Chapter 8

• CHAPTER 8 •

I want to believe that I’ve grown up a lot since I was Hallie’s age. It would be nice to think that I’ve blossomed into a mature, confident, graceful adult. But then Ryan will make a particularly charming joke or simply breathe in my direction, and I’m forced to remember that I’ve been harboring the same teenage crush for a full decade. So maybe not much has changed.

It’s a Wednesday in the middle of December; we’ve just wrapped up our morning practice, and we’re scattering in different directions for our midday break. Kim picked up Hallie for lunch and homeschooling, Ryan is retreating into the office for a meal, and per usual, I’m on my way out. Even though I’ve worked at Summit for a month now, I’ve never quite been comfortable spending the lunch break hanging out with Ryan. I know he stays here. I don’t want to intrude on his personal space—and if I’m really honest with myself, the prospect of regular alone time with him sounds like a nervous thrill. What would I say? So I typically eat at home.

He gives me a bemused smile. “You know, you’re more than welcome to hang out here,” he says. “Even when you’re off the clock.”

I look at the door, then back at Ryan. “Do you want company?” I ask.

That’d be nice, I replay in my head. Between clubbing in college and a high-profile relationship with a famous athlete in my twenties, I eventually got comfortable around men—even intimidating ones I was attracted to. I could flirt, banter, relax. But maybe because Ryan is from a completely different era of my life, back when the prospect of interacting with guys point-blank terrified me, I lose my cool around him.

It’s time for that to change.

The offer is very sweet. “Sure, why not? Thank you so much.”

He heats up the leftovers in the office’s microwave and clears space off the desk for us to sit and eat.

The chicken is a little bland, but it’s not bad.

There’s a moment where neither of us says anything. I could change the subject to something completely professional, like Hallie’s floor routine—but I recognize it wouldn’t hurt for Ryan and me to get to know each other on a friendlier, more personal level, too.

I can’t tell if I’m overstepping a boundary, but he doesn’t seem to flinch.

He knocks his knuckles against the wooden windowsill behind him. “Trust me, I’m grateful for that every single day.”

He already knows that I coached a preteen girls’ gymnastics team back in LA, and we trade coaching stories back and forth. He’s had more than his fair share of dealing with sassy thirteen-year-old gymnasts and their uptight parents, but so have I. This is such a niche profession, it’s rare that I meet someone else who understands it completely; even in the close-knit gymnastics circle, I don’t know any other coaches around my own age. I’m glad I got over my nerves about eating lunch with Ryan at Summit. It’s good for us to be friends.

• CHAPTER 9 •

While the rest of the world counts down to the clock striking midnight on New Year’s Eve, or the ball dropping in Times Square, we’re more focused in the gym. Chalk dust hangs in the air as Hallie Sharpies a red X over the day in the calendar in Ryan’s training binder. There are 175 days to Trials.

Hallie’s floor routine has been my singular obsession for most of the month. I sometimes catch myself tapping out the steps while rinsing my hair in the shower, or humming the music while I refill my water bottle. She has the choreography down pat by now, and we’ve settled on which tumbling passes go where. We still have a ways to go when it comes to her actual performance—but I know the nuanced details, like the sassy tilt of a head or the satisfying thunk of a cleanly stuck landing, take time to develop. She’ll get there. I’m optimistic.

So, today, Ryan wants Hallie to prioritize bars and vault. He told me I could take the day off, but the prospect of a weekday stuck in the house with Mom and Dad was too dull to consider. Instead, I spend hours lolling about by the chalk bins between the bars, fluffing the dismount mats, sucking down water bottles while wielding a whistle and stopwatch through Hallie’s conditioning reps.

When Hallie heads home for dinner at six thirty, the sliver of night sky I can see through the gym windows is navy blue and studded with stars. New England winter nights are frigid, and this one is no exception. I’m gathering my stuff by the stereo—phone, socks, hoodie—when Ryan sidles up and leans nonchalantly against the plastic shelves.

I have no plans. Three days ago, as I slathered peanut butter on a banana and slid out the side door to the garage, Mom and Dad suggested that we all watch the ball drop on TV, like we used to. That’s how I spent almost every New Year’s Eve as a teenager, back when I lived at home and had no social life outside of the gym. My new life mirrors my old one all too well. If I were still living in LA, I might try to slither into a sequined minidress, pulled down tight around my thighs, and dance while clutching an overfilled champagne flute as the clock struck midnight. I can’t do that here. I have no clue if Boston even has clubs, and if it does, there’s no way I want to brave the line outside with bare legs on a winter night.

I’m grateful that his expression doesn’t flicker with pity.

The way his voice lilts, I get the sense that he’s not just being nice. He sounds nervous, like he’s actually hoping I say yes. I’ve never seen a hint of vulnerability from him before, but I like it. Part of me wants to spit out a reassuring answer quickly so he doesn’t have to feel flustered; part of me marvels at seeing him like this.

It’s funny, I guess, the way we’ve spent hundreds of hours together at this point, and yet we’re still not quite comfortable around each other. Our lunch two weeks ago was a good step forward, but we have a ways to go.

A million questions start to unfurl on my tongue: What should I wear? Should I bring drinks? Who’s your friend? Where’s the party?… Is this a date? But by the time I work up the courage to spit out even the most basic ones, Ryan is already straightening up and heading across the gym.

Once I’m sure he’s gone, I turn to face the mirror that runs along one edge of the floor. I’m bare-faced, with a lifeless ponytail that probably should’ve been washed yesterday. Chalk dust and foam pit particles cling to my clothes. I have no idea what kind of party I’m in for, but I can guarantee that this look isn’t going to cut it. I head home, checking my phone at each red light, waiting for Ryan’s text.

There’s a message on my phone when I step out of the shower. I wipe the fog from my screen against the blue terry cloth of my towel and read Ryan’s text: a Somerville address I don’t recognize, 10 p.m., BYOB. Many of my former classmates moved to Somerville after college, especially the ones who stayed local for school. From what I know of it, it’s the kind of place with fixed-gear bikes and all-organic markets, not far from Harvard. It’s just bustling enough to feel hip—I think. I’ve never actually been.

I clutch the towel to my chest, shivering a little at the shock of cold air outside the shower, and head into my bedroom to find something to wear. My flimsy clubbing dresses are gone, but any of them probably would’ve looked desperate and out of place, anyway. Instead, I find a pair of pleather leggings and a silky black cami. I hesitate, wondering if my black knit sweater would be more appropriate. I rummage through a dresser drawer until I find it. The fabric feels comfortably thick under my fingers. Ryan is my coworker. But arms are just arms, aren’t they? And it’s New Year’s Eve. I push the sweater back into the drawer.

I blow-dry my hair, put on a tasteful layer of makeup, grab a bottle of wine from the liquor cabinet downstairs—though I need to blow a coat of dust off of it first—to stash in my purse, and then… wait for time to pass. It’s barely after eight. There was a time in my life when going out before midnight seemed lame. Now, the prospect of even making it to midnight seems questionable. I pad into the kitchen to scrounge for leftovers.

He tilts his head. “I guess I can see how sitting around with your parents tonight probably isn’t your idea of fun.”

He shrugs. “Pasta’s in the fridge,” he says.

I make myself a plate and pop it into the microwave, trying to figure out what to say to him as the appliance hums in the background.

Dad reaches for his wallet and fishes out two twenties.

After Dad and I finish our pasta, we join Mom in the living room to watch TV. The crowd packed into Times Square looks miserable in tonight’s frigid, slushy weather. Their “2020” glasses are a jarring reminder that the Olympics are just months away. Between the countdown clock in the corner of the TV screen, ticking away the minutes to midnight, and the uncomfortable sensation of my pleather waistband digging into my stomach when I normally sit here in sweats, it’s impossible to forget that I have somewhere to go. I’m anxious to leave; I’m nervous about the prospect of heading into a party where I only know Ryan, and I’m curious to see how the night will unfold. The year ahead feels like a fresh start, and I want it to hurry up and arrive already.

Mom and Dad encourage me to leave at nine thirty, but I force myself to wait at least another twenty minutes before I dare call the Uber. I don’t want to show up embarrassingly early. When my driver arrives, he grumbles about traffic but plays a comforting mix of pop hits from the ’80s and ’90s as the car whisks me through the suburbs and into the city. If I were meeting Tyler at a party, I’d text him a heads-up: On my way. But I don’t know Ryan that well. My finger hovers over his name in my phone. I do my best to resist the urge.

Finally, at ten thirty, the car stops in front of a three-story house with a strip of a snowy front lawn. A group of people cluster in the wide bay window of the first-floor apartment; that must be it. I scurry up the front walk, climb the short set of stairs to the porch, and take a deep breath before ringing the buzzer.

A trim, dark-haired guy comes to the door a few seconds later. His mouth parts halfway, and he gives me a quizzical expression. “Hi?”

I glance past his shoulder to see if I can spot Ryan, but I’m not tall enough to see beyond this guy’s bulky frame. “Hi, uh, Ryan invited me?”

The room is dim, illuminated by a strip of lights along the window that emit a soft glow that rotates through the colors of the rainbow. There’s a massive sectional along one wall where an assortment of thick-necked, muscled guys sit with their dates, facing the TV. The screen is turned to the countdown in Times Square, but mercifully, it’s on mute. Instead, ambient electronic music floats through the room. The party is dominated by a dining room table set up for beer pong with teams of two facing off at each end. The kitchen island is entirely covered with empty beer bottles, flattened six-pack cartons, open bags of chips, and a Tupperware full of lopsided, homemade chocolate chip cookies.

Ryan is perched on the arm of the couch, sipping a beer. He pops up when he spots me.

He hesitates for a split second, then leans in for a hug. It’s the first time we’ve ever been this close, and I can detect some kind of cologne. I lean into him for a brief moment, and his hand grazes the small of my back.

Training was only a few hours earlier, but here, at the party, it feels like it could’ve been days ago. I unzip my black wool coat and shrug it off, tossing it on the pile of parkas and peacoats on the love seat.

The merlot seemed fine earlier that night, but now that I see everyone else nursing beers, it feels like an uncomfortably fussy choice.

Ryan grabs a beer from the fridge, scans the table for an opener, and snaps off the cap. We clink bottles ceremoniously.

Was his comment flirty? It felt flirty—but maybe he only wanted to bring me along because the other guys here have dates.

I don’t know what else to say, so I mumble that he looks great, too. It’s not a lie; he’s in a charcoal-gray sweater that looks like cashmere and slim-fitting black pants. Away from the gym’s harsh fluorescent lighting, dressed in real clothes, he looks more like a GQ model than any real person has a right to. He may be my boss, but I’m not immune to the fact that he’s hot. I like that while he’s tall for a gymnast, he’s much closer to my height than, say, Tyler. It’s nice not to have to crane my neck to have a conversation with him.

A space opens up, and we sit, our thighs bumping as we get comfortable on the couch.

He reels off their names, though there are too many for me to keep track of them. His friends nod at me in recognition, like they’ve heard of me already and knew to expect me tonight. People say hello, then return to a heated conversation about the Patriots’ chances of making the Super Bowl. The last thing I want to do is talk about football with another guy.

Next to him, his girlfriend, a blond girl with meticulous highlights dressed in a clingy, metallic sweater dress—Melissa, I think?—looks up.

The attention makes me slightly anxious. I know the next logical question is if I was ever in the Olympics, like Ryan, and that’s a rabbit hole I don’t want to have to deal with. So I jump in with a question of my own to divert the conversation.

Goose works in sales for a tech start-up, and Melissa teaches fifth grade.

He gives me a cocky look. “Two world-class athletes against these two? We got this.”

We wait a minute for the game to wrap up, and then Goose sets up the table for another round. He throws the first ball and sinks it into a red Solo cup, but Ryan doesn’t look worried at all. I expect him to step up to the table for the first throw from our side, but he encourages me to take the shot. I center myself against the table, focus on the exact spot I want the ball to land in, and steady myself. The precision reminds me of preparing for a vault—except here, my skills are shaky at best. Sure enough, my ball bounces off the rim of one cup and ricochets across the living room. I chase after it in a hurry before it disappears under the couch.

I chuckle. “Are you coaching me? You know, we’re off the clock. This is just for fun.”

He holds his hands up. “All right, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

Over the course of the game, between turns, he slowly but surely guides me. He’s standing inches behind me when I finally land one, and he leans forward to wrap his arms over my shoulders in a celebratory hug.

When we win the entire game a few minutes later, it’s all because of Ryan.

He doesn’t argue with me.

We relinquish the table to the next group of players and get another round of beers from the fridge. The party has gotten crowded.

I laugh. “Like, first date style?”

His shoulders creep toward his ears, his lips curl, and he cocks his head to one side. “Maybe?” he asks coyly, self-consciously, like my question caught him off guard. “If you want it to be.”

Before I can formulate the right response—do I want it to be?—he clears his throat and rushes to add, “Or if you don’t want it to be, that is absolutely okay, too.”

I consider telling him more about my breakup with Tyler, but decide against it. That conversation would require exposing too much of myself. I don’t need Ryan to see the raw, messy bits of my life. It’s better that he think of me only as a stellar coach or maybe even as someone he might start to like. There’s no use ruining that impression.

Ryan nods and sips his beer. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Maybe I’m imagining it, but whatever glimmer of potential there was between us before, it’s hardened now. His jaw sets a millimeter tighter than it did before. Is he calculating how long I’ve been back in town and how quickly a person can get over heartbreak?

