Definitely not,” I say, laughing under my breath. “Coach Jenna’s trying to coordinate sessions virtually until she can get here for a week in June, but it’s hard. Everything feels… patchy.”
“Maybe once things settle,” Nikki offers gently. “I mean, we just moved, the guys just started camp—give it a minute.”
I nod like I agree. But there’s a low-level buzz of panic under my skin that doesn’t match the words.
Because I don’t have a minute. The Olympics are in late July. Eight weeks.
And while Carson’s already making waves in mini camp—arm sharp, timing clean, confidence high—I’m over here googling foam pits and driving Emy around in circles just to get her to nap.
It’s not jealousy. It’s…whiplash. We’ve always been side-by-side in the hustle. Fighting for our dreams in parallel.
Now he’s out there in teal and black under stadium lights, and I’m chasing balance beam consistency with a toddler snack pouch in one hand and my AirPods cutting out during video sessions with Jenna.
The TV is on mute in the background—NFL coverage, obviously. They’re replaying rookie mini camp clips. Carson flashes on the screen for a second, laughing with Kayce, helmet in hand, sweat-drenched and grinning like the game was made for him.
My stomach twists, but not in a bad way.
In a God, I love you, but I miss you kind of way.
The sun’s barely down, but Emerson’s already asleep. She crashed on the living room rug mid-book while I was trying to make dinner, her hand still wrapped around a graham cracker. I carried her to her toddler bed and she didn’t even stir, cheeks flushed and curls damp from her post-bath meltdown over the wrong pajamas.
Now it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you too aware of how tired you are.
I sit on the couch with my legs tucked under me, a bowl of cold pasta on the coffee table and my laptop open but untouched. I haven’t even emailed Jenna back yet. She texted three hours ago asking for beam footage.
I didn’t record anything today.
I’m too busy trying to figure out where my Olympic-level life fits into this new one. I keep telling myself it’s temporary. That we’re still settling in. But every day that ticks by is one less between now and Paris. And Carson’s out there thriving.
The front door opens with a click and the familiar shuffle of cleats in hand, slides on feet. I glance up as Carson walks in, hair soaked, cheeks red, shirt sticking to his chest. He smells like grass and sunscreen and the kind of exhaustion that only comes from doing exactly what you love.
“Hey,” he says, voice already raspy from shouting over coaches all day. He grins when he sees me. “She down?”
“Out cold,” I say, smiling as he leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead. “She gave me a full performance of Let It Go while throwing cheese everywhere, then passed out during The Very Hungry Caterpillar.”
He laughs, dropping his gear by the door. “That’s my girl.”
Carson disappears into the kitchen for water, draining the whole bottle before coming back and flopping beside me on the couch. He groans as he sinks into the cushions, resting his head on my shoulder like he’s just finished running a marathon. His skin’s still hot from the field.
“Today was insane,” he mumbles into my collarbone. “We ran tempo drills in full pads, in this heat. I thought Kase was gonna puke. He almost did. Twice.”
“Sounds brutal.”
“It was. Awesome, though.” He tilts his head to look up at me, that boyish fire still dancing in his eyes. “Coach pulled me aside after. Said I’m ahead of where they thought I’d be.”
I smile, brushing his curls off his forehead. “I’m not surprised.”
He closes his eyes and hums, content. For a minute, I just let him be. Let myself be proud. Let myself be quiet.
But something nags at the edge of the silence. A small ache. A weight.
“I checked out another gym today,” I say softly.
Carson opens one eye. “Yeah? Any better?”
“Better, yeah. Still not ideal. But I think I can make it work if Jenna gets here soon. We’ll just have to adjust.”
“Whatever you need, I’ve got you,” he says, squeezing my thigh. It’s automatic. It’s sincere. But he doesn’t ask what was missing. Doesn’t press. He’s already fading, muscles loosening, brain probably still half in the playbook.
I look at him—my husband, the father of our little girl, living out his dream in real time—and suddenly I feel like I’m orbiting just outside his world. Still tethered, but… separate.
It’s not his fault. He’s doing everything right.
But I don’t say the thing I’m feeling: that I miss how in sync we used to be. I miss talking about our dreams over midnight pancakes and scribbled plans. Now we’re so wrapped up in chasing what we wanted, we barely look at each other long enough to remember why we wanted it together.
Instead, I thread my fingers through his, kiss the top of his head, and whisper, “I’m proud of you.”
He exhales against my shoulder like he needed to hear it. Like he believes it.
And I am.
Even if part of me is still waiting for him to look up one day soon and realize he misses me too.
The coffee pot gurgles in slow bursts like it’s trying to keep up. I get it.
It’s just past 6:30, and the house is still draped in that soft, early-morning kind of light—everything blue and gold and quiet, like the day hasn’t decided who it’s going to be yet.
