“I’ll talk to Hallie’s parents,” he says finally. “If they sign off on you working with her, then the job will be yours.”
I’m grinning so hard, my cheeks hurt. “Thank you,” I say.
The gravity of Ryan’s decision fills me with a giddy sort of delight; my mind glosses right over the fact that the Conway family has to approve of me first and skips straight toward a blur of practice, choreography, and chalk dust. I throw my arms around Ryan in a hug, and to my surprise, he actually hugs back. He promises he’ll let me know when he’s had a chance to speak with Hallie’s parents. When I exit the gym, I don’t even feel the crisp night air. I feel the way I felt about leaving practice a decade ago: pink-cheeked, high on adrenaline, blood running hot.
As I cross the parking lot, I feel this primal urge to cartwheel across the smooth pavement. I turn to check over both shoulders before letting my arms stretch down and my feet pinwheel over the top of my head. I feel weightless when I sink into the driver’s seat of the car and turn up the radio. It’s late, and the roads home are empty at this time of night. I wish I had somewhere to go or someone to tell about my exciting news, but my only real option is home. I drive a little faster than I should, and for the first time, the glittering green traffic lights in the town center and the dark pine trees along the back roads feel like exhilarating markers of what could be my new life, not dull reminders of my old one.
The house is quiet when I walk in. Mom’s probably watching TV in bed, and Dad is probably reading in his office. I slump down on the couch in the living room, feeling restless but unsure what to do. That old life-sized cardboard cutout of me in a leotard is propped up against the mantel. There are visible shadows marking each individual ab and the muscular curve of my thighs, but even so, I’m slender and lithe. The cardboard version of me has one hand on my tight waist and the other casually holding the gold medal dangling from my neck. I don’t want that old image of myself haunting me anymore. I get up from the couch and fold the cardboard stand in the back into the cutout. I pick it up and see a soft gray coat of dust on the floor. I carry the cutout to the garage and prop it up by the recycling bins, facing the wall. Then I grab the vacuum from the front hall closet and suck up a decade’s worth of dust bunnies. I’m glad to see them go.
• CHAPTER 5 •
Two days later, Ryan arranges a meeting with Kim, Todd, and Hallie Conway before practice. I want Hallie to like me, of course, but I’ve already done my best to win her over. Now, it’s crucial that I can convince Kim and Todd to trust me with their daughter’s career. My nerves jangle with anticipation as I slog through rush-hour traffic in the town center. I used to dread being up this early, but today I’m wide-awake. This morning will make or break me.
Summit is still sleepy when I arrive. The practice space is empty; the fluorescent lights are off; there’s no hum of Top 40 radio over the sounds of creaking bars and coaches’ shouts. I meet Ryan and the Conway family in the office. Walking into that room makes my heart pound; I wish I had more professional experience to bolster my confidence.
“Hi, it’s so nice to meet you,” Kim says warmly, reaching to shake my hand.
She has bangs brushed across her forehead, and she’s dressed casually in jeans and a faded, oversized button-down. I wonder if she still works, or if—like so many moms at this level—she quit her job to support her daughter’s gymnastics career.
“Hi,” Todd says, extending his hand, too.
Like his wife, he looks as if he’s in his midforties. He’s in a charcoal-gray suit, like he’s heading straight to some office job after this meeting. Hallie gets her square face and hazel eyes from him.
I take the open seat between Ryan and Hallie.
“I’m sure you don’t remember us, but I remember watching you train here years ago,” Kim says.
“Oh, really?” I say, flustered.
“You were a beautiful gymnast,” she says. “Really incredible to watch.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Kim’s sunny demeanor turns slightly strained. She glances at her husband and continues, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to see that you’re so passionate about helping Hallie here, but I also do want to know for sure that you’re one hundred percent qualified to get her through 2020.”
Hallie slumps back in her chair, like she’s heard this complaint one too many times.
“Mom, I need help on floor,” she mutters.
Todd clears his throat. “We’d like to hear more about your experience as a coach.”
“It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Kim rushes to add. “It’s just, you know, Trials are only eight months away, and this is a once-in-a-lifetime shot.”
“Of course, I understand,” I say.
Families make enormous, life-changing sacrifices to give their kids a chance in this sport, and I don’t fault them for wanting nothing less than the best for their daughter. Otherwise, those sacrifices aren’t worth it.
“Hallie’s sixteen now, and if we wait another four years, she’ll be…” Kim makes a helpless gesture with her hands.
“Maybe too old,” I offer.
“Twenty’s not old,” Hallie groans.
“In this sport? Honey, it’s a long shot,” Kim says, ruffling a hand through her bangs.
“Do you want to try for 2024?” I ask.
“That’ll be where, Paris?” Todd asks.
Ryan nods.
“Of course!” Hallie says. “And then after that, college, maybe law school, who knows?”
It’s impressive that she has the next dozen years of her life mapped out, but I’m not surprised. Since childhood, her entire life has revolved around a singular, far-off goal.
“But 2020 is your best shot,” Kim reminds her gently. “And the Olympic team will be smaller and more selective than ever before.”
She’s right. In 1996, the US gymnastics delegation included seven athletes, nicknamed the Magnificent Seven. But the rules have changed over time. By 2012, the year I tried to make the Olympics, only five gymnasts competed, known as the Fierce Five. Another five girls, the Final Five, competed at the 2016 Olympics, but by that point, the Worldwide Organization of Gymnastics had already ruled that team sizes would dwindle to four spots each in 2020. Making the Olympic team this year will be harder than ever before.
“I’m very confident in Avery’s abilities,” Ryan says smoothly. “I wouldn’t bring her in if she wasn’t right for Hallie.”
“Pardon my saying so, but that’s exactly what happened last month,” Todd counters.
I have a flash of Hallie’s disastrous floor routine at Worlds.
“Mr. and Mrs. Conway…” I begin.
“Please, call us Kim and Todd,” she offers.
I take a deep breath to steady my voice. “Kim and Todd, I coached gymnastics while living in LA, and before that, I was the top gymnast in America when I was Hallie’s age. Barring an injury, I would’ve made the Olympics, and I don’t mean to brag, but I would’ve medaled on floor. I know floor. I’ve watched your daughter perform, and I have a good grasp on how to help her improve.”