I’ve never said that out loud, but it’s the truth. I’ve always been conscious of the fact that Tyler pulled me out of a dangerous spiral; I know he was so damn good for me when we met. But we both changed. We grew apart. And just because I’m grateful for how he was back then doesn’t mean I owe him forever. The idea is strangely energizing. I’ve been leaning one lazy hip against the kitchen counter, and I straighten up to my full height.

A fighter. I can’t remember the last time someone called me that. It’s been ages since I deserved that compliment. It feels good to be seen that way.

Ryan digs through an open bag of potato chips, and when he looks back up at me, he has a funny look on his face. His mouth twists to one side. I get the sense that he’s weighing whether or not to say something, and I don’t want to interrupt his train of thought. I pick lightly at the chips.

I worry that if I say too much, I’ll scare him into changing the subject—and I want to hear more.

I can’t help but let out a short, harsh laugh. “Oh, I know that feeling. Maybe too well.”

His face lights up. “It’s weird, isn’t it? Going from this thing that dominates your whole world to nothing at all. It’s like, well, shit, can I even be anybody else?”

I exhale deeply. “I know what you mean.”

He takes another chip and turns it over in his hand, considering it.

I like the hopeful twinkle in his expression.

He double-fists electronic devices, cutting off the music with his phone and using the TV remote to take the Times Square broadcast off mute. I hadn’t even noticed Melissa bustling in the kitchen, but while Ryan and I had been talking, she must have poured champagne into two dozen plastic flutes lined up in rows on the counter.

I’m frustrated that my conversation with Ryan got interrupted. I grab as many flutes as I can carry and make my way into the crowd, passing them out. When I turn back to get more, Ryan is behind me, his gaze locked on the trembling, overly filled drinks. I hand three plastic flutes to strangers and keep a fourth for myself. I feel too self-conscious to take up prime real estate in a spot in front of the TV, so I move to the edge of the party, near the windows. There’s a roaring, rhythmic cheer coming from the hordes of tourists in Times Square that signals the new year is mere seconds away. I wonder how many millions of people must be watching this same exact sight, and what unfathomable pressure that must place on whoever is responsible for lowering that massive crystal ball.

I shrink closer to the windows, unsure whether or not to join in. They aren’t my friends.

Suddenly, Ryan slips between the couple to my left, and he’s by my side.

He places his hand on the small of my back.

All around us, couples erupt in celebratory kisses. I turn to him just as he turns to me. A curious grin plays on his face. His fingers slide over my waist, keeping us close. I place my hand lightly on his chest, tilt my head up to look at him, and we kiss. I feel a giddy burst of adrenaline, and it’s not only the festive energy radiating throughout the room. Despite harboring a crush on him for years, I never fathomed a world in which I stir up the same dizzying feelings that he creates in me. Ryan pulls back ever so slightly, and a smile curls on his lips.

He rests his drink on the windowsill, then pulls me closer to him, sliding his hands over my hips. His embrace is warm and thrilling. I feel confident enough to let my hand roam from his chest to his shoulder to his neck, feeling the powerful muscles underneath his sweater. My fingers brush the plush edge of his hair. He nuzzles my cheek and trails kisses down the side of my neck. The sensation is electrifying, and my eyes flutter open.

Most of the crowd has moved on from making out; the music is back on. It suddenly hits me that I’m kissing Ryan—not just Cute Ryan from my teenage dreams, but Ryan, the coach I work alongside every day. The person who, like me, is responsible for molding an Olympic champion, and probably shouldn’t be distracted right now. A thick blanket of self-consciousness settles over me, and I tense up.

I stare out at the room of people. “I, uh, I… I’m sorry.”

Anxiety creeps into my chest.

I take a deep breath. It’s hard to face him.

He rubs his jaw and doesn’t look at me right away. “Sure thing.”

He doesn’t protest.

The entire ride home to Greenwood, I replay that kiss in my mind and regret leaving.

JANUARY

2020

• CHAPTER 10 •

Summit is closed on New Year’s, but opens the following day. I pull into the parking lot with one minute until practice, although I don’t get out of the car right away. Ryan’s Subaru is parked, and I’m worried about entering the gym without Hallie as a buffer. I spent most of yesterday ping-ponging between desire and self-doubt; I want to let myself enjoy the memory of that tantalizing kiss, but I know I shouldn’t. Without the heady buzz of the party clouding my judgment, it seems awfully stupid to jeopardize my professional relationship for the chance at anything romantic. We can’t risk Hallie catching on; she’s sheltered enough that a midnight kiss between her two coaches would sound scandalous, not festive. It would be a distraction she can’t afford to indulge in right now. And beyond that, Ryan is the closest thing I have to a friend these days. I don’t want to ruin that. The thought of explaining this tangle of emotions, responsibilities, and fears to Ryan makes me queasy—I’d rather simply pretend the kiss never happened. We were tipsy; I was lonely; that’s that. So I wait until I see Hallie’s mom drop her off before I dare get out of my car and enter the building.

Hallie is usually happy to chatter away the first morning after a break, like a weekend or a holiday. But when I find her and Ryan on the floor, she’s not dilly-dallying—she’s already running laps. It looks like she doesn’t want to squander a moment of practice.

Ryan turns ever so slightly toward me with his arms crossed over his chest. “Hi,” he says simply, like he’s testing out the vibe between us.

I follow suit. It’s easier to watch her than to look at him.

Hallie jogs past us again, and we fall into uneasy silence.

He stays across the gym for longer than it takes to adjust the temperature.

It strikes me that even if I want to pretend the kiss never happened, he may not. Maybe he feels rejected, or embarrassed, or like he misread the situation entirely. Or maybe he came to the same conclusion that I did, that getting involved with each other can irreparably damage the work we’re doing. If Hallie overhears our awkwardness, there’s no way she wouldn’t pick up on the fact that something is off.

I glance at Hallie—she’s been doing a variation of this same warm-up routine since she was in preschool. She doesn’t need me to hover over her and bark instructions. I leave my regular perch by the stereo and head to the back of the nearly empty gym to find Ryan leaning against the wall and looking at something on his phone.

We’re far enough that Hallie won’t hear us, but still, I’m nervous.

I wring my hands and steel myself for a moment of terrifying honesty. “I had so much fun with you the other night, and I really appreciate that you invited me out,” I begin. “It was all amazing, including the kiss, but I… I don’t think it should happen again. I think we’d be better off as friends.”

He raises one eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

I take a deep breath and try to summon the vulnerability I need to pull off this conversation successfully.

This is mortifying to say out loud, but I have to keep going.

His face softens. He doesn’t look angry—just sad.

I see his gaze drift over my shoulder, and I turn to follow it. Hallie is stretching in an oversplit—a split with stacks of mats under each foot and her crotch flush against the floor. She grabs the toes of her front foot and bends over to face her knee. The position requires superhuman flexibility developed over years, which sums up my point exactly. We all have to stay focused on our goal.

He sighs. “You’re right. I get it.”

His expression is tough to read at first, but it ultimately crinkles into an attempt at a smile. “Of course.”

Me and Ryan, friends. There’s something about the idea that’s hazy and hard to picture, but maybe that’s because nothing about my future feels completely solid right now. I’ve finally saved up enough money to move out of my parents’ house, and I’m going to see an apartment this weekend. The idea of moving makes me feel hopeful.

He claps his hands authoritatively and calls across the gym, “Hallie, how’s that stretching going?”

For the rest of the morning, Ryan and I stay out of each other’s way. I give him space while he works with Hallie on vault. When it’s time for me to take over on floor, he tells Hallie he’s going to head to the office to answer some emails.

She warms up and practices each of the four passes we’ve chosen for her routine. After a hard landing, she sighs and rolls out her ankle, flexing her foot in different directions.

She takes a few experimental steps, head cocked to the side.

She sighs. “Nothing major is wrong, but I can tape it up if it’s bothering me.”

She retrieves gauzy prewrap and athletic tape from the supply closet and sits on one side of the floor with her foot in front of her, methodically winding the materials around her ankle and heel to stabilize the joint.

I sit and join her. She silently fumes when the tape is too tough to rip cleanly. I help her pull off a long strip.

She bites her lip. “I know he’s a good doctor, but I don’t know… I kind of got a weird vibe from him. And my ankle really feels fine, anyway. So it’s not like I’d need to go back.”

Something about Hallie’s quiet, fidgety demeanor and insistence that everything is normal raises a red flag for me. She reminds me of Jasmine, back when we were kids, the way she’d pretend like Dimitri’s behavior on bad days didn’t bother her. She always cried later, when it was just the two of us. I remember the pressure to stay tightly controlled and focused on training, the way we would push down our feelings until we could barely notice them anymore. I don’t want that for Hallie.

She hesitates, glances at the door, and then back at me. Ryan is nowhere in sight. She absentmindedly picks at the edge of the roll of tape.

She doesn’t make eye contact. She keeps picking at the tape.

I don’t know enough about medicine to know if she’s describing a legitimate professional encounter or something far more sinister. But something feels off to me.

She pulls her knees up to her chest. “He’s a doctor,” she points out. “My mom was in the room with me both times. She didn’t think anything of it.”

When Hallie finally looks up at me, her eyes are bright and glassy with tears.

She shrugs.

I don’t want to pressure Hallie into saying anything she’s not ready for, but also, her parents should probably know—and I’m not sure it’s my place to tell them. I remember how daunted I felt at her age by the prospect of being vulnerable with my parents. But I wish I had been more open with them.

She looks at me so expectantly, I don’t know how to say no.

Hallie leans her forehead against my shoulder and lets me embrace her. I feel this odd wave of maternal instinct, and so I stroke her hair and rub soothing circles on her back. She exhales.

• CHAPTER 11 •

On Craigslist, I found a spare room in an apartment on the edge of Greenwood. The person leasing it, a yoga instructor about my age named Sara McCarthy, was two years below me in Greenwood’s public school system, though we didn’t know each other as kids. Normally, this would make me wary; I wouldn’t want a repeat of my disastrous date with Lucas. But as Sara gave me a tour of the cozy, colorful apartment, she didn’t ask any leading questions or pry for uncomfortable answers. She seemed both bubbly and relaxed. The apartment spanned the top floor of a duplex; the living room was painted an electric shade of purple, like Rachel and Monica’s apartment in Friends; the rent was affordable; the bedroom came furnished. I said yes on the spot.

A week later, I pack my things into the trunk of the Honda and drive across town to move in. Sara helps me carry my suitcases and laundry baskets of clothing out of the car and up the stairs.

I’m not particularly interested in either offer, but I appreciate her openness.

She jostles open the door to the apartment and leans one of my suitcases against the couch covered by an enormous hand-crocheted afghan. A pink yoga mat hangs in a nylon carrier on a hook by the coatrack, and a trio of creamy white candles rest on the coffee table.

Despite my protests that there’s no need for her help unpacking, Sara seems happy to. She brews us hot, fruity tea and carries it into the bedroom at the end of the hall—the one that’s now mine. She lets me have what is clearly the better of the two mugs, printed with a faded graphic of a cat wearing bejeweled cat-eye glasses and only barely chipped. She sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed and folds clothes into neat stacks for me to place inside the old-fashioned armoire by the window, chattering easily as she works.

Maybe I’d misjudged her.

I get the sinking feeling that I’ve just moved all of my possessions into the home of a woman who sees me as Avery, the athlete, not Avery, the regular roommate.

I’m grateful she said that—it makes me feel more confident that’s true.

Her tone makes it clear she’s kidding.

As soon as she mentions Tyler, it hits me that I haven’t dwelled on him in a week. I feel a little proud of myself for beginning to move on.

I turn toward the closet and hang up my parka so I don’t have to face her.

Her tone sounds hungry for gossip, but I’m not in the mood to give it. I get why some people might be starstruck by the prospect of dating a pro football player, but having actually done it, the sheen is lost on me.

She dramatically closes her eyes and places her hands together in prayer. “Preach, girl.”

I laugh.

I’m starting to like Sara.

I reach for the scissors on the nightstand to cut open my last box of things. We’re both quiet for a minute.

I run the odds in my head that Sara would have ever crossed paths with Ryan. Greenwood has just thirty thousand people, but he didn’t grow up here, and they seem to run in different social circles. I don’t think they know each other. I grab my mug of tea and sink down across from Sara on the bed.

Right—she is not here to listen to my thoughts on Hallie’s athletic career. The question was about Ryan.

This is the first time I’ve ever told this story out loud, the first time I’ve had a person to tell it to. The events of that night have been playing on a jumbled loop in my brain ever since I left the party in Somerville, but that doesn’t make explaining what happened with Ryan any easier.

God, how many times since New Year’s Eve have I imagined the electricity of our kiss? Sometimes, I catch myself daydreaming about it at Summit when I know I shouldn’t.

I feel hot, like I’m under a spotlight.

She shrugs and scoots off the bed, then whirls around to face me. “We can be friends, can’t we?” she asks.

I glance around the bedroom, which doesn’t quite feel homey yet, though it’s shaping into something that feels like mine. This apartment feels like a fresh start. I don’t want to leave it just yet.

I don’t mean it. It’s the way I was raised—unless a workout involves a raised heartbeat and death-defying stunts, I’m not interested. Chanting mantras in downward dog doesn’t seem like it’d do it for me.

I sink onto the bed. First Summit, then whatever is going on with Ryan, and now this new place to live. For the first time in a long time, I feel the different elements of my life clicking together. I like this new life.

