“I’m very confident in Avery’s abilities,” Ryan says smoothly. “I wouldn’t bring her in if she wasn’t right for Hallie.”
“Pardon my saying so, but that’s exactly what happened last month,” Todd counters.
I have a flash of Hallie’s disastrous floor routine at Worlds.
“Mr. and Mrs. Conway…” I begin.
“Please, call us Kim and Todd,” she offers.
I take a deep breath to steady my voice. “Kim and Todd, I coached gymnastics while living in LA, and before that, I was the top gymnast in America when I was Hallie’s age. Barring an injury, I would’ve made the Olympics, and I don’t mean to brag, but I would’ve medaled on floor. I know floor. I’ve watched your daughter perform, and I have a good grasp on how to help her improve.”
They lean forward hungrily. As much as Hallie has her eyes set on the Olympics, so do they—maybe even more so.
“I’d like to choreograph a new routine for Hallie, one that plays to her strengths,” I explain. “It sounds like she’s been performing the same routine for years, and it isn’t serving her well anymore. Once she learns the new routine, it’ll be a matter of finessing her performance: we’ll work on controlling that extra power she gets on her tumbling passes, sticking the landings, moving with more poise and better posture, and polishing her dance elements. Her skills are all there. But her execution could be more graceful and dynamic, and that’s where I can help.”
Todd sits back in his seat. Kim bites her lip. They look at each other.
“Hmm,” Kim says.
I can’t tell yet if they’re fully convinced.
“If you’re able to find another floor specialist who can work well with Hallie with just eight months to go until Trials, by all means, please do,” I say. “But more than anyone else out there right now, I get exactly what Hallie is going through and I know how to help her. So, please. Let me help your daughter.”
Todd rubs his jaw. Kim swallows. I feel the same way I did during competitions, back when I had finished a routine I felt unsure about and had to wait torturous minutes for the judges to reveal my score.
“Mom, Dad, I really need help,” Hallie adds. “Come on.”
Her parents exchange glances.
“You really want this?” Todd asks.
She throws her arms up, exasperated. “I don’t have time to waste. I’m going to go warm up.”
Hallie heads to the locker room to drop off her bag.
“Let’s give this a shot,” Ryan says. “Trust me.”
Kim sighs. “All right, but if the new routine doesn’t come together soon… we’ll have to have another conversation about what’s next.”
Todd gets up, closes the button on his suit jacket, then shakes hands with Ryan and me again.
“Let’s make this work,” he says.
I can’t tell if that’s a promise or a threat.
* * *
Kim and Todd leave, and Hallie and Ryan enter the gym. I tell them I’ll join in just a minute, and make it to the bathroom just in time. Locked in a stall, I slump against the cool white tile wall, clap a hand over my mouth to muffle my sobs, and break down silently. I’ve never felt such intense relief in my life. I felt aimless in LA and completely lost back in Greenwood; once I had my heart set on this job, nothing else remotely measured up. I can’t believe it’s mine. The tears come in hot and fast. My shoulders shake. There is still so much of my life to figure out—I can’t live in my childhood bedroom forever, and the loneliness I’m facing in the wake of my breakup is awfully isolating—but this is a start. This is good. I will be okay.
After wiping away my tears, I find Hallie warming up on floor, running through the same rote cardio exercises and stretches every gymnast has burned into their memory. Ryan flicks on the lights and the radio for her, then joins me to watch on the sidelines. I’m still buzzing with adrenaline.
“Nice speech in there,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “You’re good under pressure.”
All gymnasts are.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Her parents aren’t really so bad,” he says. “Todd’s a little intense, but he just wants the best for her. They both do. Kim used to work in marketing, but now volunteers part-time at the library so she can mostly be around for Hallie.”
Ryan pulls a three-ring binder from the shelf under the stereo. “I have her training mapped out for the next eight months, but I want to get your take on it,” he says, taking a seat on the floor. “Sit. Let’s look at this together while she finishes up.”