Emerson’s in her booster chair, drowsy and clingy, holding a waffle with both hands like it’s sacred. Her curls are wild from sleep, and she keeps blinking like she can’t decide if she’s mad to be awake or not. Same, honestly.
Carson’s cereal bowl sits empty on the counter, rinsed but not washed. A small thing. But it still sits there, in my mind.
He left twenty minutes ago, hoodie pulled over damp curls, still tying his cleats as he kissed my cheek. “I’ll be home before six,” he said, grabbing a protein shake and his playbook like it was all muscle memory now.
It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t rushed.
But it wasn’t us.
I scroll aimlessly through my phone with one hand while Emy eats. Messages from Jenna. A new conditioning plan. A reminder to record routines. A gym in Daytona that might have the setup I need—if I can manage a two-hour round trip with a toddler and no childcare plan.
I flag it and toss my phone on the table. My head drops into my hands before I even think about it.
I don’t feel like an Olympian this morning. I feel like a mom who didn’t sleep enough and forgot to take her vitamins and hasn’t taped her ankles in four days. My shoulders are stiff from floor tumbling, my thighs sore from sprint drills I had to cram into the only open hour I had yesterday—between Emerson’s nap and dinner.
And Carson’s out there making waves at mini camp while I’m here wondering if the blueberry pouch I packed will keep Emy quiet long enough for me to sneak in vault reps today.
I hear a little voice mumble through a mouthful of waffle, “Mommy… you okay?”
I look up. She’s watching me with those big brown eyes—his eyes.
I plaster on a smile. “I’m okay, baby. Just tired.”
She nods, serious. “You can nap. I won’t yell.”
I laugh despite myself, reaching over to brush her sticky cheek. “Deal.”
But there’s a part of me that aches anyway.
Because I want to be present. I want to soak in these mornings. I want to be all in—for her, for Carson, for me. For Paris. But it feels like I’m spread so thin I’m not really in anything at all.
I pour my coffee, add oat milk, and take a slow sip like it’ll help me hold my own spine up today. Jenna’s waiting for my videos. Emerson will need a snack pack and an outfit change and probably three episodes of Bluey before we can even think about driving to the gym. I still haven’t called the daycare center Nikki recommended.
And Carson? He’ll text me at lunch. He always does. A photo of his cleats or Kayce passed out in the locker room or something about how he missed me this morning.
But I don’t want a text.
I want time. I want him sitting across from me asking what beam set I’m throwing today and why my back is aching and if I ate something besides cold pasta and Goldfish.
I glance back at Emy and smile.
“Ready to get dressed and go tumble with Mommy?”
She blinks once, dramatically. “Only if I can bring two bunnies.”
“Deal.”
The gym smells like chalk, sweat, and a weird mix of cleaning spray and kid snacks. It’s not the kind of place I used to train in—not elite, not quiet, not built for Olympic focus—but it’s clean, the equipment’s decent, and the owner was kind enough to let me reserve an open block of time mid-mornings while the rec kids are still in school.
It’s not ideal, but it’s something.
Emerson sits cross-legged just off the floor, a little foldable mat of her own, bunny tucked under one arm and a juice box in her lap. She promised to “be quiet and serious like a coach,” which so far has lasted a full four minutes.
I stretch my arms overhead, shoulder blades tight, mind already ticking through the checklist—vault warm-up, full on beam, bars if there’s time and no toddlers crawling under the uneven set.
Coach Jenna’s voice buzzes in my ear through my AirPod. We’re mid-call, again. She’s watching a livestream I set up with my phone perched on a block near the beam. It’s glitchy, and the audio cuts in and out when I walk too far from it, but it’s better than nothing.
“Okay, Kenz, just start with a layout step-out. Get your rhythm back before you go full.”
I nod, wipe my palms on my thighs, and step onto the beam.
Focus. Breathe. You’ve done this a thousand times.
But my body’s off. My right calf’s cramping. The beam feels narrower than it should, though I know that’s just mental. I lunge into the pass and land heavy—one foot slips slightly. I catch myself, but just barely.
I hear Jenna exhale softly in my ear. “Okay. Again. Stay tall through the core—don’t collapse on your landing.”
“Got it,” I mutter, resetting.
“Mommy, you almost fell!” Emerson calls from the corner.
I grit my teeth. “That’s why we’re practicing, baby.”
I try again. Slightly better, but still not clean. My timing’s off.
Third pass—I nail the landing, but it’s stiff. Robotic. My confidence feels like it’s hanging by dental floss.
Jenna’s quiet for a second. “You okay? You’re tight.”
“I didn’t sleep much,” I admit, hopping down. “Emy’s been waking up a lot. And it’s just… different here.”
“Yeah. It’s not ideal, but it’s temporary,” she says gently. “Olympics are in ten weeks. We just have to keep pace until I get there and we can dial it in.”