After Sara leaves, the apartment is quiet. I drive to the supermarket, pick up an armful of carrots, mushrooms, herbs, and rice, and make risotto for myself. Cooking dinner for one is an endeavor that requires a little too much time, energy, and money for what it’s worth, but I need to do something to keep my hands and mind busy. I have to focus on drizzling the pan with precisely the right amount of olive oil and dicing the vegetables the right way so I don’t have the bandwidth to think about Ryan. He’s been on my mind more than I’d like to admit lately.

I didn’t used to be like this—sappy, emotional, with a soft center. I used to pride myself on being able to block out distractions. It’s a necessary skill in gymnastics: when you’re four feet aboveground, balancing on a four-inch-wide beam, there’s no room to notice the trilling of another girl’s floor music or the flailing kid cartwheeling past you or the watchful gaze of your coach. There’s you and there’s the beam. That’s it. Tonight, there’s me and there’s this meal. I wish that could be it. My mind keeps circling back to thoughts I shouldn’t be having.

There’s nothing worth getting distracted from Olympic glory, least of all a crush—that’s what Dimitri drilled into me years ago. But the truth is that however deeply I know Ryan and I can’t hook up or date or whatever we were veering toward, I still want to kiss him again. I can’t stop thinking about running my fingers through his hair and feeling his powerful hands pressing into the curve of my waist. I like him. I liked him back then, too, though I didn’t think I could do anything about it. Now, though? I’m not sure. I’m in a new home. It’s a fresh start. Anything could be possible.

• CHAPTER 12 •

Monday’s practice slips by in a flash. Hallie, clad in a blinding neon orange leotard sprayed with sparkles, whips through warm-ups and conditioning with alarming grit, charges down the vault runway like a sprinter, attacks her tumbling with gusto, and moves with an impressive sense of focus on beam. Nationals—the annual competition that brings together the country’s top talent—is one of the most important events of the year, and it’s just two months away. The upcoming competition sharpens the pressure. When Hallie’s moving in top form, like she is today, practice never drags. It’s impossible to look away from her.

She and Ryan have spent the final hour of the day together on bars, drilling her new Tkatchev–Pak Salto combo. It’s coming together nicely; right now, she can pull it off just fine, though she has some work to put in before the combination looks effortless. That’s the gold standard in gymnastics: making the impossible look not just possible, but easy. I’ve been sitting and stretching on the sidelines, watching Ryan tracking Hallie’s movements as she arcs through the air. His arms are outstretched; he’s ready to catch her if she falls.

He laughs. “One more. Then you gotta get out of here.”

She likes to have video clips to post on Instagram—though, of course, only the most jaw-dropping ones actually get posted.

She takes her position under the high bar. Ryan grabs her by her waist, and she jumps; he helps her reach the bar. She does a move called a kip to swing up so the wooden equipment is flush against her hips, then screws up her face in a look of pure concentration before launching into a handstand, giant, and finally, a Tkatchev followed swiftly by a Pak Salto. Her compact body flings over one bar, then between the two, and it’s magnificent. Once the final move is complete, her knees bend, and her shoulders sag into a relaxed swing. She knows she’s nailed it. She drops down and jogs over to my spot on the mat to watch the playback.

She strips off her grips and heads across the gym to pack up for the night. Ryan jumps up to the high bar himself, swings back and forth, and drops back down to the mat.

I shrug. “I mean, I guess? My new roommate, Sara, invited me to another yoga class tonight, but I told her practice might run late.”

He laughs. “Gotcha.”

Ryan meanders around the bars and leans against one of the silver poles holding up the apparatus.

If only he knew how I regret saying that I only wanted friendship.

I know the place. Wood-fired pizza with surprisingly healthy toppings, which is a plus, but brightly lit and full of kids—less than ideal.

Too late, I realize that inviting Ryan over might feel too intimate.

Maybe I’m overthinking it.

As we walk together from the bars to the door, I try to pretend that everything is fine and normal, and that I haven’t spent the past two weeks wishing for another opportunity to spend time alone with him. When I duck into the changing room to pick up my parka and purse, I spend an extra thirty seconds fixing my ponytail and putting on a coat of mascara from the tube I find in the bottom of my bag. This is not a date, I remind myself as I lacquer up my eyelashes.

I find Ryan in the lobby, leaning against the wall and looking at his phone. There’s something casually intimate about the way he waits for me; it’s something Tyler did when I met him after football practice. But I can’t let myself think that way.

He tails me across town, and I try not to look back at his reflection in my rearview mirror too often. I also refrain from turning on the radio, in case he gets an embarrassing glimpse of me bopping my head along to the music. I try to remember exactly how messy the apartment was when I left this morning. I don’t think there are any random bras tossed over the arm of the couch, but I could be wrong.

I meet him in my driveway, and we climb the stairs to my apartment together. This is not a date, I remind myself, as I unlock my front door and usher a handsome, funny gentleman inside. This is my first time inviting a guest over to my new apartment, and it’s a little nerve-wracking. I distract myself by babbling to Ryan about the tortellini soup recipe I was planning to try out tonight.

I sift through my fridge and cabinets, picking out the right ingredients to make the dinner. Cooking will keep me busy in front of Ryan, which is a relief because it’s jarring to see him sit on one of the yellow bar stools in my kitchen, watching me work.

I hope he’ll say yes, so I can have some, too. It’ll take the edge off.

I find a bottle of red wine in the cabinet and give us each a generous pour. The first sip is so flavorful, that alone calms me down a notch.

There’s a lull in the conversation as I start to peel and chop an onion. The apartment feels quiet without Sara here.

I consider the recipe. “Do you think you’re up for the challenge of chopping celery?”

He nods. I hand one to him along with a knife and a cutting board, and we get to work side by side at the kitchen table. Our knives thwack rhythmically into our respective vegetables, and I realize again that I don’t know what to say that will strike the right balance between friendly and polite.

Ryan clears his throat. “Hallie was great today,” he says. “Clean, on point.”

I’m both relieved and disappointed that he brought up work. It’s easy, safe territory—I don’t have to worry about accidentally saying anything unprofessional or inappropriately personal. But on the other hand, well, it’s work. I don’t want to be just his coworker.

He clinks his to mine. “Cheers. Seriously. Let’s just hope she keeps up the good work,” he says, sighing.

Luckily, Ryan doesn’t keep digging.

He snaps his fingers. “That explains it all, then.”

My answer tumbles out before I can second-guess myself. “I was completely, totally, and majorly depressed. And also, I partied too much to ever make it to class.”

He lets out a low whistle. “That got dark fast.”

I wince. “Too dark?”

I shrug and turn my attention to the pot on the stove so I don’t have to see what I assume is a look of pity. But when I look back at Ryan, he doesn’t look like he pities me at all. He nods in a way that makes me think he understands.

This time, Ryan raises his glass and clinks it against mine.

I want to say something more, to come up with a clever idea to toast to, but I get tongue-tied when he makes eye contact over our drinks. Instead, I finish making the soup and ladle it into two bowls. I’m pleased with how it turned out—savory, hearty, bursting with flavor. It’s a simple meal, but Ryan seems impressed.

Over dinner, Ryan regales me with stories from his travels. Years of competing across states and countries sparked his love of seeing new places, and now he saves up for as many trips as he can.

He thinks for a moment. “Traveling for gymnastics is always cool, but you don’t get tons of time to actually explore or indulge in great food, so… hmm. I guess my favorite would be the summer that Goose and I backpacked across Europe together.”

I wish I had done something like that.

He leans in closer and stage-whispers, “Nude beaches.”

He holds up his hands in protest. “Hey, I’m just a man.”

He raises an eyebrow, then looks down in intense concentration at his bowl.

He sips his soup. “You could go,” he says, coyly glancing up at me.

I feel precariously close to the edge of saying something stupidly flirty, so I shove a tortellini into my mouth to keep myself from speaking. Discussing nude beaches makes me wonder what Ryan looks like naked, which is absolutely the very last thing I should be doing.

We linger after we finish eating. He tells stories about what Hallie was like when he first met her (apparently, “tiny, furiously hardworking, adorably wholesome, and too energetic”—or in other words, exactly like she is today). We go off on tangents about gymnasts we competed alongside a decade ago, musing about the few in the public eye today and the majority who faded into quiet lives. We try to gauge where we fall on the spectrum, and jokingly agree to not let the fame go to our heads.

Ryan runs a finger around the rim of his empty wineglass, and his mouth screws up to the side.

I like that we can match each other in competitive spirit.

We spend a few minutes clearing the table and loading the dishwasher. He takes the most annoying task, hand-washing the pots, of his own volition. For a split second, the rhythm of cooking and cleaning together reminds me of living with Tyler, and I forget that Ryan isn’t my boyfriend. I feel a dull sense of loneliness, thinking ahead to the rest of the night, once he’s gone. It only gets worse once the kitchen is clean and he grabs his coat from the hook by the door.

It’s January in New England, which means that getting ready to head out the door requires serious effort: jackets zipped, scarves wound, gloves tugged on. Outside, it’s pitch-black. The driveway is only partly lit by the golden glow of a street lamp. By the time we reach Ryan’s car, parked behind mine, I’m not ready for the night to end. There’s an easy comfort between us—a type of intimacy that only grows between two people who have lived the same kind of life. Ryan reaches for his car door. I don’t overthink what comes next; it just happens.

I lean forward and I kiss him. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. He kisses me back, slipping an arm around my waist, and bracing us both with a hand against the car window. His lips are soft, and his embrace is sturdy and strong. There’s a warmth radiating from him, even on this frigid night, and I like the way I fit in his arms. I could stay here happily forever, even if it’s freezing, even if we shouldn’t be doing this.

And then, suddenly, he pulls back. He pushes off the car and shoves his hands into his pockets. Even his eyes flicker away from mine. Without him hovering over me, I feel cold and exposed.

I’m shocked by how much his rejection hurts. It’s embarrassing to have to be reminded that my past self made a responsible decision that my present self is too emotional or tipsy or lonely to adhere to.

The easy banter over dinner, the fuss over paying for groceries, the comfort of cleaning up side by side—maybe this wasn’t technically supposed to be a date, but it sure felt like one. And what happened next was simply a natural extension of the night. Wasn’t it? I sigh, and in the cold, my breath becomes a visible cloud.

He gives me a sad look that makes my entire body feel weighed down with two-ton anchors.

It’s mortifying to say that out loud, but he has to understand how he made me feel tonight. I want him to recognize that he made me feel like there was possibility blooming between us again.

I hate that he’s using my own words against me. I’m afraid if I protest, my voice will come out thin and whiny, like I’m begging for his affection.

He sighs. “I don’t want to push you away.”

He looks down at his feet and doesn’t say anything. I can feel whatever sliver of a chance of us being together evaporating, and it makes me feel frantic with desperation.

Against my better judgment, a thrill runs through my body. My brain feels like a jumble of confetti and trumpets and parades. And then I notice the way his voice lilts downward at the end, like there’s a “but” coming. My heart races and then skids to a stop.

Sure enough, he starts with, “But—”

I have to cut him off. “Here’s the thing, Ryan. Whether or not it’s convenient, or whether or not it’s a good idea, I can’t just walk away from the fact that being around you makes me happier than I’ve felt in a long time.”

I sound ten times braver than I feel. It’s terrifying to be so honest with him, but I’m in too deep now to turn around. I have to keep going—I owe it to myself to at least try to win Ryan over. I take a deep breath and barrel on.

Ryan is still just inches away. I take in the soft, dark depths of his eyes, the faint scar over his eyebrow, the smattering of stubble along his jaw, his tensed, broad shoulders. He swallows.

Distractions. The word reverberates uncomfortably and settles into the pit of my stomach. That’s what I’d be: a distraction. I can’t look at him. I’m not a monster—I don’t want my love life to stand in the way of Hallie’s shot at Olympic glory. But I don’t think it’s quite that simple. She would never need to know. I fiddle with the zipper of my jacket.

I’m sure Ryan didn’t mean to do it, but linking my feelings for him now to the depression I felt years ago just crushes me. It’s cruel.

Ryan doesn’t protest as I head back inside.

FEBRUARY

2020

• CHAPTER 13 •

I hold her feet as she dangles her upper body off the back of the vault, then muscles her way up into a sitting position. Her abs swell in size by the second.

I’m very careful to resist the urge to peek across the gym at Ryan. In fact, I’ve spent the majority of the past week avoiding him, because it’s painful enough to replay our awful last conversation in my head every night before I fall asleep. I don’t want to have to relive it in his presence, too.

She rarely, if ever, asks about my life outside the gym. I don’t share, either. Did she Google me? If so, there’s a handful of tabloid stories about me and Tyler—I hope she didn’t uncover those.

I laugh nervously. “No. Why?”

Her face turns beet red, and it’s not from the physical exertion. She can do this workout in her sleep.

The last thing I want to do is to make a scene, because then Ryan will come over and ask what we’re laughing about.

She dips backward into another crunch. “So, you’re single, then? I know my aunt is always trying to set up my older cousin,” she says, giggling.

We make it through conditioning without any more forays into my personal life. When it’s time for her to move on to bars, she skips off to the changing room to grab her grips. I’m relieved she didn’t dig any deeper. I remember what it was like when I was her age. I knew that the girls I had grown up with had boyfriends, or at least dates to the winter semiformal. I opted for homeschooling instead of attending an actual high school, but even I heard rumors about my old classmates having sex, saying I love you, flirting at beer-soaked parties. I wondered if some people were born hardwired for it, the way I was primed for athletic excellence. I couldn’t fathom having the guts to do any of that on my own. (But a death-defying stunt on a sliver of wood? Sure, no problem.) I’m impressed that Hallie was brave enough to ask me about my personal life—and I wonder how much of her curiosity stems from wondering what it’s like to have a personal life at all.