We sit side by side. I try not to notice the way his white T-shirt stretches across his broad chest, though it’s not easy. He flips through the stuffed binder, showing me the Code of Points, which assigns a different level of difficulty to each skill and changes every three years; a practice schedule; a list of goals; Hallie’s emergency contacts and list of doctors. He finds the calendar section, outlined with what he and Hallie will be working on every month until Trials. It’s crammed with his spiky handwriting—notes to himself.
“When it comes to vault, she’s solid. She does an Amanar and a Mustafina,” he explains.
Those are two of the most difficult vaults in the world, both named after the first gymnast to perform each, as is the sport’s custom. The Amanar is a round-off, back handspring onto the board, with a two-and-a-half twisting back layout off, while the Mustafina is a round-off and half turn onto the board with a full-twisting front layout off.
“Her right ankle bothers her sometimes, so we’ve mostly been drilling them into the pit these days,” Ryan continues. “I don’t want to push her too hard on the landings. But the thing is, she gets a ton of power off the board, so she has a tough time sticking it. So one thing we’re focusing on is keeping her ankle strong, so we can get those landings in consistently good shape.”
“Got it. I’ll be careful about her ankle.”
“On bars, her routine is already excellent, but I’d like to upgrade it over the next few months,” he says. “Like, right now, she does a Tkatchev into a giant into a Pak Salto, but she could cut the giant.”
It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken the language of gymnastics, and I’m relieved that it all comes flooding back: the Tkatchev involves flinging yourself up and over the high bar backward in a straddle position; a giant means swinging around the bar in a full circle with body outstretched; a Pak Salto is when you swing off the high bar, arch into an elegant back flip, and catch the low bar.
“Which means a higher difficulty value,” I say, mentally mapping out the combination in my head.
Because the Tkatchev and the Pak Salto are both release moves, Hallie would earn more points for connecting them back-to-back, rather than separating them with a giant, which is considered an easier (and less risky) move.
“Exactly. We’ll play around with it. And we’re working on some other cool stuff. Have you ever heard of a Seitz?”
“Maybe?” I cock my head. I’ve been out of this world for a long time.
His eyes sparkle. “It’s a transition move. Imagine a toe-on circle on the low bar with a full twist to catch the high bar.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, wow,” he says, exhaling. “That’s our girl. We just gotta get her the recognition she deserves.
“She’s not bad on beam. Her acrobatic skills are all there—a back handspring, back whip, back layout combo you could die for, a solid front aerial. But there are places she could tighten up, like that goddamn wolf turn.”
“She does that on beam, too?”
“The way the Code of Points is these days, you basically have to. She does hers as a double, but I’m hoping we can get it to a two and a half.”
“That’ll be tough.”
“Right.” He closes the binder and drums his fingers on the cover. “And then there’s floor. That’s in your hands now.”
“Thanks for letting me do this,” I say.
Ryan smirks and taps on the binder aga
in. “I mean, you gotta come up with a plan,” he says.
I already know I want to choreograph a new floor routine for her, and that includes selecting new music for her to perform to. I know the rest will come in time.
The next hour of Hallie’s workout slips away—for me, at least. I can tell she works hard. She doesn’t skimp on tough ab work or mind-numbing reps, like some kids do. On the contrary, I get the sense she deepens her squats and tightens up her plank form when she notices me watching. I’m honored she considers me worthy enough to impress. When she’s finished with conditioning, she takes a water break, then meets Ryan and me on floor. She places her hands on her hips and looks from him to me, waiting for instructions.
“I’m all yours,” she says. “Put me to work.”
“Trust me, I will,” I say. “But first, we should talk.”
I’m nervous, but know I have to drop the bomb anyway.
“Hear me out on this: your floor routine is good, but it doesn’t play to your strengths. I would love to create a new routine for you—mostly the same tumbling, but new dance, new music, maybe some new skills.”
