“Thanks for letting me do this,” I say.
Ryan smirks and taps on the binder again. “I mean, you gotta come up with a plan,” he says.
I already know I want to choreograph a new floor routine for her, and that includes selecting new music for her to perform to. I know the rest will come in time.
The next hour of Hallie’s workout slips away—for me, at least. I can tell she works hard. She doesn’t skimp on tough ab work or mind-numbing reps, like some kids do. On the contrary, I get the sense she deepens her squats and tightens up her plank form when she notices me watching. I’m honored she considers me worthy enough to impress. When she’s finished with conditioning, she takes a water break, then meets Ryan and me on floor. She places her hands on her hips and looks from him to me, waiting for instructions.
“I’m all yours,” she says. “Put me to work.”
“Trust me, I will,” I say. “But first, we should talk.”
I’m nervous, but know I have to drop the bomb anyway.
“Hear me out on this: your floor routine is good, but it doesn’t play to your strengths. I would love to create a new routine for you—mostly the same tumbling, but new dance, new music, maybe some new skills.”
She flinches and recoils, crossing her arms over her chest. “But—but we—there are—we have just eight months to go,” she sputters.
“So why waste those months on a routine that’s not working?” I shoot back.
“I’ve been using this routine forever. You want me to throw it away now? I’ll never learn a new one in time.”
“Of course you will. I see how hard you work. You got this.”
“I’ll be rushed, I’ll forget the choreography, I’ll mess it up—probably in competition, and then I’ll fail out of gymnastics without even a high school diploma and I’ll be stuck living at home with my parents forever.”
I’m sure it’s just a flippant comment, but the cruel reality of her words cuts me deep.
“Hallie…” Ryan admonishes.
“There’s no need to be so dramatic,” I say, breezing past her insult. “Please just trust me with this.”
“I’m on board,” Ryan tells her.
She bites her lip. For a moment, she’s quiet, considering the prospect.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Then so am I.”
I pick up the binder and rifle through it until I find the section that lists every floor skill with value in the Code of Points. To test her capabilities, I rattle off different acrobatic and artistic elements and ask her to perform them, starting with tumbling. Her double Arabian is fantastic, but her triple twist isn’t doing her any favors—that tumbling pass might work better as a double-twisting double back layout. Hallie diligently follows my instructions and swivels to gauge my level of approval after each tumbling pass—so she’s sassy but ultimately obedient. I can work with that.
Fifteen minutes in, I notice her grimace and roll her right foot carefully from side to side.
“Ryan, hey,” I say, catching his attention. He looks up from his phone. “It looks like her ankle is bothering her.”
“Yeah, let’s take a break,” he says.
“Hey, hey, Hallie, stop,” I call. “How’s your ankle?”
She winces. “It’s starting to hurt again,” she admits. “It’s really not that bad, though, promise. I’ll keep going.”
“No, let’s rest for a sec. I’m going to grab you some ice, okay?”
She exhales, clearly frustrated with herself. “Fine. Thanks.”
I retrieve an ice pack from the cooler and wrap it in a paper towel so it doesn’t freeze-burn her skin. By the time I make it back to the floor, Ryan is already wrapping up her ankle with gauzy prewrap and white athletic tape to keep the joint stable.
“Thanks for the ice,” Hallie says glumly.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask.
She sighs. “On and off for, like, two years.”
“I think it’s time to see that sports medicine doctor again,” Ryan says.
“Dr. Kaminsky?” Hallie asks.
“Yeah.”
She makes a face. “I’m fine.”
Every gymnast racks up injuries like these, but they’re nearly impossible to heal while actively training for competition. I pushed through my stress fracture at fourteen and wound up with back pain that flares up for weeks at a time, even more than a decade later. I sometimes wonder: if I could go back in time and make different choices, would I avoid a lifetime of pain? Even in my worst moments, I don’t think I would. As debilitating as the flare-ups can be, what I gained from gymnastics—identity, discipline, commitment—is worth so much more. But just because I’ve made peace with that choice doesn’t mean that Hallie needs to.
“A doctor might be able to really help,” I say. “Why don’t you go just once, just to check in?”
She juts out her chin like she’s going to protest, but Ryan’s reaction stops her.
“Hal, you don’t want to mess around with an injury this year. Be smart about this.”
“Fine. I’ll go.”
“Let’s take it easy today,” Ryan says. “After your break, we’ll do bars. No dismounts, nothing crazy, just to play it safe.”
She pouts. “But that’s such a waste of a training day.”
An idea hits me. “What about this—while you ice your ankle, why don’t we listen to new floor music? Pick something out?”
Ryan backs me up, and Hallie reluctantly agrees. He steps out to grab some coffee, promising to be back in just a few minutes. This is the first time that Hallie and I have ever been alone, and I want to make the most of it. I need to get on her good side—and right now, that means finding the perfect song.
Floor music needs to be exactly ninety seconds long and contain no lyrics, so you can’t use just anything. I start by rifling through the collection of CDs and cassette tapes still stacked under the stereo, but these have all been here since before even I was a gymnast. When my search turns up nothing fresh or interesting, I pull out my phone and Google new options.
“We need something powerful, something fun,” I say, scrolling through a list of song titles. “Nothing dainty, nothing boring.”
“Maybe… jazz?” Hallie asks. She looks up at me nervously.
“You like jazz?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Yeah, it seems fun to perform to.”
“Jazz!” I practically yelp. “Let’s find you something. You need something you’ll enjoy, whatever that is.”
For the next fifteen minutes, we listen to snippets of songs and debate their merits. When we land on a track packed with energetic trumpets, we know we’ve got it right. It’s a big band number called “Jazz Fling.” Hallie bops her head along to the melody. When Ryan returns, I play it back for him and watch his expression.
“You like it?” I ask hopefully.
He gives a bemused smile. “On floor, I defer to you. Do you like it?”
This is my first big decision as a coach. The right song can make or break a routine. I know the upbeat tempo and playful sound are a strong match for the powerful physicality of Hallie’s movements. She has just enough bravado to pull it off.