“Right.”
I head to bars, adjusting the grips on my wrists. Emerson is humming again, softly this time, drawing swirls with her finger in the chalk dust on her mat.
“Juice spilled,” she says suddenly.
I turn—and sure enough, her juice box is tipped on its side, soaking into her shorts, her bunny, the mat.
“Hang on,” I sigh, jogging over to her. I grab a towel from my gym bag, blot the mat, change her into the spare leggings I keep in my backpack. She whines the whole time, not in a bratty way—just tired and uncomfortable and hot.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, kissing her forehead. “Accidents happen.”
But now the clock’s ticking. I only had ninety minutes in this place before the next team comes in. I glance at the bars, heart pounding, wrists already sore just thinking about the missed reps.
“Mackenzie,” Jenna says, still on the line. “You want to skip bars today and double up tomorrow?”
I hesitate.
I should say yes. I should take Emerson home, get her dry, get her fed, and try again tomorrow.
But I don’t. Because tomorrow feels too far away when the Olympic stage is this close. Because Carson got two full practices yesterday and a film session. Because I’m already behind.
“No,” I say, straightening up. “I’ll go light, but I want to get a few in.”
There’s silence on the line, but she doesn’t argue. She knows me too well.
I scoop chalk into my hands, blow the dust off my palms, and head for the bars.
The house is quiet again once we get home later. Emerson’s finally asleep down the hall, curled into the corner of her bed like she used up every last ounce of energy fighting the nap before it swallowed her whole.
I’m sitting on the living room floor, stretching out my hamstrings with a resistance band looped around my feet. The ceiling fan clicks above me, slow and steady. My leotard is still damp in spots. My sports bra’s digging into my ribs. My body feels like someone wrung it out and then left it in the sun to dry.
The front door creaks open, and I don’t even look up.
Carson’s keys jingle as he drops them into the bowl by the door. A second later, I feel his presence before I hear him—big, warm, humming with leftover adrenaline from practice.
“Hey, babe,” he says, voice soft. “She down?”
“Mmhmm.”
He walks into the kitchen, grabs a Gatorade from the fridge, and chugs half of it before saying, “You stretchin’ or sulking?”
“Bit of both.”
That makes him chuckle, and he walks over, crouching beside me. His hand rests gently on my back for a second. Just enough pressure to say I’m here, not enough to stay.
“Good gym today?” he asks.
I nod. “Decent. Beam was okay. Bars sucked.”
He sits down across from me, legs long and sprawled out. “You’ll get it back. You always do.”
“Yeah,” I say, but it comes out flat.
He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does but doesn’t know what to do with it. Either way, he leans his head back against the couch and exhales, eyes fluttering shut.
“They had us run red zone drills in full pads again. Kayce tweaked his hammy, but I think it’s just tight.”
I nod, looping the band around my other foot. “Coach still talking you up?”
“Yeah,” he says, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “Said he might give me reps with the twos tomorrow.”
I glance over at him. That fire is still there, just under the surface. He’s running on fumes, but you’d never know it by the way he talks about football. It’s not just the dream anymore—it’s happening.
And I’m happy for him. God, I am.
But I feel like I’m running to keep up with someone I used to walk beside.
“Do you ever think we bit off more than we could chew?” I ask, quietly.
He opens his eyes. Blinks. “What do you mean?”
“This. All of it. New city. New team. Olympic training. Parenting. Trying to keep our relationship from turning into a schedule exchange.”
He frowns, sitting up a little straighter. “You think we’re not okay?”
I shake my head. “No. I mean—we are. Mostly. Just… stretched thin. And I don’t think either of us wants to admit it.”
Carson’s quiet. He runs a hand down his face, slow and rough.
“I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately,” I add. “About how this time last year, we were in that tiny apartment with Emy in a pack-n-play and no clue what we were doing, but we felt more in sync than now.”
His voice is low when he speaks. “You miss that?”
“I miss us.”
He nods. Not defensive. Just… absorbing.
“I’m trying so hard to be everything all at once,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Olympian. Mom. Wife. And you’re thriving, Car. You’re killing it out there. But I’m over here piecing together gym time with a toddler on the sideline and doing beam sets in front of my phone. It’s not the same. And I know that’s not your fault, but—”
“But it still hurts,” he finishes, his eyes locking on mine.
I nod, biting my lip.
Carson crawls closer, pulling the band out of my hands and replacing it with his own. He holds my fingers, warm and steady.
“I don’t want you to feel alone in this,” he says, voice hoarse. “Tell me what you need. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s inconvenient.”
I don’t answer right away. I don’t even know how to.
Because what I need is more of him. And time. And space. And a few damn minutes in the day where I don’t have to push through being overwhelmed just to earn what I already worked so hard for.
But instead, I just squeeze his hand and nod.
Because I don’t want to fall apart yet.