My ponytail has loosened over the course of the morning, and it sags toward the nape of my neck. I take down my hair and am in the process of redoing my ponytail when my hair elastic snaps. I don’t have another one on me, so I head to the supply closet, tucked in an alcove at the back of the gym. The door is slightly ajar. I push it open farther and nearly bump straight into Ryan, who’s running his fingers over the shelves, like he’s in search of something.

He looks worried, though, as if he’s waiting for me to say or do something inappropriate again.

I rack my brain for some witty joke or easy banter to break the tension, but instead, I just freeze up. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s waiting for me to say something, anything.

I find a fresh elastic, flip my head over, and smooth my hair back into a high, tight pony. I feel more like myself this way.

I scan the shelves, which are brimming with athletic tape, gauze, Advil, cans of hair spray and butt glue covered in chalky handprints, and water bottles branded with Summit’s logo. A colorful pile of latex resistance bands spools in one corner of the closet.

I crouch down to the bottom shelf, where there’s one remaining block of chalk half-hidden in a white plastic bag. Our hands bump when he takes it from me.

Crammed into this narrow closet with him, it hits me that I miss the easy way our conversations used to flow, before I kissed him and messed everything up. Aside from strictly necessary conversations about Hallie’s training, we’ve barely exchanged a single word since then. We’ve stopped eating lunch together, too.

He exhales with the slightest hint of a laugh and looks down at the chalk in his hands.

He gestures vaguely at the space between us and makes air quotes. “You know… ‘How’ve you been?’ Pretending things are all normal, when, in fact, the first time we’ve spoken about anything but Hallie all week is because we accidentally stumbled into the same closet.”

I bite my lip, feeling the sensation of embarrassment flood my entire body. I always thought I had a decent poker face; it’s something I picked up from years of competing in front of judges, hiding grimaces when I was in pain or pissed about a low score. It’s mortifying that Ryan has seen right through me this whole time.

I cross my arms. I feel like a fool for trying to strike up a conversation with him in the first place.

But instead of looking upset or embarrassed, his expression is apologetic.

He exhales heavily and gives me a hopeful look. “We’re not doing too badly, right?”

He laughs. “And what did you tell her?”

He tilts his head, encouraging me to continue.

He shifts his weight, and my view of the doorway behind him disappears completely. Nobody can see me in here with him, not even if they tried. I’m close enough to take just one step forward and kiss him, but I know I shouldn’t. I inch backward, away from him, but my foot catches on the pile of resistance bands spilling out on the floor and I trip. The shelves are freestanding metal ones; I’m sure everything would topple down onto me if I grabbed them for support. I pitch off-kilter, and Ryan lunges forward to steady me.

I find my balance quickly, but Ryan doesn’t let go. Not at first. His fingers are wrapped around my bicep and my waist, and I’ve braced myself against his chest. He looks down at me. I look up at him. He looks down at his hand wrapped around my torso, like he’s just fully registered that it’s there, and can’t quite believe it. His lips, just inches away from me, curl up in an embarrassed sort of smile. I hate that I like his strong hands holding me up.

Then I hear Hallie’s voice calling my name. The sound jolts me out of Ryan’s arms. I squeeze past him, through the doorway, and into the main part of the gym so I can find Hallie.

I find her near the bars, clutching her phone, frozen in place.

Her voice sounds timid.

She glances at Ryan, coming up behind me, then back to me. She holds her phone to her chest and motions for me to come closer. I get a bad feeling.

He looks confused, but ducks away.

Hallie flops belly-down on one of the plush crash mats by the bars. I sit cross-legged next to her. She sighs, hands me her phone, and then buries her face in her arms.

My heart sinks when I read the New York Times headline on her screen: “Olympian Delia Cruz Accuses Sports Medicine Dr. Ron Kaminsky of Sexual Assault.” Of course Hallie isn’t the only one he intimidated or abused. I feel so stupid for not realizing she isn’t an isolated case. I know Delia, sort of. She’s halfway between my age and Hallie’s, so we briefly overlapped for a year at competitions, but we were never close. Back when I knew her, she was this bubbly, outgoing kid with a mane of springy, dark curls sprouting from her scrunchie. She used to sneak gummy bears into her gym bag and hand them out covertly in the locker room.

I skim the rest of the story, but after the endless wave of sexual assault allegations against politicians, CEOs, and Hollywood producers over the past few years, the details are sickeningly familiar. Delia says Dr. Kaminsky molested her while allegedly treating her for a hamstring injury. Her mom, like Hallie’s mom, was in the room. The Times reports that a representative for Dr. Kaminsky vehemently denies the claims.

I’m at a loss for what to say. I try to imagine what I would want to hear if I were in her shoes, but I come up frustratingly short. It’s not like I ever had heart-to-hearts with Dimitri.

She stares glumly off into space for a long time.

She looks to me hopefully, as if I have the answers. It’s too horrible to comprehend. But this time, I know what to say.

I realize that if Dr. Kaminsky did this to Delia, and nearly did it to Hallie, he must have done it to other girls, too. It’s too awful to imagine how many others there are, how big this is.

Hallie is still flat on the mat, but now her chin digs into her hands and her lower lip curls inward, like she’s trying to prevent it from trembling. I don’t know what to do, but I know I have to try something. I stroke comforting circles on her upper back, and her eyes start to water.

She’s close to shouting now. Other gymnasts and coaches have turned to stare. I want to snap at them. It’s like a spotlight follows Hallie around the gym; she’s the only one here worth gawking at. But right now, she’s not performing. She just needs privacy.

I can practically see the first thought that flashes through her head: No. I need to work. But then she heaves a sigh, wipes under each eye, and nods silently in agreement. She strides across the floor and the vault runway—the other gymnasts defer to her right of way, letting her cross before they resume tumbling and sprinting—and pushes open the gym’s side door. It opens out to the parking lot. There’s a set of metal stairs there that we can sit on. It’s cold outside, but she’s been working hard; I bet the chill feels good on her bare arms and legs.

Hallie perches on the top step, hugging her knees to her chest, and kneads her chin into her kneecaps. She rocks back and forth silently, shaking her head. It looks like there’s too much frantic energy to contain in one tiny body. She leaps to her feet and her arms fly out in rage. She lets out an anguished groan into the frigid air and stomps her bare foot against the pavement.

And then she shrinks down into herself. She crosses her arms tight across her body and steers herself into me for a hug. I hold her close and stroke her hair. I guide us to sit down on the steps, and do the one thing I wish someone had done for me, back when I was in pain and enraged and swimming in sadness: I give her a plan. I suggest that if she feels comfortable, she should consider telling her parents the truth about her appointments with Dr. Kaminsky. She agrees to do it, and I offer to be there with her for that conversation, if she wants. And then, as a family, they can all figure out how to move forward—whether that means reporting what happened to her to the police, or simply letting it go. I remind Hallie that there’s no pressure to come back to practice today, or tomorrow, or any day.

She nods. I hope she believes me.

The next week is awful. Delia Cruz goes on Good Morning America, looking steely and powerful in a sleek white suit, and gives a searing retelling of the most horrific moments of her life. On Twitter, she releases a statement encouraging other survivors of sexual assault to get help. The replies to her tweet are mostly full of love and support, but there’s a mountain of replies from hateful trolls, too. I can’t even begin to fathom the mental gymnastics they have to employ to convince themselves that she’s the one ruining Dr. Kaminsky’s life, not the other way around.

Maggie Farber comes forward. So does her teammate Kiki McCloud. And then there’s a wave of others who speak up, both household names who competed in the Olympics and athletes who never quite made it into the spotlight: Emily Jenkins, Bridget Sweeney, Liora Cohen. By the end of the week, there are six names splashed across most of the major TV shows and publications, and a sickening sense that more will come. I feel both shocked and relieved, like I dodged a bullet. It was only by sheer luck that I visited other doctors instead of him.

Tara Michaels, the prominent conservative pundit and self-professed lover of “family values” who wears enough pearly pink lip gloss to single-handedly keep Sephora in business, unleashes a tirade that goes viral. She says it’s “disturbing” that America swallows up the stories of these six “unreliable” teenagers without giving a “respected” doctor a chance to tell his side of the story. “Facts are important,” she urges, disregarding that most of her own facts happen to be wrong. Half the gymnasts who have come forward are in their twenties by now. Dr. Kaminsky’s lawyer already issued a blanket statement denying any wrongdoing. Tara’s speech is peppered with racist jabs toward Delia, Kiki, and Emily, whose photos flash on-screen. The producers could have chosen photos of the athletes with medals around their neck; instead, they picked crotch shots—straddle jumps and leaps, taken from below. By the third time I see the video clip circulating online, it has more than ten million views.

The internet churns with impassioned headlines about how America has failed its girls; how gymnastics is just a beauty pageant masquerading as a sport; how this is what happens when parents don’t pay enough attention to their own kids. There’s a lot of outrage directed at the sport, the parents, the gymnasts themselves—but I don’t see enough of it aimed at Dr. Kaminsky. You’d think, given how many powerful men have fallen into scandal over the past few years, that collectively, we’d know how to do this by now.

The gymternet—the blogs, podcasts, and Twitter accounts run by die-hard gymnastics fans with passionately engaged followers—lights up with commentary and analysis of the situation. I tried listening to one podcast episode, but turned it off halfway through. The hosts sounded defeated. There’s no pleasure in dissecting this tragedy.

Hallie told her parents about how Dr. Kaminsky had made her feel, and they swiftly connected her to the best children’s therapist in the Boston area. She insists on coming to practice each day, though there are dark circles under her eyes and her usual boundless energy sags. She used to keep her phone tucked away in the changing room while she trained, but now she keeps it nearby so she can stay updated in case any more gymnasts come forward. She doesn’t seem to want to speak out publicly, and given what the other six gymnasts have gone through, I don’t blame her.

What haunts me the most, though, is Ryan’s reaction to the situation. Hallie had asked me to tell him the truth about her experience with Dr. Kaminsky.

The day the Delia story broke, Hallie decided to leave practice early. She called her mom to come pick her up, and I waited with her in the locker room so people didn’t keep staring at her. Once she left, I found Ryan in the gym and told him we needed to talk. We sat in a quiet, empty corner of the gym, and I relayed the entire dismal story. He looked shocked and sad when I summarized what happened to Delia, but downright grief-stricken when I shared how Kaminsky had made Hallie feel. His face crumpled.

He punched a stack of crash mats, and the solid thump of his fist echoed around the gym.

And because nothing in the world was right, I stepped forward to give him a hug. I held him for a long time.

I was at a loss for words again.

• CHAPTER 14 •

It’s been a hell of a week, so on Saturday morning, when Sara invites me to yoga for what must be the fifteenth time, I say yes. Anything is better than sitting around, reading infuriating tweets about the scandal. If yoga can help take my mind off that, I’m willing to try it.

But I do. Constantly. I can’t remember a time before I was acutely aware of every inch of my body: every muscle, curve, and soft spot. Dimitri taught us that our bodies were our tools, the same way an artist would use a paintbrush. That’s why we had to be so strict and disciplined with the way we ate and worked out, he explained. And at the time, it all made sense: the intense diets, the weekly weigh-ins, the way he punished us with hours of conditioning if we overate or gained weight. Every week, he’d jot down our height, weight, and measurements in a little blue notebook. He wore a withering expression when we failed him, whether we gained a pound or confessed to eating a slice of pizza. That expression still flashes across my mind every time the waistband of my jeans digs into my stomach or I consider indulging in a dessert.

Sara gives me a kind smile. “Yoga totally transforms the way your mind relates to your physical self. You’ll see. I bet you’ll like it.”

An hour later, she leads me into Mind & Body Yoga. The studio has shiny wooden floors, a row of leafy green plants at the front of the room, and soothing music wafting from the speakers. The other participants in the class—mostly twenty- and thirty-something women, but a few teenagers and a handful of men, too—unroll colorful yoga mats facing the front of the room and begin to stretch. Sara hands me an extra mat, along with two foam blocks.

I try not to scoff, but come on. I’m a former elite gymnast. I think I can survive an hour of yoga.

Sara sets up her own mat horizontally at the front of the room. When the studio is mostly full, she kicks off class by encouraging us to lie down in a comfortable position. I expected everyone to lie flat on their backs, but I’m surprised by the variations: legs splayed out, knees butterflied out to the sides, heads propped up by foam blocks. Sara leads the class through a breathing exercise in a melodic, trance-like voice.

After what feels like eons of breathing, Sara slowly leads the class into a sitting position, and encourages us to emit an om on the count of three.

The class erupts into noise that stretches on for longer than I expected, and I run out of breath before the rest of the class. The second time we try it, I attempt to sustain the sound longer than anyone else—well, second longest, since being the very last person to keep it up would draw more attention than I really want. I’m surprised at the effort it takes.

By the time Sara leads us from a sitting position to a standing one, I’m antsy for the real work to begin. I know that yoga is about relaxation and meditation, but it’s exercise, too, isn’t it? Eventually, we settle into downward dog. People around me emit little sighs and groans as they sink into the position.

