Over the next hour, the bones of the routine begin to take shape. I’m reminded of one of the many things I loved about gymnastics: if you work hard, you can become a superhuman version of yourself, at least for a time. If I were in prime shape, I could spiral like a ballerina, contort myself like a circus performer, catapult myself like a soldier, and defy gravity like a goddess. There would be no limits on what I could do. Outside the gym, that’s never been true for me—I couldn’t make it through college, and I couldn’t make Tyler stay in love with me. But here? This is my world. Or at least it was. Until I went to Trials.
I run through the light version of the choreography—I cartwheel across the floor where Hallie will tumble for real; I spin on my butt where she’ll do a wolf turn. I don’t want to overextend myself and trigger another flare-up of back pain, so I take it easy. Watching the choreography gel together is satisfying, and I get so lost in performing it that I don’t hear the soft creak of the door on the other side of the gym. When the song finishes, there’s a beat of silence, then the sound of applause.
I whip out of the dramatic final pose—chest thrust out, back arched, arms outstretched—and turn toward the noise. I’m mortified to see Ryan walking down the vault runway toward the floor.
“Impressive,” he says.
I cross my arms over my chest, embarrassed. “I had no idea anyone was still here.”
“I was in the office. So, will that be Hallie’s floor routine, or are you just playing around?” He looks bemused.
“That depends,” I say. “Do you really like it or are you just being nice?”
“Come on, Avery,” he says with a smirk.
Ryan doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d joke around when it comes to work. The stakes are too high. I genuinely like the routine: the choreography is playful, energetic, and suited to Hallie’s strengths. But I’m not so brazenly confident to expect Ryan to like it right off the bat.
“It’s great,” he clarifies. “I love it.”
“You know this isn’t actually the real, final thing,” I warn him. “I just can’t perform at that level anymore. So Hallie will kick up the difficulty level by, like, five notches.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I figured. Show me the beginning?” he asks. “I missed it.”
I jog to the stereo to restart the song, then scamper into place for the opening steps of the routine. I’m terribly self-conscious of his gaze on my unmuscled arms and soft stomach, but that leaves me with only one choice: I have to throw myself into the choreography and perform it to the fullest extent, because otherwise it’ll look lackluster. It’s fine for him to think I’m out of shape—but he can’t think I’m bad at my job.
“Nice, nice, nice,” he calls over the music as I sashay through a section reserved for a tumbling pass. “I got it.”
Relieved, I turn off the music.
“So?” I ask, trying not to let on that I’m close to panting.
He crosses the floor to join me near the stereo. “So! That’s it.”
I laugh. “No, I mean, do you have any notes? Suggestions?”
“Mmmm… no? Not now, at least? Let’s see how Hallie does with it. Avery, you did an amazing job.”
He shakes his head, grins, and looks away.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
Now that he’s just two feet away from me, I realize he can probably see the sheen of sweat on my forehead and the halo of frizz that always escapes my ponytail when I dance.
“I just…” He trails off and laughs quietly. “Do you remember Worlds in 2010?”
“Yeah.”
The memories of that weekend snap into focus. My scrunchie flew off my head during my bars routine. That was the first day I heard whispers about me as a likely contender for 2012. Jasmine cried that night in our shared hotel room when Dimitri pointed out that maybe the reason she slipped off beam was because her ever-expanding hips and ass threw her off balance.
“I’ll never forget seeing your floor routine that day. I mean, I remember watching from the sidelines and thinking, Damn, that girl is going places,” he recalls. He gazes off into the distance, then snaps back toward me. “And now you’re here.”
The words should fall flat, but he says them with a sense of wonder. His face lights up. I don’t know what to say.
“If I had known, all those years ago, that we’d end up working together, I think I’d be kinda starstruck,” he adds.
I can feel my cheeks flush pink. “Starstruck?!” I yelp.
“Hundred percent,” he says, nodding.
A panicked thought flashes by—is he flirting with me? Am I imagining the coy warmth behind his words? I take in his casual stance and the impressive curve of his biceps straining at the sleeves of his T-shirt. He looks good without trying.
“Well, I was pretty starstruck, myself, when you called,” I admit. My voice is just a touch more honeyed than usual. “Olympians don’t call me every day, you know.”
I’d assumed my ability to flirt had dried up after I started dating Tyler, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find it’s still there. My hands find my hips; I straighten up and suck in my stomach.
He waves away my comment. “You should’ve been one, too. It was just bad luck.”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. This isn’t my favorite subject. I’d rather change it. “So, you spend all your evenings here?”
“Ouch, are you telling me to get a social life?” he shoots back.
“Hey, all I’m saying is that you spend an awful lot of time in a gym that smells like feet,” I say, holding up my hands.
I briefly weigh the pros and cons of what I want to say next, and spurred by a rush of adrenaline, I toss it out there.
“What, no hot date tonight?” I tease.
A flicker of surprise crosses his face. He recovers by shoving his hands into his pockets and looking away, laughing.
“Not tonight,” he says softly. “But I’ll take that as my cue that you want the gym to yourself to finish choreographing.”
He starts to walk away, but I realize I don’t want him to.
“Wait!” I call. “I didn’t mean it that way. Stay?”
He wavers. “You want me to?”
It takes me a split second to think of a plausible excuse. “I need someone to film what I’ve choreographed so far, right?”
He turns back toward me with a smile. He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Let’s do it.”
DECEMBER 2019
• CHAPTER 7 •
By the time Hallie’s ankle is strong enough for her to learn the new choreography, the radio plays holiday shopping jingles between every song. The town center is decked out in blue and white lights. I have to throw a parka on over my sweats just to make it from the parking lot to the gym. Christmas break is three weeks away, and most of the gymnasts and coaches are buzzing about holiday plans and winter vacation trips to visit grandparents in Florida. But not us. Ryan, Hallie, and I will spend the week between Christmas and New Year’s here. There’s no sense in wasting a week of prime training time. I have been practicing the routine every night after Hallie leaves practice, ensuring the choreography flows flawlessly and I’ve maximized every moment to squeeze out the highest possible difficulty score. I’ve been waiting until she’s gone so she doesn’t catch a glimpse of it until I’m satisfied it’s perfect.