She flinches and recoils, crossing her arms over her chest. “But—but we—there are—we have just eight months to go,” she sputters.
“So why waste those months on a routine that’s not working?” I shoot back.
“I’ve been using this routine forever. You want me to throw it away now? I’ll never learn a new one in time.”
“Of course you will. I see how hard you work. You got this.”
“I’ll be rushed, I’ll forget the choreography, I’ll mess it up—probably in competition, and then I’ll fail out of gymnastics without even a high school diploma and I’ll be stuck living at home with my parents forever.”
I’m sure it’s just a flippant comment, but the cruel reality of her words cuts me deep.
“Hallie…” Ryan admonishes.
“There’s no need to be so dramatic,” I say, breezing past her insult. “Please just trust me with this.”
“I’m on board,” Ryan tells her.
She bites her lip. For a moment, she’s quiet, considering the prospect.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Then so am I.”
I pick up the binder and rifle through it until I find the section that lists every floor skill with value in the Code of Points. To test her capabilities, I rattle off different acrobatic and artistic elements and ask her to perform them, starting with tumbling. Her double Arabian is fantastic, but her triple twist isn’t doing her any favors—that tumbling pass might work better as a double-twisting double back layout. Hallie diligently follows my instructions and swivels to gauge my level of approval after each tumbling pass—so she’s sassy but ultimately obedient. I can work with that.
Fifteen minutes in, I notice her grimace and roll her right foot carefully from side to side.
“Ryan, hey,” I say, catching his attention. He looks up from his phone. “It looks like her ankle is bothering her.”
“Yeah, let’s take a break,” he says.
“Hey, hey, Hallie, stop,” I call. “How’s your ankle?”
She winces. “It’s starting to hurt again,” she admits. “It’s really not that bad, though, promise. I’ll keep going.”
“No, let’s rest for a sec. I’m going to grab you some ice, okay?”
She exhales, clearly frustrated with herself. “Fine. Thanks.”
I retrieve an ice pack from the cooler and wrap it in a paper towel so it doesn’t freeze-burn her skin. By the time I make it back to the floor, Ryan is already wrapping up her ankle with gauzy prewrap and white athletic tape to keep the joint stable.
“Thanks for the ice,” Hallie says glumly.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask.
She sighs. “On and off for, like, two years.”
“I think it’s time to see that sports medicine doctor again,” Ryan says.
“Dr. Kaminsky?” Hallie asks.
“Yeah.”
She makes a face. “I’m fine.”
Every gymnast racks up injuries like these, but they’re nearly impossible to heal while actively training for competition. I pushed through my stress fracture at fourteen and wound up with back pain that flares up for weeks at a time, even more than a decade later. I sometimes wonder: if I could go back in time and make different choices, would I avoid a lifetime of pain? Even in my worst moments, I don’t think I would. As debilitating as the flare-ups can be, what I gained from gymnastics—identity, discipline, commitment—is worth so much more. But just because I’ve made peace with that choice doesn’t mean that Hallie needs to.
“A doctor might be able to really help,” I say. “Why don’t you go just once, just to check in?”
She juts out her chin like she’s going to protest, but Ryan’s reaction stops her.
“Hal, you don’t want to mess around with an injury this year. Be smart about this.”
“Fine. I’ll go.”
“Let’s take it easy today,” Ryan says. “After your break, we’ll do bars. No dismounts, nothing crazy, just to play it safe.”
She pouts. “But that’s such a waste of a training day.”
An idea hits me. “What about this—while you ice your ankle, why don’t we listen to new floor music? Pick something out?”
Ryan backs me up, and Hallie reluctantly agrees. He steps out to grab some coffee, promising to be back in just a few minutes. This is the first time that Hallie and I have ever been alone, and I want to make the most of it. I need to get on her good side—and right now, that means finding the perfect song.