From downward dog, we move through a series of poses with names like warrior one, warrior two, half moon, and crescent moon. Sara encourages us to “flow” from one to the next and be “intentional” about our breath, whatever that means. The language of yoga feels funny to me, but I suppose gymnastics has its own language, too. The class moves slowly at first, but soon, we’re breezing from one pose to the next in a way that makes me sweat. Sara winds her way through the maze of mats, correcting postures with a touch of her hand and whispering words of encouragement. I can’t help but feel competitive about it: I want to perform so flawlessly that she won’t have to correct me at all. It would be one thing if I were a couch potato who struggled to get the poses right—but I’m not. I’m a world-class athlete, or at least, was one. This should be a piece of cake. I crane my neck to glimpse the way my neighbor, a curvy woman in a pink workout tank that reads HUSTLE FOR THAT MUSCLE, sinks into warrior two, and try to angle my body to match hers.

That’s when I feel Sara’s hands on my hips. “Like this,” she says, tilting my left side forward and my right side back. She trails a finger up the back of my neck, causing me to look ramrod straight ahead instead of at the people around me. And then, as if she’s reading my mind, she whispers, “It’s not a competition. Just listen to your body and do what you need to do.”

She pauses and gives an infuriatingly serene wave of her hand. “There’s no such thing as right or wrong, as long as you’re focused on your breath and your flow.”

It’s too late. Sara has already moved on to another student. This, I think, is why I hate yoga. There’s always a right way to do everything.

Once the class has more or less all caught up to downward dog again, Sara takes her place at the front of the yoga studio and demonstrates another sequence of postures. Between the bent knees, angled hips, and outstretched arms, these are a little more complicated. I have to concentrate to get the series right. As I move from one pose to the next, I feel my muscles stretch and quiver; this class is more taxing than I expected. While my thighs quake through chair pose, Hustle for That Muscle Girl’s quads look rock solid. I stare down at my legs, willing them to stay locked into place, but the only thing that happens is a fat droplet of sweat drips off my nose and splashes onto my kneecap. I inhale deeply, like Sara taught me to, and I’m surprised to find that maybe—just maybe—it actually does help. Thirteen trembling seconds later (but who’s counting?), I breathe a sigh of relief when Sara tells the class to stretch upward into mountain pose, which is just standing up straight.

We cycle through the sequence again, and when I end up back in chair pose, I grit my teeth. This time around, I know what I’m up against. I’m determined to make it through the full duration without breaking perfect form.

Real power. Real power. Through the burning sensation in my thighs, I want to scream at Sara: You know what real power looks like? Standing atop an Olympic podium with a gold medal draped around your neck, that’s what. Or training hard for thousands of hours until you know you have ultimate control over your body’s every movement. Not tapping out when it gets a little bit tough.

Before I can register what’s happening, I’m dropping to the floor and stretching my torso and arms over my knees into child’s pose. I’m “honoring my journey.” It’s embarrassing, but relief washes over me. My thighs relax, my breathing evens out, and the muscles around my shoulders loosen. I’m frustrated with myself for dropping out of the challenge, but when I roll my head to the side and peek out at my classmates from under my arm, it looks like nobody’s even noticed me. Hustle for That Muscle Girl resolutely blows out a steady stream of air from pursed lips. The pair of teen girls on my other side don’t seem to blink. Sara only comes my way to press her palms into my lower back.

I can’t remember ever dropping out of a workout like this before. When I was Hallie’s age, if Jasmine or I were tired or in pain, we’d wait until Dimitri got wrapped up in a conversation with another coach or went to the bathroom before we dared take a break. A few moments of rest weren’t worth the threat of his backlash. It was impossible to truly relax when you feared he’d deliver a physically taxing punishment or a cruel joke at your expense.

Back then, Dimitri’s pressure-cooker coaching style made sense: winners work hard, and we wanted to win. Even if Sara’s philosophy is a little new age for me, I hear what she’s saying. Listen to your body; connect to your body; honor your body. Push yourself when you can, and rest when you need to. It goes against everything I was raised with, but in hindsight, maybe Dimitri should have been softer with us. More forgiving. Less intense. After all, I worked hard all the time, just like he wanted me to, and I still didn’t win. I don’t regret the way gymnastics shaped my life, but I do wonder if the few fleeting moments in the spotlight were worth the lifetime of pain I know I have ahead of me.

I take a deep breath. Sara’s hands have drifted away from me; she’s moved on to another student. I concentrate on doing a mental scan of my body. I feel the spongy surface of the yoga mat under my fingertips and the center of my forehead, and I can sense the thin sheen of sweat between my breasts. The soft curve of my belly rests against my thighs, and my hips hinge backward in a comfortable stretch. My feet are tucked under my bottom, and when I wriggle my toes against the mat, I feel the sensation flex all the way up my legs. More than anything, I feel present, and that makes a sob escape from my throat. It’s mortifying to cry here, but somehow, I don’t think anyone will mind.

For years, I ignored physical pain and warped my desires into discipline. I controlled my body with the sheer strength of my mind. Maybe now it’s time to turn all that around—to let my mind dictate the way my body moves. On my next exhale, I transition into downward dog—my calves feel warm and loose this time around, even as a tear rolls down my cheek and mixes with my sweat. I kneel for a moment to wipe my tears with the hem of my tank top and drink in the cool water that’s been waiting for me all practice. I do a sun salutation to catch up to the rest of the group. The simple way my breath and my movements sync up makes me feel airy, light, strong, and yes, powerful.

I make it through the next twenty minutes without taking a break, but I wouldn’t mind if I needed to. It’s strange—I didn’t realize I’d come so far. I mimic Sara’s movements as she leads the class from a one-legged balance to core-strengthening exercises to half-pigeon pose, which stretches out your hip flexors like taffy. In the final few minutes of the class, she asks us to lie down on our backs with our eyes closed in shavasana. She walks softly around the room with a bottle of lavender essential oil, dropping a dot of it on each of our shoulders.

Then the melodic sound of the Tibetan singing bowl resonates and spirals throughout the room, growing and growing until Sara strikes the bowl and it clangs to a stop.

I let myself sink into the mat. Energy swirls through my body, but my limbs feel heavy with relaxation. I hadn’t wanted to give into Sara’s woo-woo, spiritual sort of stretching, but even I have to admit that it felt kind of, well, nice. The combination of exertion and mindfulness makes me drift off into thoughts about the ways in which gymnastics shaped my relationship to my body: my body image, my insistence of pushing through pain, the distant way I regarded my physical self first and foremost as a tool. Over the years, I’ve tried not to think about it too much. But here, it’s impossible to avoid.

Suddenly, Sara is squatting next to me. “How’d you like the class?” she asks.

I crane my neck to look at the clock at the back of the room. Five minutes have passed, and the rest of the class has already rolled up their yoga mats and filed out of the studio.

Sunlight pours into the studio through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I get a startlingly clear vision of myself returning to this spot again and again. I could do this, couldn’t I? I feel peaceful here, similarly to the way I relax when I cook. The steady movement of the class meant my mind never wandered off to Ryan, Hallie, or even the terrible scandal in the news. Instead, I had no choice but to focus on the flow between poses, my breath, and the sound of Sara’s voice. It’s not a stretch to see how I could develop a craving for this, unwinding here at the studio after a long day at Summit. And if just one session already feels transformative for me, I can only imagine how it could help Hallie. Maybe this is exactly what she needs to rein in the anxiety she’s felt lately.

• CHAPTER 15 •

Hallie wrinkles her nose when I tell her about my idea at the end of practice on Monday.

She’s cross-legged on the floor of the changing room, stretching the white thigh-high socks she got at her friend’s Sweet Sixteen, embroidered with the girl’s initials, up her legs. The thick socks strain over her muscular calves, though, and barely graze her knees. She gives a final tug and gives up. I bet the party wasn’t as fun as she expected it to be; she probably had to say no to the cake and head home early to stick to her sleep schedule.

She looks wild, with a cloud of frizz escaping her ponytail at the temples. But then her expression softens. She must understand, on some level, how that’s just not true.

Hallie shoves her feet into sneakers, stands up, and slings her gym bag over her shoulder.

When she turns to walk away, I catch a glimpse of what’s on her screen. I recognize it because I saw it, too, earlier that day—Delia Cruz’s Instagram encouraging her followers to donate to RAINN, a nonprofit that supports sexual assault survivors. Hallie’s broad shoulders look small and slumped as she disappears around the corner and heads outside to her mom’s waiting car.

I know Ryan’s still inside, probably cleaning up alone. All the other classes and team practices have wrapped up for the night, and the rest of the coaches have headed home. The lobby is empty by now, too; the usual rows of Lululemon moms playing games on their phones have cleared out of the plastic folding chairs. I head back into the gym to find Ryan and talk to him about setting Hallie up with yoga lessons.

Sure enough, I find him in the back corner of the main part of the gym, cleaning chalk dust and sweat off crash mats with a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels. He’s changed the music from its usual Top 40 radio station to what must be his own classic rock playlist.

He pauses and looks at the waist-high stack of mats he’s yet to clean. They’re each eight or twelve inches thick, but still—that’s a lot of mats.

I drag the next mat off the stack and pull it parallel to the one he’s cleaning. He hands me the spray bottle and I get to work.

I consider how personal and vulnerable I actually want to get here. I want him to understand how yoga could clear Hallie’s head in a way that gymnastics never could. But I don’t know if I’m ready to share the rest of my thoughts with him. I don’t doubt that Ryan had a hell of a time during his competition days, dieting and pushing through punishing workouts. But I also know that, as tough as it could’ve been for him, it wasn’t the same as what I went through. While puberty signals the end of a girl’s gymnastics career, it’s the real beginning of a man’s: gaining weight and developing muscle only makes him better at the sport.

And Ryan never trained under Dimitri. He probably never worked out on an empty stomach, worrying that his vision would go fuzzy and black around the edges as he sprinted down the vault runway. He probably never tried to convince himself the quaking pain in his stomach was from too many crunches instead of skipping a meal. He wouldn’t understand how restorative it was to be in a place in which you simply had to listen and react to your body’s needs.

Gymnastics has changed lightning-fast, even in the decade since I was Hallie’s age. The top athletes in the sport these days aren’t eighty-five-pound waifs like some of the ones I looked up to as a kid—they have real, solid muscle and power, like Hallie does. She’s smarter than I ever was, and she knows she can’t perform her best if she’s starving. But she faces a new set of pressures I never could have imagined: a more difficult scoring system; watching her competitors’ skills ratchet up every day on Instagram, just like their follower counts do; the disturbing sexual abuse scandal and its coverage on every news channel in America right now.

I cringe at how hokey that sounds, and I try again.

I can’t wait to tell Sara.

He finishes cleaning one mat, drags it back to its regular spot under the bars, and takes off his sweatshirt before starting on another mat. Underneath, he has on a white tank top that reveals the full scope of the Olympic rings tattooed on his bicep. I’ve seen the bottom edges of it peek out from his T-shirts before, but I’ve never seen the whole thing. It’s not quite as bright as I imagined it would be—instead, the colors are ever so slightly faded, as if it were simply a natural part of his skin.

He must have caught me staring.

I scrub furiously at the mat beneath me until my paper towel begins to shred.

Ryan comes over to kneel next to me on the mat. I don’t really like most tattoos—you only get one body, and I doubt most things in life are worth permanently etching into your skin. But this one makes my heart beat faster. I know the Olympic Games have their roots in ancient Greece, when men held footraces and threw javelins in a festival to honor the god Zeus. The athletic challenges were revived in Athens in 1896, when the first modern Olympic Games were held. When you remember the history, it’s hard not to see Olympic athletes like modern-day Greek gods.

He laughs. “Sure.”

I run my finger over the outline of the rings. He earned this.

The expression on his face falters just a fraction of an inch.

I brush my fingers along the spot over my tank top. Ryan’s gaze follows my hand. He reaches out to gently slide his thumb over the same stretch of my torso. His knuckles accidentally graze the side of my breast, and I pretend like I don’t notice, like my skin doesn’t buzz with anticipation, like I haven’t already imagined what his touch would feel like there.

But then Ryan leans closer, and his hand is on the nape of my neck, and his mouth is on mine. The kiss is slow and sweet, but that’s all it is: one kiss. I savor the softness of his lips and the nuzzle of his stubble against my cheek for a long, lingering moment, and then he pulls away. As soon as I register the distance between us, a dull pang erupts in my chest.

I can barely believe what I’m hearing. I go very still, almost too nervous to swallow, as if I could make the wrong move and ruin whatever is about to happen.

There’s more urgency in his voice now, and he shifts on the mat to sit up straighter. He takes my hand in his.

He nods. “Of course. You were hot and insanely talented and so entirely out of my league.”

If this were any other moment, I’d brush off the compliment and make a self-deprecating joke, but I’m frozen in awe.

Ryan’s gaze is brimming with exhilaration and hope, and I know I’ll remember the way he looks right now forever. Here’s this Greek god of athletic prowess and ambition, made suddenly and startlingly human—full of emotion and desire. He’s reached the pinnacle of human achievement, won one of the most coveted honors in the world, traveled the globe, and yet he’s here. And he wants me.

There’s a slight tremor in his voice—he’s nervous. I have a million thoughts swimming through my head right now, and it’s surprisingly difficult to pick just one to voice. Finally, I collect myself enough to speak.

This time, when he kisses me, I can feel him smiling. He cups my cheek with one tender hand, and I get lost in the hypnotic way his lips move against mine. It’s like our bodies instinctually know that this is—finally—right. The kiss feels like a celebration.

