“That’s a full point higher than you got at Worlds!” Ryan crows. “That’s a real improvement, Hal. You should be very proud of yourself.”
A full point! Selfishly, I glow with excitement.
“If this were Olympic Trials, seventh place wouldn’t be enough to make the Olympic Team,” Hallie says, sounding panicked.
Ryan kneels down in front of her and takes her hands. “But this isn’t Trials,” he points out. “You have months to go. So much can change between now and then.”
Hallie looks suspiciously around the arena. “Yeah, but everyone else will be training to improve, too.”
I want to say something reassuring or encouraging, but everything I come up with sounds hollow or worthless. Seventh place is a complicated place to be: she’s not knocked out of Olympic contention by any means, but she’s not a shoo-in, either. It would be exciting to land here if this were Hallie’s first elite competition, but it’s not. She didn’t come this far to only make seventh place. It’s an uncomfortable middle ground, achingly mediocre when gymnasts are used to flashy wins or spectacular failures. Hallie could go either way from here… or she could float into obscurity, never quite making a name for herself in this sport.
“I know today wasn’t what we hoped for, but I’m still proud of you,” I say finally.
Hallie zips up her tracksuit and pulls the hoodie down low.
“Bars was beautiful,” Ryan adds. “Vault was pretty solid, too. Next time, we’ll work on—”
“I can’t think about that now, all right?” Hallie snaps.
She shoves her feet into her Uggs and slings her gym bag over her shoulder.
“I can’t stay here anymore. Bye.”
She makes a beeline for the nearest exit.
“Wait!” Ryan calls out to her.
“I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” he tells me, darting after Hallie.
My first instinct is to follow them, but I know Hallie doesn’t want a full audience right now. If she wanted me with her, she would’ve told me. Instead, she wants to grieve today’s results alone. I don’t blame her. So I sink down onto the bench and watch glumly as other gymnasts gleefully celebrate their wins. My heart hurts.
• CHAPTER 20 •
I’m still alone an hour later. I don’t want to be. Ryan and Hallie never returned to the arena, and my text to him went unanswered. I head back to the hotel. I had originally assumed that Ryan and I would share a room—we spend two or three nights a week at each other’s places, anyway, and I was even looking forward to our first trip together as a couple. But Ryan had pointed out that it’d look suspicious for us to share, especially since Summit had already paid for us to sleep separately. Our rooms are at opposite ends of the seventh floor; Hallie and her parents have a larger suite on the eighth.
When the elevator doors slide open on the seventh floor, I step out in the cool, blandly carpeted lobby. There’s an array of kitschy beach-inspired decor hanging on the wall—shiny pink seashells, dried-out coral and starfish—alongside black-and-white photos of the Miami skyline. I should turn left and head down the hall to my room, but instead, I turn toward Ryan’s. I knock, but he doesn’t come to the door.
I walk the long stretch of hallway back to my own hotel room. The maid has been here: the bed is freshly made and my jumble of clothes and extra shoes and phone charger are stacked neatly on top of my luggage. I kick off my shoes, flop diagonally across the bed, and try to resist the urge to check my phone. Instead, I stare at the white stucco ceiling for a few moments, ruminating on Hallie’s disastrous performance today and wondering if she simply had an off day or if I had failed to properly prepare her. Too depressing.
I miss Ryan. I feel silly admitting it to myself, because I just spent the entire day with him, but I do. When we’re working, it doesn’t really feel like we’re spending time together—I can’t fully relax around him when I know other people are watching us. If I had to guess, he’s probably still with her, comforting her, and that makes me feel even worse: heartbroken for Hallie, ashamed over how I failed as a coach, depressed by what this means for my career, and self-indulgent for wishing Ryan could be here with me instead. I don’t want him to come over and analyze what went wrong today. I just want him here as my boyfriend.
I get up to shower off the day, if only because there’s nothing else I really want to do (and everyone could benefit from bathing after spending time in an arena that smells like feet). The hotel room’s bathroom is outfitted in cream-colored tile with vanity lights over the mirror that feel like the height of glamour compared to my apartment in Greenwood. I linger longer than I need to in the shower. When I get out, wrapped in a fluffy white hotel bathrobe that feels wonderfully thick and heavy over my shoulders, I’m relieved to see a text from Ryan—until I read it.
Hey, sorry, I’m actually not free to hang out right now, he wrote. Let’s talk later?
His words make me feel lonelier. I spent countless hours in LA waiting for Tyler to text me back, to come home, to want to see me. Eagerly waiting for scraps of attention is the most pathetic feeling in the world.
Sure, I type.
I consider delaying my response by several minutes to give him a taste of his own medicine, but that’s too juvenile to feel rewarding. I should know better than to behave like a child. I press send.
I’m too restless to sit around this room, so I get dressed and head downstairs to the hotel’s restaurant. Vending machine snacks aside, I’ve barely eaten all day, and it’d be good for me to get some real food. I didn’t realize it until now, but I’m hungry. The restaurant’s vibe mimics the beachy decor from upstairs: the upholstery on the chairs looks speckled like sand, and nautical bits and bobs like buoys and fishing net hang from the driftwood bar.
“Just one?” the hostess asks.
“Just me,” I say, pretending to be cheery and fine about that.
She scans the crowded room.
“So, it’ll be about fifteen or twenty minutes for a table for one, but I could seat you now at the bar, if you’d like,” she offers.
“The bar’s fine,” I say.
There aren’t many free bar stools, either, though I see one crammed between two larger men, and another… Oh. Next to Jasmine. I move toward the seat between the two men, but she sees me before I can sit down. For a split second, neither of us says anything.
“Hey!” she says, waving me over.
“Will that seat work?” the hostess asks.
Jasmine is watching expectantly.
“It’s fine, thank you,” I tell the hostess.
I wedge myself into the seat on Jasmine’s right. She’s dressed for TV: gleaming lipstick, sleek blowout, lemon-yellow shift dress. There’s a glass of white wine and a leafy green salad in front of her.
“I wondered if I’d bump into you,” she says, giving me an air-kiss by my cheek.
“Good to see you,” I say, even though the prospect of a conversation with her makes me anxious.
The bartender slides a menu my way, and I order a glass of wine as quickly as I can.
“Plus, uh, whatever salad she’s having,” I add.