Floor music needs to be exactly ninety seconds long and contain no lyrics, so you can’t use just anything. I start by rifling through the collection of CDs and cassette tapes still stacked under the stereo, but these have all been here since before even I was a gymnast. When my search turns up nothing fresh or interesting, I pull out my phone and Google new options.
“We need something powerful, something fun,” I say, scrolling through a list of song titles. “Nothing dainty, nothing boring.”
“Maybe… jazz?” Hallie asks. She looks up at me nervously.
“You like jazz?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Yeah, it seems fun to perform to.”
“Jazz!” I practically yelp. “Let’s find you something. You need something you’ll enjoy, whatever that is.”
For the next fifteen minutes, we listen to snippets of songs and debate their merits. When we land on a track packed with energetic trumpets, we know we’ve got it right. It’s a big band number called “Jazz Fling.” Hallie bops her head along to the melody. When Ryan returns, I play it back for him and watch his expression.
“You like it?” I ask hopefully.
He gives a bemused smile. “On floor, I defer to you. Do you like it?”
This is my first big decision as a coach. The right song can make or break a routine. I know the upbeat tempo and playful sound are a strong match for the powerful physicality of Hallie’s movements. She has just enough bravado to pull it off.
“I do. Let’s do it.”
* * *
At noon, Kim returns to the gym to pick up her daughter for her midday break for lunch and homeschooling before she comes back for a second practice. It’s completely unnecessary for Kim to actually walk into the gym and chat with us; Hallie could easily head out into the parking lot on her own. I get the sense that she’s probing to see how well I’m doing. She instantly notices Hallie’s taped ankle.
“What’s going on here?” she asks.
“It’s been an okay day, but I’d get that checked out soon,” I suggest.
Kim sighs. “I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Kaminsky.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Hallie protests. “And hey, the other big news is that Avery is redoing my floor routine, and we picked new music. I’ll play it for you in the car.”
“See you this afternoon,” Kim says, ushering her daughter toward the e
xit.
“Are you staying here or heading out?” Ryan asks me once they’re gone.
It didn’t actually occur to me that I’d need to figure out a way to spend the afternoon.
“I usually take my lunch in the office, help out around the gym, that kind of thing,” Ryan offers.
I’d be happy to help other coaches with whatever they need, but the prospect of eating lunch alone with Ryan makes me nervous. Aside from Hallie, I’m not sure what we’d talk about. I grew up exclusively around fellow female gymnasts, gossiping about cute boys we saw at competitions, trading compliments on new leotards and scrunchies, and quoting Stick It to each other (“It’s not called gym-nice-tics”). I’ve never had any platonic male friends; the only times I’ve ever hung out one-on-one with guys were dates. Freshly heartbroken or not, I still can’t ignore that Ryan—formerly a cute boy—grew up into a highly attractive man. It’s not smart for me to let this crush of mine fester. The last thing I need to do is let my feelings get in the way of this job or dump my broken heart on Ryan’s plate.
“I, uh, I think I’m going to head home. But I’ll be back later this afternoon, cool?”
Ryan fist-bumps me. “Cool, see ya.”
I head into the parking lot and sit in the driver’s seat, but don’t want to go home just yet. Now that I’m alone, I can’t help but dwell on Hallie’s tossed-off comment from this morning—the one about failing out of gymnastics and being stuck living at home forever. Out of curiosity, I look at Craigslist for houses or apartments with spare rooms nearby. I’ve never looked for a place to live outside of LA before, and the tiny selection of results makes me nervous. There aren’t that many people like me in Greenwood—the town is mostly filled with families raising kids in big, beautiful houses, not single people who need to rent out a spare bedroom. Rent here is more affordable than it was back in LA, but not by much. I’ll need to work for a few months to save up enough money to move out. It’s a daunting goal, but I know I can do it. I haven’t had much faith in myself these past few years, but I have faith in this: my ability to work hard.
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