He guides us down so we’re lying on the mat, which is now, thankfully, clean. Somehow, the athletic equipment and fluorescent light overhead fade away, so all that matters is him in front of me. We’re lying side by side, facing each other, with the rest of the world and all its distractions blocked out. As deliciously thrilling and tender as our kiss on New Year’s Eve was, this is even better. His hands roam from my hair to my hips to the spot on my rib cage he grazed before everything changed. His fingers slip across the hem of my tank top, and I press into him, encouraging him to slide his hand underneath the fabric, against my bare skin.

After keeping a polite distance from him for so long, it’s almost unfathomable to me that this is real. I don’t care if this is the right place to do this—I don’t want to think at all. I kiss the sharp edge of his jaw, then the soft curve of his earlobe, and then a trail down his throat. He groans softly and rolls on top of me, propping himself up on his elbows, with his legs intertwined with mine. I like the solid sensation of his weight on top of me. I let my hands wander across the taut, powerful muscles in his shoulders and down his back; they feel even better than I had dared to let myself imagine.

Ryan obeys, revealing an exquisite set of abs. I can’t help but reach out and touch them, just to make sure I’m not dreaming. They’re perfectly solid—this is real.

I pull my own top over my head, not bothering to make a disclaimer about my lack of abs. He wouldn’t have said all those things if he didn’t think I was beautiful, if he didn’t want me exactly how I am. And anyway, there’s a glint of desire in his appreciative gaze that makes it clear he likes what he sees. It’s intoxicating.

He lies back and pulls me on top of him so I’m straddling him. Now I can feel that there’s no question of whether he’s attracted to me. I lean forward and kiss him deeply; my hair falls like a curtain around us. He unhooks my bra and tosses it to the side. His touch is electrifying. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this with anyone, but that’s hardly the reason this feels so good. It’s because this is Ryan, and that feels like a victory. I want more of this—I want all of him.

I trail one finger under the waistband of his green track pants, then another. He grinds his hips up into mine, like he wants more, too. I start to tug his pants down, but he stops me.

He shakes his head and bites his lip. “No, but wait.”

He stands up and extends his hand to me, pulling me up, too. He toys with the waistband of my black yoga pants.

He slides them off my hips and down my legs. I step out of them and kick them to the side. Before I realize what’s happening, he’s lifted me up so my legs wrap around his waist. If Ryan were anyone else in the world, I’d probably be self-conscious about my weight in his arms, but there’s no reason to worry. I know he’s strong enough to handle me. He carries me to a tall block by the metal high bar, usually used for training, though obviously not tonight, and sets me down so I’m sitting at the edge of it. He maneuvers smoothly so my legs are hooked over his shoulders. He looks at me, gauging my reaction, then plants a soft kiss on my inner thigh.

More than okay, I think.

He kisses me again, farther up my thigh, and then again, right at the edge of my underwear. He skims his hands over me, landing with his fingers curled around the lacy fabric at my hips.

I lean back on my elbows and tilt my hips up so he can fully undress me. When his mouth is on me again, I could melt. At first, I want to watch him. But before long, I relax fully, flat on my back on the block. I’m not surprised when, minutes later, Ryan proves that his talents don’t solely extend to athletics.

I slide off the block, not 100 percent sure that my legs won’t turn to jelly when they hit the floor, and steady myself with a hand against his chest.

I pull him toward me for a kiss, wrapping my arm around his neck.

My instinct is to return the favor, but we wind up back on the mat. His pants and black boxer briefs are off now, and he kisses my hair. I reach for him, but then I realize we have a problem.

His face goes slack. “No, I wasn’t planning for this at all. There… might? be one in my backpack, and I’ll check, but it’s in the office.”

He kisses me and gets up to put his underwear and pants back on. He looks like he’s about to move toward the office, but thinks better of it. He grabs his shirt and tugs it on over his head.

I pull my knees up to my chest and watch him jog across the gym. He disappears around the corner, and once I hear the door swinging shut behind him, I can’t help but let out a laugh. It’s ridiculous that any of this is happening at all, much less at Summit. But, of course, it would happen here. This is where everything in my life has always taken place.

A minute later, Ryan’s back, with a look of triumph on his face. “I found one,” he says, shaking the foil packet.

Another minute later, and we’re both naked again—sweaty, breathless, and happy. There’s a certain stereotype about sex with gymnasts, and I heard enough jokes about it in my early twenties from gross guys at clubs to last a lifetime. The truth is that, yes, while we may be stronger and more flexible than the average person, we’re still just regular human beings who like regular sex. Putting your feet behind your head isn’t all that exciting when that’s just your typical Tuesday morning. That said, there’s nothing regular about sex with Ryan. He looks at me with awe, like he wants to memorize this moment. His fingers linger over the tender spots by my waist, the edge of my hip, the nape of my neck.

Later, once we’re exhausted, he puts his arm around me and I lay my head on his chest. It’s quiet, except for the low hum of the radio and us catching our breath. He kisses my temple and pulls me closer to him, so my thigh rolls over his legs. I kiss his collarbone and drift my fingers over the outline of his tattoo.

I grin. An easy silence passes between us. He strokes my hair absentmindedly.

He laughs and looks around. “Now we have a lot more cleaning to do.”

• CHAPTER 16 •

I used to count time in days: thirty days till the start of football season; fourteen days till the rent is due; three days till I run out of clean underwear and have to do laundry. But now it drags out in minutes, ticking by slowly in my head: I know how many minutes it’s been since Ryan’s last sweet good morning text, or the last kiss we stole in the supply closet, or the last time he came home with me after practice and we stayed up until 2 a.m., trading stories over a bottle of red wine. I had forgotten how sweet it is to let yourself fall for someone. I can’t help but replay our hookup when I’m washing my hair in the shower, and I snap to attention when I hear his name in the gym. I feel giddy whenever his texts pop up on my phone. On Tuesday night, I was so distracted that I forgot I had brussels sprouts in the oven until the smoke detector jarred me out of my daydreams.

It’s nearly six thousand minutes later—four days—when Sara comes to Summit to give Hallie a private yoga lesson. Between Sara’s work schedule and Hallie’s training plans, Friday is the best day; it also happens to be Valentine’s Day, although I don’t dare fixate on that. It’s too soon into whatever this thing with Ryan is to celebrate the holiday in any real way.

Sara was thrilled when I asked if she would work with Hallie. Without breaking Hallie’s trust in me, I told Sara as much as I could—that Hallie is having a tough time in the months leading up to the Olympic Trials, and now more than ever, she needs to reduce her stress and build her confidence. Sara said it would be an honor to help her. And once I told her about what happened with me and Ryan on Monday night, she was doubly excited to come to the gym. I made her promise to play it cool in front of him, especially when Hallie is around.

Of course, the moment she saw Ryan at Summit on Friday afternoon, she gawked.

I take Sara, Hallie, and Ryan upstairs, where there’s a dance studio and a party room for children’s birthdays. I flick on the lights, illuminating the wooden floors and ballet barres installed against a mirrored wall. Sara sets out the two yoga mats and a pile of foam blocks. Hallie stands with her back to the mirror and one hip jutting out, her arms crossed skeptically over her chest.

When I suggested yoga to Hallie, she had balked at the idea. Even after relenting to one private lesson, she still wasn’t thrilled to try it.

Her voice has an extra drop of honey in it. It’s clear that Sara recognizes this is not exactly Hallie’s idea.

I can practically read her mind: This is exercise?

It’s a good point: Sara’s wearing matching leggings and a cropped tank top in a pink, orange, and purple ombré that reminds me of the sunset. She looks visibly, recognizably strong, and this seems to soften Hallie to her slightly.

She starts to scroll through Sara’s Spotify.

Sara gives me a bemused glance, as if to say, Look. We’ll be fine.

I follow Ryan down the stairs to the first floor, but when we reach the lobby, neither of us has anywhere to be. He looks blankly toward the gym, then the office.

He steals a glance toward the parking lot. “We could get out of here.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and gives me an irresistibly flirty grin. “Who’d notice?”

The dimple in his cheek winks at me, which I find makes it somehow harder to focus on making good decisions. “I bet you’ve never broken the rules here in your life,” he says.

He’s right. The pressure of these four walls somehow makes me feel like a hardworking kid again, terrified to break a rule, lest Dimitri see me.

I bounce down the steps to the parking lot. The gym is on a mostly isolated stretch of road, neighbored by a nondescript office building on one side and thickets of pine trees on all others. Even if we wanted to walk into the town center, it would take longer than the journey would be worth. Ryan catches up to me, jangling his car keys.

Ryan unlocks his car, and I get inside.

Greenwood is small and boring. Growing up here, if I wasn’t at school or in the gym, my only real hobby was trawling CVS for Bonne Bell Lip Smackers and issues of Seventeen.

He shakes his head. “In the world? I mean, that’s a pretty high bar. I don’t know if you want to set my expectations there—”

I give him directions, and ten minutes later, we’re inside the tiny café. I haven’t been here in a decade, but the peeling floral wallpaper, chintzy armchairs by the brick fireplace, chalkboard menu, and gently piped-in soft rock songs from the easy-listening station are exactly how I remember them. Lolly herself is still behind the counter, though her once-dark hair is now mostly streaked with gray. She’s wearing a floral apron and does a double take when she sees me.

Ryan cocks his head.

I try not to look too alarmed. “Oh, no, we’re not married!” I say, maybe a hair too loudly. “We, uh, work together.”

Ryan follows my lead and orders a chai latte with extra whipped cream. While he pays Lolly for the drinks, I examine the framed newspaper clippings hung by the door. They’re slightly yellowed with age, but I remember the thrill I got the day the first one was hung. Lolly saved the Boston Globe clippings announcing that two local girls were on their way to the Olympic Trials. Jasmine and I skipped the sugary drinks that day and asked for plain tea; Lolly, who had the round, soft body you’d expect from a woman who made baked goods for a living, had rolled her eyes and told us to live a little. “This is us living,” I remember telling her, pointing to the newspaper clipping.

The story isn’t long, but it features a black-and-white photo of me and Jasmine, frozen at nineteen years old, with our arms slung around each other’s shoulders. The date on the framed article feels so far away—a lifetime ago. Next to it, there’s a bigger framed article, the paper’s front-page story from the day Jasmine returned home from London. There’s a larger, color photo of her by herself with a pile of Olympic medals splayed out across her chest. I wonder what the younger version of myself would say if she saw me here now, lying to Lolly about Jasmine, Ryan trailing behind me, out on a furtive break from Summit. I don’t think she’d understand how I got into this situation at all.

Ryan sets down the chai lattes on the table between the armchairs, then comes up behind me. He’s quiet for a moment, reading the two framed clippings.

Jasmine’s photo floats in my peripheral vision, and I try to block it out.

He shakes his head. “Men’s gymnastics isn’t so much of a big thing. People at home thought it was cool I made the Olympics, but they didn’t… I don’t know, ‘crown’ me, the way they crowned the women’s gymnastics team.”

He makes air quotes around the word, and I understand exactly what he means. I wonder if he felt bitter about it, too.

There are times I’ve wondered if Jasmine’s success only looms so large for me because of how tight we were and how close I came to having it, too. I can’t see her clearly because of who she is, who we were together. I’m fairly sure she’s still a household name. But time makes fame evaporate; maybe her star has cooled long enough that now she’s just a regular person again, the kind of former athlete who can make it through her hometown’s grocery store without being stopped in aisles four and seven for autographs. But somehow I doubt that.

We sink into the armchairs by the fireplace. There’s something different about the steaming beverages in the ceramic mugs, but it takes me a moment to figure it out. A heavy sprinkle of cinnamon forms a pristine heart on top of the whipped cream, and there’s a heart-shaped chocolate bonbon on the side of my saucer. I spin around; Lolly is watching us.

I’ve felt like the most gooey, starry-eyed version of myself all week, but this pushes me even further over the edge. The gesture is just sweet enough without feeling too serious.

He exhales, relieved, and leans across the table to give me a kiss. I feel warm and golden, and I know that has nothing to do with the glow of the fireplace.

I try not to fixate on his words: Happy. Amazing. They make my stomach flutter in the best way.

He sips slowly from his latte, considering it. I taste mine carefully, letting the beverage dribble out from under the cloud of whipped cream so as not to disturb the cinnamon heart. It’s fragrant and flavorful.

Chatting in front of the crackling fireplace, nestled into the coziest spot in town, I feel at home in a way I never did in LA. It’s not hard to imagine endless winter afternoons curled up in these armchairs with Ryan. It would be so easy, so satisfying, so comfortable. I’ve learned my lesson already: I know it’s not smart to get lost in giddy feelings, daydreaming about a future with a man who might someday break my heart. I don’t want to repeat that mistake. But for whatever reason, things with Ryan feel different. I don’t worry about losing my spark around him.

Ryan glances at the clock hanging above the cash register. His face falls.

We drain the last of the lattes, and I savor the sweet, spicy dregs at the bottom of the mug. I hug Lolly goodbye, and she makes us promise to come back before another ten years slip by.

Ryan laughs lightly and reassures Lolly he’ll come by for another latte soon.

On the ride back to Summit, I point out landmarks—not Greenwood’s most notable spots, necessarily, but the places that marked my childhood here: my elementary school, the sushi spot my family likes to go for birthdays and anniversaries, the house where I attended my first and last boy-girl party growing up. The town looks extra sleepy in the winter. White and gray Colonial homes match the pale sky and dingy snowbanks; the trees are bare and skeletal. Inside the car, though, it feels like summer. Ryan drives one-handed with his fingers laced through mine in my lap as a Bruce Springsteen song blares from the radio.

