“So, that routine probably knocks Hallie off the podium for all-around, but she still has a shot at medaling on individual events,” Barry says.
“Let’s go back to that gorgeous double Arabian, though,” Jasmine suggests.
Sure enough, the channel plays back that impressive tumbling run. Jasmine walks the viewer through exactly what makes it so special to fill the time as the judges deliberate on Hallie’s score. When it finally arrives—12.475—Hallie furrows her brow and looks away, dejected.
I feel myself tunneling back in time to every shaky routine I performed at a competition. I remember the raw horror that seized my nerves, the way my frenzied brain taunted me on a loop—You’re never going to make it. Just give up now. Failure is inevitable in this sport; it happens to everyone at some point. But there’s no room for failure, not if you want to make the Olympics. Not if you want to win. The paradox is crushing.
“Poor girl,” Dad says. “She’s talented, but that routine didn’t do her any favors. What’d you think of her?”
I sigh and slide off the couch. “I think I’d do a better job coaching her than whoever Ryan hired.”
* * *
I know Hallie and Ryan won’t stay in Stuttgart for long. There are just eight precious months to go until Olympic Trials—no time for a European vacation. I figure they’ll travel home on Sunday and start practice again on Monday. I give myself one extra day, just to be sure, and on Tuesday night, I drive to Summit. I back into a parking spot under a maple tree and stay in the driver’s seat so I can watch the last few gymnasts stream out the front door. They have pink cheeks and messy buns, with bare legs stuffed into Uggs. I listen to Kiss 108, the Top 40 station, as I wait for Hallie to emerge.
I dressed carefully tonight: no-nonsense black leggings and white sneakers paired with the red, white, and blue hoodie every member of the US elite women’s gymnastics team received during training in 2011. The once-bright cotton has faded, but my name is still embroidered on the sleeve—proof that I once belonged.
Sure enough, Hallie trudges out of the gym with a phone in one hand and an electric yellow bottle of Gatorade in another. A navy canvas gym bag hangs from one shoulder. She spots what must be her dad’s car and makes her way toward it. I dip my head and pretend to fiddle with the radio dial; I don’t think she sees me. Once she’s buckled up and her dad has pulled out of the parking lot, I get out of my car and walk toward the gym before I can lose my nerve. It’s dark, and a chill nips at my ankles.
Inside Summit, the fluorescent lights are still on in the lobby, but the parents have all cleared out. I take a deep breath and venture around the corner to the office. For a split second, the cozy familiarity of the charcoal-gray-flecked carpet and the neat rows of paper schedules thumbtacked to the wall make me slip back in time. I could be here to give Winnie my parents’ check for the quarter, or to kill time before practice by flicking through rows of plush velvet and slick Lycra leotards. But it’s late. Winnie’s gone home for the night. Instead, Ryan is hunched behind the desk, one fist clenched tightly in his hair, the other propping up an iPhone, the sound turned all the way up.
“Yes!” he whispers. “Yes! No!”
Then, sensing my presence, he snaps his head up.
I give a belated knock on the door frame.
“Hi. Can I come in?” I ask.
He gives his phone screen a pained glance, then pauses the video he’s watching.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” he says.
“I know.”
I take a couple of hesitant steps toward him. There’s nowhere convenient to sit, so I hover a few feet from the desk.
“Watching anything good?” I ask, nodding toward his phone.
“Football,” he says, tapping the screen. “You a fan?”
“Not really,” I say.
“I’m watching the Rams slaughter the Giants,” he explains. “They have this quarterback—”
“Yeah, I know about their quarterback,” I say curtly, cutting him off.
This feels like a sign that I shouldn’t even be here at all. I wonder what Tyler would think if he knew I was returning to the gym to beg for a job. He’d probably nod encouragingly with puppy-dog eyes, like, That’s great, Ave! and then go throw a winning pass or whatever. I clear my throat.
“I was hoping you’d be here tonight,” I begin. “I watched Worlds, I saw Hallie… and Ryan, she’s so close. She has so much potential, but she’s not quite solid enough. I know she can do better. You know it, too—that’s why you were looking for a new coach in the first place.”
“Worlds was tough for her,” he admits, looking away.
“Look, I don’t even know who you hired. It’s nothing personal. But watching her flounder like that on floor? It was painful.”
“And you think you can do better?” he asks.
I nod. “I really respect you, Ryan. You’re doing an amazing job with her. But she needs extra help on floor. Remember how quickly she picked up what I was teaching? What if we could do that every day? Just imagine how much we could accomplish together, you and me and her.”
My heart is racing. Everything rests on his reaction. Ryan leans forward onto the desk and rests his chin on his interlaced knuckles. For a moment, he doesn’t speak.
Then finally, he says, “It didn’t work out.”
“The other coach?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Svetlana Morozova. You know her?”
“The name rings a bell,” I say.
“Russian. She’s, like, sixty, super old-school. She and Hallie didn’t really click.”
“Oh.”
He lifts one dark eyebrow. “She likes you, though.”
“I like her, too. I get her. I mean, I think I do,” I admit.
“She kinda reminds me of you, way back when,” he says. “Super determined, ambitious, follows every rule.”
I laugh; I had no idea he knew me well enough to think of me in any particular way, much less like that. I could volley back a joke about how that didn’t last so long, but it feels too sad, given the reason I spiraled out of control.
“She sounds easy to coach, then,” I offer instead.
Ryan nods wordlessly. He holds my gaze for a beat longer than is comfortable. I want the job so badly.
“I can do it,” I blurt out. “I was in Hallie’s exact shoes seven years ago. I know what she’s going through. I know how to take her to the next level. Floor was my thing—it’s what I did better than almost anyone else in the world.”
“I remember,” he says, leaning back in his spinning chair and kicking his sneakers up onto the desk.
“If I trained Hallie, I’d go back to basics and focus on her poise and her posture. I’d find her new music and give her new choreography that plays to her strengths.”
Pitching my plan to Ryan reminds me exactly how deeply I need this job. I’m on the verge of choking up, but I take a deep breath and force myself to hold it together.
“She’s gonna shine—I know it. Just… please. Give me a chance.”
Ryan runs a hand along his stubbled jaw and squints at me. I feel too exposed now; I curl my fingers around the sleeves of my hoodie and fold my arms tightly across my chest.