“You have the skills of an Olympian, but you don’t look like one,” I sum up. I sound cold, but I don’t care. She needs to hear it. “I’m being straight with you because I know how hard you’ve worked for god knows how many years, and I don’t want that to be a waste. You have a shot. Let me help you get there.”
She gapes a little and turns to Ryan. He shrugs and juts his chin out at me.
“Show her what you mean,” he says. “Go ahead.”
I think for a moment. I could run through feet stretches until she learned what it really means to point her toes, but that feels low-impact, unimpressive, and possibly a sore spot. Instead, I tell her to follow me to a mirrored wall along one side of the floor.
“Show me the very beginning of your routine,” I instruct. “Just the dance elements before your first tumbling pass.”
She gets into position, pauses, then launches into motion. Her arms swing, her legs bend, her head tilts. She pivots and shimmies into place. The entire thing takes five seconds. When she’s done, she looks up at me with a flat, expectant look.
“Okay, no,” I say. “The start of your routine is where you draw people in. It’s an opportunity to showcase what you’ve got—not a time to rush through a few steps of choreography before getting to the big, flashy stuff. Instead of that, it could be this.”
I copy her movements, but amp them up. Each arm movement ends in a sharp flick of my fingers. Each step is taken with perfectly pointed toes. I pivot with a dramatic bump of my hip. As I spin, I catch my reflection in the mirror, and feel another crashing wave of nostalgia.
“See? Your turn.”
She resumes her position, then dives into the first step.
“No,” I say, cutting her off.
I squat down next to her and push her foot into the arched position it needs to be. Her ankle stiffens at first, then reluctantly turns to putty.
“Like that,” I say. “That’s your first step. It’s not just about moving your foot from point A to point B—it’s about creating an intentional shape. Dance can be powerful, too.”
“Like this?” she asks, rocking back and forth from her initial pose into the step.
She watches herself in the mirror and bends her knee experimentally.
“That’s better,” I say. “Again, from the top.”
We work like this for ten minutes, dissecting each step of choreography until she understands exactly when and how to move each muscle in her body. I bet she’d rather be practicing a new skill or drilling tumbling passes until she can stick one perfectly, but she lets me train her. When I demonstrate a move for her, she studies me carefully. And when she regurgitates the choreography back at me, she attacks it with new energy. As she hones in on the right motions, she looks closer and closer to the way I would’ve performed this choreography when I was her age. It breaks my heart. But it’s not my time anymore. The only way I can belong to elite gymnastics now is like this, as a mentor.
Ryan had been watching quietly from the sidelines, but now he steps in with a suggestion. “Try the whole routine again,” he says. “Throw all that in there.”
I’m skeptical—you don’t relearn how to move your entire body after just ten minutes of instruction. You can’t simply “throw all that in there” and expect real change. But Hallie takes her usual place on the floor and winds up for another routine.
When the opening notes of her music ring out, she flies into action. The first few steps of choreography are sharper now, but soon enough, her poise falters. Her shoulders slump forward, her chin drops, her toes go slack.
“Hip!” Ryan roars over the music, as she sinks down into a wolf turn.
In response, her body flinches into position. She pulls off the turn well and bounds into the home stretch. When the routine is finished, she walks back to us, panting.
“Better?” she asks.
“The beginning was much better,” I admit.
“Looks great,” Ryan says.
I wait for him to give her notes on the rest of her lackluster routine, but he doesn’t. Instead, he claps her on the shoulder. This gymnast-coach dynamic is one hundred and eighty degrees opposite from what I was raised on—I’m not sure I understand it.
“Let’s break on this for now. Grab your grips, and meet me at bars in five,” he instructs.
“ ’Kay. Thanks, Avery! This was cool,” she says, giving me an exhilarated high five.
It’s not my place to argue coaching strategy in front of her. Ryan and I watch as she scampers away toward the locker room.
“Nice work today,” Ryan says, turning toward me and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming in.”
He catches me off guard. I didn’t realize I’d be dismissed so quickly.
“Oh, that’s it? That’s— Oh. Thanks for having me.”
He nods at the door leading out toward the lobby. “I’ll walk you out,” he says.
My chest tightens at the prospect of leaving behind this musty haven of adrenaline and ambition. I don’t want to leave—I want to dangle from the bars, tiptoe across beam, and launch myself eight feet high above the white trampoline.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask awkwardly. My cheeks flush.
His eyes stay glued to the floor. “I, uh, I don’t know. To be honest, I’m interviewing another coach, too. We’ll see how things go.”
“Who?” I spit out.
“Does it matter?” he asks. He hesitates, then adds, “She wasn’t ever at your level herself, but she has a decade more coaching experience than you do. I think she could be good for Hallie.”
“I really feel like I can make a big difference here,” I insist, pushing past the insistent lump that’s beginning to form in my throat. “I know I can.”
He doesn’t respond. This is humiliating. I’m surprised at how bold I am with him, but I have nothing left to lose. I’m lucky enough that this gig fell into my lap; finding another one that would make me feel even a fraction as excited as I’d be coaching at Summit doesn’t seem possible.
We’re at the door now. Ryan places his hand on the handle. Parents lined up in gray plastic folding chairs peer at us through the waiting area window. Their passive boredom in Lululemon leggings and zip-ups is so familiar to me.
“Avery, I like you. I respect you. I want to be honest with you—I don’t know if this is going to work,” he says apologetically. “Worlds is so close, and then there are just a few more months until the Olympics. I don’t know if your approach is the right one. I think she needs to polish what’s she’s got—not start over.”
A mental image appears in a flash: me slipping underwater, slumped on the couch in my parents’ basement, with nothing to look forward to tomorrow or the next day or any day at all. I don’t have to imagine it; I know it intimately. This gym is the only place I’ve ever felt truly at home; this job feels like it should be mine. I can’t fathom Ryan giving it to anyone else. But I don’t know how to succinctly explain the territorial greed I feel for this coaching gig and how badly I need it without sounding desperate.
Ryan opens the door handle, and I mutter “Thanks” as I propel myself through the waiting area, down the hallway, and into the locker room, where Summit gymnasts who aren’t quite good enough have always gone to break down into silent tears.