We slip into the gym with three minutes to spare. Ryan heads into the office, while I sit at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for Sara to finish Hallie’s lesson. I hear the Tibetan singing bowl, then silence, and finally, a few murmured words. I can’t make out what Hallie and Sara are saying, but when they appear in the staircase a minute later, Hallie has a pleasantly dazed look on her face.

She passes me on the staircase, and I notice that her typically excellent posture has a new ease to it, like she’s gliding.

Sara and I exchange glances.

• CHAPTER 17 •

I do dumb things when I’m falling in love. That’s what I think for the entirety of the forty-five minutes I spend in the front seat of Ryan’s car on Saturday night, nearly nauseous with nerves, as he drives us to Dimitri and Jasmine’s house for a cocktail party in honor of my former coach’s fiftieth birthday. When Ryan asked me earlier that week if I’d be his date for the night, he told me that if it was too awkward given my strained relationship with Jasmine, I could skip it. But oh, no. I told him it’d be fine. I think I might have even said it’d be fun. It was like my brain had entirely evacuated my body: I wanted to spend a night out with Ryan, so I said yes. It was that simple. Even though I haven’t seen Jasmine since her twentieth birthday or Dimitri since the 2012 Olympic Trials.

Their house is in a tony suburb, tucked away from the street at the end of a long driveway that winds through looming clusters of pine trees. We park at the end of a row of cars adorned with bumper stickers of gymnasts performing handstands and splits. I smooth down the front of the dress I borrowed from Mom last night when I realized that nothing in my closet could magically make me look three sizes smaller and eight times more confident than I currently am. The dress is rich purple, with an off-the-shoulder neckline and a skirt that skims easily over my hips and thighs. If it were any other night, I’d feel pretty in it.

My heart races as we make our way to the front door. I wonder if Dimitri and Jasmine know that I’m Ryan’s date. I wonder if they think about me at all anymore. I mentally review what I’m going to say to them, which boils down to polite but not overly enthusiastic compliments about their home and a few casual comments about how my life is amazing, my job is fantastic, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, and everything is actually perfect, thank you very much. My palms are slick and clammy. I pull my hand away from Ryan’s to wipe it on my dress.

Ryan heaves the golden knocker—of course it’s gold—against the door. Jasmine opens the door and trills an eager “Hello!” She beams at Ryan first. When she registers who I am, her face freezes. For a terrifying moment, she falls silent. But then, just as she was trained to do, she snaps back into action.

She delivers an enthusiastic air-kiss and half a hug while balancing a precariously full cocktail.

She steps back, ushering us into her home. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she says, and it sounds like the truth. “This is amazing.”

The house reminds me of my parents’ place. It’s not decorated in the same style—Jasmine and Dimitri’s tastes seem more modern and eclectic—but it’s full of the kinds of odds and ends that older people accumulate over a lifetime. There’s an expensive-looking credenza in the foyer that holds a single orchid in a hand-thrown pot and an unusual, abstract painting illuminated by a pair of matching silver sconces.

Jasmine shuts the door behind her. Clad in a figure-hugging black sheath, snakeskin stilettos, and the perfect hair and makeup she wears on TV, she looks foreign to me, like my old best friend is acting out a role in a play. She takes our coats and leads us into the kitchen, where a cluster of Dimitri’s friends congregate around the marble island set up as a bar. I can hear Jasmine explaining the three custom cocktails they’re serving that night, but I can’t focus on listening to their ingredients at all, because the crowd of guests shifts, and that’s when I see Dimitri.

It’s unnerving to see him dressed up in a charcoal-gray sports jacket and tie. He looks older, too, with more pronounced lines settling into his forehead and a cleanly shaven head. His dark, beady eyes and bristling mustache are exactly the same as I remember. He’s talking and laughing with a man about his own age while measuring a shot of vodka he pours into a shiny silver martini shaker. His voice booms above the chatter of the party, or maybe my ear is still tuned to listen for it, even all these years later.

He doesn’t hear her.

She rises ever so slightly on her toes and lifts her chin, as if to repeat herself, but thinks better of it and settles back down. It’s almost as if she’s nervous—like he’s still the coach and we’re his athletes. She winds her way around the kitchen, stilettos clicking against the hardwood floor, and touches him softly on the arm.

He looks up, and then I see it: a grimace, a glint of disgust. He presses his lips into a tight line, and that’s almost scarier. I’m a split second away from grabbing Ryan’s hand and whispering that this was all a mistake, that we should just go home, when Ryan waves enthusiastically.

Dimitri sets down the martini shaker, wipes his hands on a dish towel, and smoothly meets Ryan halfway. He shakes his hand slowly.

His Russian accent has faded slightly.

Ryan nods and looks pleased, like he’s proud to have brought me. “Yes, sir.”

My body’s first response is to start moving, and I loathe how very deeply his training has been ingrained in me. I do my best to stand tall and not break eye contact. I don’t want to look like a little girl that he can order around anymore. I lift my chin and give Dimitri my firmest handshake.

He steps back and lifts my hand, as if he expects me to twirl, and looks me up and down.

He shoots Ryan a mocking wink, as if he expects Ryan to comment on my weight. I drop Dimitri’s hand, but resist the urge to shrink from him. I don’t dare glance back at Ryan for support. I can stand up for myself.

I pull myself up to my fullest height. In heeled leather boots, I’m an inch taller than he is, and I want him to remember it.

Jasmine wraps her arm around Dimitri’s midsection and leans her head on his shoulder. “Aw, another gymnastics power couple, just like me and my babe,” she coos.

She looks at him adoringly and presses a kiss to his cheek. I look away; to me, that relationship will always seem wrong.

He’s not joking. He’s keeping score.

The doorbell rings, cutting through the tension in the room.

As he passes us, he ignores me and gives Ryan a respectful nod.

Jasmine takes a deep breath and puts her hands on her hips. “Drinks?” she asks.

I glance at the cocktail menu she must have printed up. The names could not be more painstakingly chosen: there’s a whiskey-based drink named the Olympia, a wine spritzer garnished with a sprig of jasmine called the Jasmine Fizz, and a twist on the Moscow Mule dubbed the Moscow Man. I choose the Jasmine Fizz by process of elimination—it’s the least humiliating option to order. Ryan opts for the Moscow Man, and I wonder if he chose it out of deference to our host. Jasmine steps back to the kitchen island to mix our drinks, leaving us alone.

He raises his eyebrows and nods heavily. “I can’t believe I’m actually here at his house.”

I’ve known about their relationship for six years now, ever since they started dating, but that hasn’t made seeing them together any less jarring.

I don’t respond right away. I look carefully at Ryan, taking in his hopeful expression, his serious, dark eyes, and the tense way his shoulders are set. Despite Dimitri’s behavior, I know Ryan idolizes him. I could spoil his impression of him in just a few words, but it seems cruel.

The memory comes flooding back. I bite the inside of my cheek and shake my head, as if I can dislodge the reminder of that painful summer.

I can’t bring myself to tell Ryan about his abusive coaching style, or the way I still hear his taunts about my body every time I look in the mirror, or the fear I felt just now, trying not to flinch in front of this man who used to make me quiver. Not here. Not now.

But Ryan grimaces anyway. The way Dimitri dismissed me is enough to cause him to furrow his brow and sympathetically squeeze my shoulder. He knows how close a gymnast and coach can be; I’m sure he can imagine how awful that rejection felt.

Jasmine sidles up to us with the two drinks.

Ryan joins in the toast, and she peppers him with questions about his work, gushes about how much she misses Summit, and joyfully accepts his invitation to come by sometime. I linger by his side, feeling suddenly like the third wheel. I try to snap out of this tense, dark mood and match her level of enthusiasm, but it seems impossible. Jasmine wears her peppy persona like a second skin. I know she’s not really like this. The megawatt smile, the relentlessly upbeat energy—back when we were close, she turned it on for the judges; now, she does it on TV. I’m curious if she lives fully like this now, hiding her sensitive soul, her nervous side, and her darkly funny jokes from Dimitri, smoothing out her quirks until she’s a flat reflection of whatever he wants her to be. She always did know how to perform.

My stomach drops. Ryan glances at me inquisitively, and I have no choice but to grin back at him.

He looks uncertain, but leaves my side to join in on a nearby conversation with three stocky men. Jasmine and I each take a long sip of our drinks. I don’t think either one of us knows what to say.

I have seven years of burning questions for Jasmine, and none of them are appropriate cocktail party fodder. Do you realize that you got everything I ever wanted? How did you end up married to that monster? Are you even happy?

She never has to know the truth.

I wish I had thought to hammer out a joint answer to this question with Ryan before we walked in the door. I don’t want to say yes, only to have him find out and think I’m overestimating his feelings for me. It’s not like we’ve had the What are we? talk yet. But downplaying my situation with Ryan doesn’t feel right, either. I settle for a purposefully coy sip of my drink.

For a split second, I forget everything, and we’re just teenagers again, best friends, teammates. We were so close, we were each other’s designated Butt Glue Girl—we’d take turns applying the roll-on adhesive just under the edges of our leotards before competitions so we wouldn’t get uncomfortably distracting wedgies in the middle of routines. I’ve never really understood flashbacks before, but this one comes roaring back with full clarity. And then the moment is over, and I get the ice-cold sensation that Dimitri is watching me, and I duck my head down. I remember to speak quietly and control myself.

The enthusiasm on her face flickers before she catches herself. “I know. Isn’t it funny how life works out?”

I feel bold saying it, daring her to acknowledge how bizarre her relationship appears to be.

Her gaze drifts over my shoulder toward her husband, and she loses focus.

There’s another flicker of emotion on her face, but then it disappears without a trace. I think about the way we used to play Fuck, Marry, Kill while stretching at practice, and how Dimitri was too old and weird to be put on the list, even as a joke. We seriously weighed the pros and cons of Kevin Federline, and Tom, the gym’s janitor, and even Alexei, a gymnast with a gross rattail we saw at competitions. But Dimitri? Not even once. I cannot fathom one single thing about Dimitri and Jasmine that makes sense.

She looks at me brightly again. “Do you want a tour of the house?”

As she leads me through the home she shares with a man old enough to register for an AARP card, the man who once—when she was twelve years old—poked the side of her bottom left exposed by her leotard, observed it jiggling, and told her to “watch it with the cookies,” I feel increasingly disturbed. She shows off the new velvet throw pillows meticulously arranged on the white bed in the master bedroom, and the monogrammed towels hanging in the en suite bathroom. She chirps about the gorgeous natural sunlight in the home office, though I realize neither of them works from home, and tosses a wink when we enter the guest room, or as she calls it, “someday, a baby’s room.” She does this all while traipsing three or four steps in front of me, far enough away that we never have to face each other. The tour is so tightly packed with minuscule details about where she purchased this rug, or why she deliberated over that paint color, that there is simply no room for me to interject and ask what the fuck is going on.

When the tour concludes on the first floor, Jasmine offers to refresh my drink, which I accept. The minute the glass is full, I find Ryan on the couch in the living room. He lights up when he sees me, scooting to the left and patting the space next to him so that I’ll take a seat. He drops away from the conversation with the other two men in the living room.

I rack my brain and feel a slow sinking feeling in my gut; nothing good could come of this conversation.

Ryan’s face falls slightly.

He smiles as if to say, That’s that.

He shrugs. “Well, you’d still be at Summit, wouldn’t you?”

Training her on floor is already intense—I’m not sure if I’d be confident enough to tack on beam, bars, and vault, too. And anyway, the Conways probably wouldn’t trust me to pull that off. So if Ryan leaves and Hallie really does want to train for 2024, the Conways would probably follow him. And that means I’d be left behind.

Ryan sips from his drink and stares off into the distance. It’s clear that mentally, he’s no longer here at this party—he’s in Tokyo, watching Hallie climb the podium; he’s at Powerhouse, working as his idol’s right-hand man; he’s fast-forwarding decades ahead to when he’s the most respected coach in the entire sport, just like Dimitri is now.

I have to tell him the truth.

I wish he would understand without making me say it.

He kisses my temple and rises to stand. “We’ve barely been here an hour. Let’s stay for a little while longer, cool?”

I hesitate. I don’t know what else to say. “Cool.”

We mill around. An older couple asks if I “used to be Dimitri’s girl,” and I have no choice but to nod—Yep, that’s me. Dimitri’s girl. I get a third drink, just to have something to do instead of watch Ryan laugh at Dimitri’s jokes. Finally, he comes to find me in the kitchen.

I rustle up fake warmth to say goodbye to Jasmine and Dimitri. Jasmine insists that we must get together for drinks soon. Dimitri nods silently and stoically at me, then shakes Ryan’s hand.

Ryan looks beatific.

In the car ride back to Greenwood, Ryan invites me to stay over at his place, but I ask him to drop me off at my apartment instead. I turn on the radio, but he turns it off a few seconds later. It’s quiet, with just the hum of the engine to keep us company.

I trail off and bite my lip. I want to say abusive, but that’s not a word you throw around lightly.

Ryan sighs heavily. “That’s not cool.”

Ryan flicks on his blinker and makes a turn, so it takes a while for him to respond. I get the sense that he’s grateful for the extra time to formulate a response.

