“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.
The problem, I realize, is presentation. Her chin needs to be a fraction higher, her shoulders should pull back by two inches. Her posture is stiff and strong, lacking grace. She goes through the motions of each skill in a technically accurate way, but that’s it. She’s moving, not performing. If I could teach her how to do that, she could be a champion.
If. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if anyone can. It’s a lot of pressure.
“What do you think?” Ryan asks.
I get the sense he’s been watching me take her in to gauge my reaction.
“She’s good,” I say truthfully. “Really good.”
“But…” he prompts.
I hesitate. “She could be better,” I admit.
He nods and silently watches his charge work. She squats with one leg extended, then winds up to perform a clunky pirouette with her foot maneuvering inches above the ground. It’s an awkward spin—known as the wolf turn—but the Olympic code of points awards it an insanely high difficulty score, so almost every top gymnast attempts to squeeze it into their floor and beam routines these days. I’m glad the move wasn’t in vogue when I was competing.
“How would you want to train her?” he asks.
“I’d want to see her perform a full routine first, just to get a better sense of where she’s at,” I say. “But already, I can say that she needs to focus on her performance. She’s talented, and her skills are impressive, but she could look a lot more polished. And her tumbling needs to get under control—she needs to stick those landings.”
Ryan nods in agreement, and that gives me the confidence to keep going.
“It all boils down to one problem, really,” I explain. “She needs to be sharper. More in control. Clean lines, solid landings, more intentional movement—that’s what’s missing.”
I pivot to face him, and I’m grateful to see a bemused expression on his face. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. He calls out across the gym, “Hallie, ready to run a routine? Let’s show Avery here what you can do.”
Ryan connects his phone to a stereo system and calls for the other gymnasts to clear the floor. They scatter, giving Hallie a wide berth as she makes her way to a spot a few feet from one corner of the floor. She freezes into a pose with her left leg extended and her right arm above her head. Then, a tinkling flute leads into a sweeping piano melody, and her body comes alive. The structure of her routine is familiar: a few brief dance steps, an impressive tumbling pass, followed by a series of hastily executed acrobatic movements and artistic elements designed to propel her into a new corner of the floor, where she launches into another tumbling pass. The structure repeats again, giving her exactly ninety seconds to pack a lifetime’s worth of training into a single performance.
There’s no denying it—it’s a good routine. But it’s not the kind of show that brings home Olympic medals. Here, too, her posture is rigid; her motions seem rote and uninspired. The elegant music she’s chosen doesn’t fit her style at all.
“How long has she been competing with this routine?” I ask Ryan.
“It’s changed a bit over the years, but basically, she’s been doing this for forever,” he says.
I nod. “She needs an upgrade,” I say.
“New music? New choreography?” he asks, looking concerned. “Now? With less than a year to go?” We both look back to the floor as Hallie lands her final tumbling pass, throws her arms into a dramatic flair, then sinks into her end pose. She holds it for a second, then flops down on her back, chest rising and falling hard with the intensity of her breath. Floor is an endurance test; the best gymnasts make it look effortless, but that’s just an act.
“Yeah, now,” I say. “This is okay, but it doesn’t play to her strengths. And there’s so much to refine. It could be better for her to start from scratch and learn something she loves, rather than beating a dead horse here.”
Ryan grimaces and rolls his neck, letting the vertebrae crack. Reflexively, I rotate my wrists until they crunch and push each knuckle into a satisfying pop. The sport is brutal on our joints.
Hallie joins us by the stereo. She has her hands on her waist and she looks like she’s trying not to appear out of breath.
“What’d you think?” she asks, biting her lip.
“Awesome,” Ryan gushes. “Great height and rotation on the double Arabian; that’s really come a long way. The wolf turn looks tighter today, too. Your left hip isn’t dropping as much anymore.”
His comments aren’t the full picture. Of course her double Arabian had fantastic height—she excels at tumbling, even the forward-rotating flips requiring superhuman power like that one—and she knows it. Her wolf turn was passable, but that’s hardly the most pressing item to critique. I don’t know Ryan well enough to determine if he’s a softy or if he just lacks the gimlet eye necessary to pick apart the subtleties of a women’s floor routine. But either way, he’s shortchanging Hallie. He’s letting her slide by without the grueling feedback she needs. If Dimitri ever saw this routine, Hallie would never hear the end of it.
