When I enter the locker room, I feel the acute sense of no longer belonging. The narrow space is crawling with skinny kids who don’t yet know that the scrunched cotton underwear hanging out the sides of their leotards makes them look like amateurs. The middle of the room is occupied by stacks of cubbies stuffed with gym bags, grips, sweatpants, and Uggs. My usual one is occupied, so I find an empty spot to store my socks and sneakers. I tighten my ponytail and steel myself to find Ryan in the main training area.
I open the glass door that separates waiting parents from the gymnasts and coaches and scan the gym for Ryan. The room is thick with memories. Everywhere I look, I flash back to younger versions of myself: six and crying because I just straddled the beam when I was supposed to land a cartwheel; twelve and high on the adrenaline rush of my first giant on bars; eighteen and prepping my floor routine for Nationals. I spot Ryan and a girl I assume to be Hallie sequestered on a stretch of mats by a mirror. They’re conditioning—the full-body workout designed to build the strength necessary to perform. I used to do an hour a day of crunches, push-ups, squats, rope climbs, and more, just to stay in competitive shape. Ryan’s in track pants and a T-shirt, holding a stopwatch as Hallie does V-ups with weights strapped to each ankle.
I call his name as I approach. He glances at me, then down at the stopwatch.
“Thirty more seconds, Hal,” he says. She grunts in recognition and keeps working. “Welcome back, Avery,” he says, giving a firm handshake.
“Thanks for having me,” I say.
It’s odd to see him all grown-up now, and I wonder if he feels the same way about me. In some ways, of course, he looks exactly the same: chocolate-brown eyes, high cheekbones, a dimple in his left cheek, a thin scar over his right eyebrow, an impressively strong physique. But his thick, dark hair is longer on top—I guess he can wear it like that, now that he’s no longer competing—and there’s a smattering of stubble on his sharp jaw. Up close, I can see a colorful sliver of a tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his T-shirt. Of course. He has the Olympic rings, just like his teammates do. Just like I would have, if things had gone differently.
“What do you think of being back here again?” he asks.
I take in the view of the gym, catching sight of coaches I recognize from way back when. “It’s weird,” I admit. “But this place feels like home.”
“That’s one of the reasons I thought you’d be perfect for the job,” he says, clearly pleased that I feel the same way. “I want to take today slowly. Get to know each other. Have you meet Hallie. See how it goes.”
“You know, I don’t know if you and I have ever really hung out,” I say. I feel like one of us has to note that this is our first proper conversation—we’ve always been in each other’s orbit, but that doesn’t mean we actually know each other.
“I’m pretty sure I asked you for directions to the vending machine at some competition once,” he says, shrugging like he’s just taking a vague stab at a memory.
But he’s not. Because I remember it, too.
He’s talking about Nationals the year I was sixteen, when the competition was held at an arena in Houston, Texas. The space was large and confusingly laid out; I must have walked in circles for five minutes on my way to finding the bathroom. I was returning from the women’s restroom when I spotted Ryan—or Cute Ryan, as Jasmine and I called him. We had seen each other around at other competitions before, but hadn’t ever spoken. Still, I was pretty confident that he recognized me.
“Hey, Avery—it’s Avery, right?” he had asked.
I was secretly thrilled that he knew my name.
“Yeah,” I said, trying not to blush.
I wanted to project the façade that hot guys spoke to me all the time. Totally normal. Yawn.
“Any chance you know which way the vending machines are? This place is like a maze,” he said.
Luckily, I had just walked past them. I pointed him in the right direction. I won the gold all-around medal later that day, cementing my status as a gymnast to watch. But when I think back to that competition, what stands out is the twinkling, giddy adrenaline rush from Cute Ryan knowing my name.
All these years later, I feel vindicated, knowing that I’m not the only one who remembers the interaction.
“You know there’s a machine in the lobby here, right?” I tease.
“Yeah, this one, I got covered,” he shoots back.
The stopwatch beeps. “Done!” he calls to Hallie. She collapses on the mat. “Come over, I’ll introduce you,” Ryan says.
Hallie sits up, clutches her stomach for a moment, and undoes the Velcro straps securing her ankle weights. I’m sure that whatever set of reps she just completed was no joke, but she leaps to her feet. Her auburn ponytail swings over her broad shoulders. She’s muscular and compact; the rippled outline of a six-pack is visible through the fuchsia Lycra of her leotard.
“Hallie, this is Avery. She’s going to be coaching with me today,” he explains. “Avery, Hallie.”
She gives me a shy smile. “Hi. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I was a level four when you were training here. I remember you.” She must have been one of the skinny kids running around in the locker room years ago.
“Oh, really? Wow,” I say, unsure what else to add. Back then, I was so focused on my own training, I barely noticed the kids.
“Your poster was in the lobby,” she recalls. “I wanted to be just like you someday.” Instantly, her cheeks—already pink from exertion—flush red.
“Well, I’m sure you can aspire to loftier goals,” I say.
“No, you were great,” Ryan says confidently.
I don’t want to tarnish his perception of my life since then, so I let the subject drop. “What are you working on?” I ask brightly.
“Finishing up conditioning,” Ryan says. “We have fifteen minutes left. Then we’ll move onto floor, cool?”
“Cool,” Hallie and I say in unison.
Ryan alternates between leading Hallie through her remaining reps and filling me in on the situation. Hallie is sixteen now; he moved here to coach her three years ago, not long after he competed in Rio. The Olympics are the long-term goal, of course, but the next hurdle is the World Championships, held later this month in Stuttgart, Germany. She’s very strong on bars and vault, and pretty solid on beam. But she’s feeling less confident when it comes to floor. He wants me to watch her routine and see how I can help her polish it.
“Warm up your tumbling,” he instructs Hallie, once she finishes conditioning.
She refills her water bottle, takes a slurp, then trots to one corner of the blue spring floor to practice her tumbling passes. She’s diligent, efficient, and polite; she bounces in diagonal lines from corner to corner, letting other, younger girls tumble across her in between passes while she catches her breath. The other gymnasts defer to her with an obvious sense of reverence. Hallie’s skills are strong, and she moves with a powerful sense of energy. It’s too powerful, in fact—at the end of each tumbling pass, she bobs and stumbles to control her motion.
Next, she warms up the other elements of her floor routine: leaps, jumps, pirouettes, smaller acrobatic elements. Here, I see why Ryan is concerned. She has talent in spades, but lacks poise. The one lesson coaches drill into gymnasts from the first lesson is to always point your toes. Hallie points hers—but not with the sharp lines or intense muscular focus that she should. Until you’ve felt your thighs quaking as your toes curl toward your heels, you haven’t really pointed your toes.