“Avery? How did I do?” Hallie asks.
She radiates desperate energy; I can feel how badly she craves my approval. I was just like her once.
“That was very good,” I say honestly, steeling myself to be straight with her. “But there’s room for improvement, and I’d love to work with you.”
Her jaw sets with disappointment. “Yeah?” she asks.
She shifts her weight onto one hip and crosses her arms across her chest. The muscular curves of her triceps jut out proudly, and for a split second, a wave of doubt washes over me. My triceps are soft and flabby. Seven years ago, sure, I could do what Hallie just did. I could do it better. But now? Who am I to tell this lean, powerful dynamo how to improve?
Hallie’s hazel eyes narrow, and in them, I recognize a self-conscious flicker. I see her swallow hard. If I’m guessing right, she’s gifted, hardworking, but anxious. I bet she knows her natural talent and ambition can only take her so far. Ryan knows it, too. That’s why I’m here. In my experience, a coach can’t only be your friend—they have to push you, too. Ryan doesn’t seem like the type to zero in on a gymnast’s insecurities and manipulate them into motivation, the way Dimitri did. But if he’s an effective coach on bars, beam, and vault, then maybe I could be the bad cop on floor. Gymnastics is classified as an individual sport, but it’s not really. No gymnast can succeed without a coach shaping them into the best version of themselves.
“Yeah,” I say, straightening up to my full height.
I take a deep breath and try to plaster on the front of calm confidence I used to wear in competitions. I’m out of practice.
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re incredible,” I say. I explain what I’ve already told Ryan. “But your execution is sloppy and rushed. Your landings aren’t clean. Your posture is stiff. Your toes aren’t even one hundred percent pointed.”
&
nbsp; “I point my toes,” she fires back. “I’m not a baby.”
I’m stunned into silence. If I had given Dimitri so much sass, I would’ve suffered through an extra hour of conditioning alone.
“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.
NOVEMBER 2019
• CHAPTER 4 •
A familiar voice blares from the TV. I crunch an apple noisily between my teeth to block out the sound. My parents are sprawled out on the couch in the living room with their feet kicked up on the ottoman, passing a single glass of red wine between them as they watch the World Championships on TV.
“Hon, you’re sure you don’t want to watch with us?” Mom calls from the room next door.
“It’s Jasmine!” Dad adds. “Sh
e’s doing great.”
I groan.
“I’m fine in here!” I call back.
Jasmine has been a regular commentator for televised gymnastics competitions since the last Olympics. As jealous as I am, she does a fantastic job. Her deep knowledge of the sport, status as a household name, and pretty features make for good television.
It’s been two weeks. Ryan never called. I assume he must have gone with the other coach. I bet the coach is even there with Ryan and Hallie in Stuttgart right now. Truly, I can’t imagine a worse evening than watching a person who knocked me out of the running for a job while listening to commentary that—had life gone differently—I could be delivering instead.
I chomp on another bite of apple while swiping left on three more dating app profiles. I haven’t been out with anyone since my Jade Castle date with Lucas. In fact, I’ve barely done anything at all. I’ve half-heartedly cobbled together a résumé and scanned job boards. I know I can’t coast like this for much longer—my bank account is running low—but I can’t get the thought of the Summit job out of my head. Nothing else compares. I’ve been slightly more proactive on the dating front; I have a handful of conversations going with different guys, though honestly, I’m too wary to meet up with any of them. Another profile pops up.
Cali > Mass, the profile reads. Love football, hockey, and 420.
I flick disinterestedly through the guy’s photos, if only because we’ve made the same geographic move. In his third photo, he’s wearing a Rams jersey with Tyler’s name stamped across it. I swipe left and, in a fit of frustration, delete the dating app from my phone.
“Ave, you gotta come in here!” Mom shouts. “That girl from Summit is coming up next.”
“And this coach, remind me, what’s his name?” Dad asks.
I won’t get any peace in here.
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