I hate that he makes air quotes around the word. It makes me feel as if he thinks I’m overreacting. I study his profile in the moonlight. I wonder what would happen if I described to him in unflinching detail what it was really like to spend the most impressionable years of my childhood with Dimitri. I can’t muster up the energy to explain what he’s really like if Ryan will only defend him.

I sigh and slump back in my seat.

He reaches across the gearshift to hold my hand. His warm fingers weave through mine and rest in my lap.

I don’t squeeze his back.

MARCH

2020

• CHAPTER 18 •

Nationals are a week away, and Hallie is still struggling. She can’t control her power on her forward tumbling pass—the front handspring, front full-twisting layout, front double-twisting layout—so I suggested she add a stag jump on the end. That way, any energy that comes bounding off the tumbling goes directly into a real, choreographed move. She’ll get points for a jump, rather than a deduction for not sticking the landing. A stag jump should be pretty: one knee bent at a ninety-degree angle in front of your body, with your other leg trailing out long and straight behind you, and your arms thrown triumphantly in the air. But Hallie’s is tense and tight, and it throws off her timing going into the next segment of her routine. Once she loses her cool, it’s hard to recover. The rest of the routine gets rushed.

We’ve been finessing this one second of her routine for fifteen minutes now, and I can tell that Hallie is running low on both energy and patience. It’s true that the trampoline is a less physically taxing place to jump repeatedly than the floor is—the elastic power mesh bounces you right back up, obviously—but also, no matter how old or sophisticated a gymnast gets, there’s still nothing quite as joy-inducing as playing around on a trampoline. And more than perfect form, more than excellent technique, what Hallie really needs right now is to feel good. Going into a competition, an athlete’s mental headspace is just as important as her physical well-being, if not more so.

She trudges over to the trampoline, and after a few lazy bounces, she gets serious.

She swings her arms to get some momentum, then bounces into shape. With each jump, she thrusts her right leg a little harder behind her.

She nods like a little soldier and jumps again.

At the height of each jump, her chin tilts up and her fingers flick out with style. She looks like a star up there. It’s gratifying to see her improve after months of working together.

And after seeing Dimitri last week, that’s what I need: I have to know that I’m helping Hallie, not hurting her. If I pass down what he did, I would never forgive myself. Hallie screws up her mouth in concentration as she tracks the distance between her and the trampoline. Her full body weight plunges down on the black mesh and she rebounds brightly into the air once more. Her limbs soar jubilantly into shape; at the peak of her jump, she beams. She knows she nailed it.

I haven’t seen Ryan outside of practice since Dimitri and Jasmine’s cocktail party. I’ve gone to yoga after work twice, and on the nights I’ve been free, he’s had plans with friends. All week, I’ve felt starved for attention; I had forgotten what it’s like to crave somebody like this. I could physically feel the way I yearned for quality time with him—sometimes, low in my gut; other times, like an actual pang in my chest. When he texted me yesterday evening to ask if I’d be free for a date night tonight, I replied yes practically while my phone still buzzed with the incoming message.

He texted confusing instructions: I have a secret plan for us. Wear something warm, and make sure you have socks.

Socks? What’s the plan? I wrote back.

He replied, Like I said—it’s a secret ;)

I knew I wasn’t going to weasel the truth out of him, so instead, I tried to puzzle out what we could possibly be doing—hiking? skiing?—and took great care to find a matching pair of socks without any holes. Tonight, after drilling stag jumps with Hallie on the trampoline, Ryan and I waited until Hallie had left the gym’s premises in her dad’s car before we both climbed into his car. We decided earlier that I’d stay over at his place and he’d drive me back to the gym the next morning. The plan made me feel as if we were serious and committed, or at least on the way toward it.

He’s resolute. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

He talks about how much fun he had dreaming this up, and how it’ll be the perfect way to chill out in the midst of Nationals prep, but I just can’t focus. My mind ping-pongs from sleuthing out where he’s taking me to our last in-person conversation about Dimitri’s job offer. We haven’t had a chance to discuss it. There’s so much I could say to him—and as much as I want to ask how he’s feeling about what Dimitri said, I don’t want to ruin the romantic mood.

He drives through the town center and pulls into Osaka Sushi. The familiar wooden sign gives me a burst of nostalgia, but it takes me a moment to piece together why he’s so excited.

I’m overheating in a thick turtleneck and knit scarf. There are gloves stashed away in the pockets of my parka.

Ninety minutes later, when we’re happily filled up on a sashimi platter and a sake flight, I still don’t know where we’re going next. But Ryan did insist on heading out of the restaurant as soon as the bill was paid, rather than lingering at the table. I get the sense we’re on a deadline. In the car once again, I feel warmed by the sake from the inside out, touched by the romantic gesture of bringing me back to Osaka Sushi, and high on the anticipation of discovering where this adventure all leads. Whatever desire I had earlier tonight to ask Ryan about Dimitri has faded away. It’s not that I don’t care—it’s that moments like this don’t come around often. It’s not every day that a gorgeous man throws together a surprise date packed with personal touches at a series of secret locations. I slide my hand into Ryan’s and squeeze a silent thanks.

Finally, the jig is up: he pulls off a main road down a narrow street that winds into the town forest. He drives slowly through the heavy thicket of pine trees until we reach a clearing. There’s a cul-de-sac full of cars streaked with winter grime parked near an outdoor ice-skating rink. Although it’s a dark night, the rink itself is bright, thanks to white floodlights and golden Christmas lights wrapped around aluminum poles. I’ve been to this rink a few times for my elementary school classmates’ birthday parties, but it’s only now, as an adult, that I see how charming this spot really is.

He looks hopeful but hesitant, the way people do when they hand you presents with the tags still attached in case you want to return them.

A rink attendant in a red clapboard shed asks for our shoe sizes and hands us clunky skates. We lace them up and totter to the edge of the rink. He steps over the threshold first, then extends his hand so I can steady myself as I step onto the ice. I take a few tentative glides with my hand hovering over the railing in case I lose my balance.

We make a slow first lap side by side, getting used to being on the ice. There aren’t many other people here—three couples in casual clothes and a single skater in athletic gear who makes sharp turns and elegant spins—so it’s calm enough to go at our own pace.

He’s right, though; by our second lap, I feel sturdier, and by our third, I’ve regained my confidence. I slip my hand into his and trust my balance enough to plant a kiss on his cheek as we glide. I can’t help but see flashes of the future—maybe we’ll hike this spring, canoe this summer, train for a half marathon together this fall. We’re both used to solitary sports, but there’s something appealing about tackling new adventures as a pair.

As we continue to skate circles around the rink, we whisper theories about the other couples—which ones seem happily in love, which seem more like old roommates who couldn’t give a damn about each other—and resolve to never fall into the latter category. We trade stories about ice-skating experiences as kids, and the Olympic skaters we’ve met over the years. On some laps, we don’t talk at all, content to enjoy the twinkling lights nestled into the forest and the blur of our hazy reflections gleaming on the slick ice. With Ryan, silence doesn’t feel like pressure.

But there’s one question I can’t get out of my head.

His cheeks go pink, and I don’t think it’s just from the thirty-five-degree weather.

He smirks. “And I thought about a gourmet dinner somewhere, but I know you love to cook. I know you’d rather cook than be waited on.”

I don’t mean to, but I flash back to a “date night” with Tyler. Or, rather, it was supposed to be a date night. Instead, we watched Fast & Furious 6 in silence while we ate Easy Mac. He had told me not to bother with cooking a special meal for date night. He didn’t get that cooking for him felt like another way to show my love. He fell asleep before the movie was over. But this feels entirely different—it’s thoughtful and personal. He put care into choosing something I’d like.

I can hear a note of restrained laughter in his voice.

I skate to a stop and pull him gently toward the railing. I steady myself against it and kiss him deeply, slipping my fingers under his scarf to hold him close. It’s true that there’s a certain thrill about kissing someone for the first time, when you can only guess what it’ll feel like, how your bodies will respond to each other’s, and if there will be sparks. But this is thrilling in a different way: comfortable, familiar, easy. I can anticipate the way his lips will move against mine. I know there will be sparks. I can’t believe how lucky I am.

The rink is quieter now; we’re among the last people left. It’s a picturesque moment, but I know there’s a bigger reason tonight makes me so happy. Being here in his arms feels exactly right.

I have to stop myself from uttering the three little words that almost roll off my tongue next.

He nuzzles closer and kisses me again. When he pulls back, he hesitates, like he’s trying to determine exactly what to say next. I wonder if the same words are running through his head, too.

My stomach does a backflip.

He gazes at me for a moment that feels like an eternity.

Everything about it—the steady pressure of his hand on the curve of my hip; the scent of pine; the slippery surface of the ice beneath our feet—I commit to memory. I want to remember every detail, because this is the night I know for sure that I am falling in love with Ryan Nicholson, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

• CHAPTER 19 •

A chill runs up my spine when I enter the National Championships arena in Miami. The nervous energy hanging in the air feels just as real as the mingled scent of chalk dust and sweat. I follow Hallie and Ryan around the perimeter to find a spot to settle down, and I can’t help but drink it all in: the crunch of errant bobby pins underfoot; the spare cans of hair spray and bottles of butt glue rolling out from unzipped gym bags; the ritual gestures of gymnasts warming up; the satisfying scrchhh of grips being Velcroed on and off wrists; the anxious parents snapping gum in the bleachers. I savor every bit of it. I feel as if I’ve come home again. The moment I walked through the door, I straightened up, lifted my chin one notch higher, and tightened my ponytail. This time around, though, nobody’s watching me. This isn’t about me.

We’re here for Hallie. It’s her day. She finds a bench on the far side of the arena, closest to the beam, that has yet to be claimed by anyone else and drops her duffel on it.

We’re all clad in matching navy tracksuits embroidered with Summit’s logo over our hearts. Hallie removes her jacket, revealing a gleaming, emerald-green, long-sleeved leotard. It’s spangled with Swarovski crystals across her collarbone and down the center of her chest, like a glittering necklace or a piece of armor. If she goes to the Olympics, her competition leotards will be chosen by the American Gymnastics Federation, and she’ll probably be clad in red, white, blue, or all three. But for now, she can wear whatever she likes. I know this leotard is one of her favorites because it brings out the green flecks in her hazel eyes.

There are armies of gymnast-coach teams just like us scattered across the venue. I spot Delia Cruz rolling her wrists in supple circles to warm up for bars. Maggie Farber and Kiki McCloud sit with hands over their faces while their coach tames down their ponytails with hair spray. Across the arena, Dimitri reclines on a bench while his group of Powerhouse gymnasts stretch silently. I recognize their faces and names, though I don’t know them personally. His star student is Emma Perry, a fiercely talented competitor who’s probably the front-runner of the entire sport. He has Skylar Hayashi and Brit Almeda, too—the former is a vault specialist who began performing flawless Amanars at fourteen years old and has only gotten more intimidating since then; the latter is a decent if less memorable athlete who brings in reliably fine scores but doesn’t quite have that X factor. I don’t think Ryan has broached the subject of Dimitri or Powerhouse with Hallie or her parents yet. In the frenzied lead-up to Nationals, there hasn’t been time.

Each gymnast’s competition roster is assigned randomly. When the schedule flashes on the big screen that looms above the arena, Hallie’s face hardens. She’s up first on bars, which means she’ll spend the rest of the day rotating through vault, beam, and then floor. She doesn’t complain, though; she knows NBC’s cameras have likely already begun swirling, and she’s smart enough to understand that her reaction to the news shouldn’t be a dismal one.

She dutifully nods, slips off her track pants, and stands to begin her warm-up. She runs through the same basic set of moves she’s completed daily since childhood—bending over her knees in a pike, rolling out her wrists, straddling her legs wide—but this time, every movement is packed with intention: pointed toes, straight spine, sucked-in core. She waves at a pair of little girls in the bleachers holding up a sign with her name printed on it in colorful marker.

An announcement cuts through the noise of the stadium: fifteen minutes until the competition begins, which means it’s time for Hallie to warm up on bars. She’s on the same rotation as Delia and Brit, and the three gymnasts take turns chalking up and practicing elements of their routines. There’s an unintentional hierarchy: Brit defers to Hallie because she’s the stronger athlete, and both girls defer to Delia, because she’s become something of a legend, a mother hen, a spokesperson for the horrors of the sport ever since the accusations broke. Today, Delia’s leotard is teal. I heard Jasmine discussing it during her TV segment; teal is the color of sexual assault awareness.

At the one-minute mark, Hallie signals to us that she’s all set.

Ryan wraps a protective arm around Hallie’s shoulders and slides a nonchalant arm around my waist. Hallie’s breath is shallow. This isn’t her first rodeo; it’s clear that she knows as nervous as she is, she has to fake it till she makes it. Otherwise, she’ll psych herself out.

She blushes. “Thanks.”

Hallie exhales. Her shoulders visibly relax.

I didn’t prepare anything to say. When I was competing, it’s not like Dimitri ever gave any sort of warm, touchy-feely pep talk like this one. A gruff request to stop whining and keep my chin up, maybe, but nothing like this. I swallow.

The words come easily because they’re the truth.

I squeeze my hand around her shoulder. I didn’t expect to be so emotional, but seeing Hallie here, just inches away from a competition that could make her a front-runner at Olympic Trials, I’m overwhelmed. I break the huddle to give her a tight hug.

An event coordinator taps Hallie on the shoulder. “It’s time,” she says.

Hallie glances at each of us. “Bye.”

Ryan goes with her. He’s there to hover by the high bar throughout the duration of her routine, ready to lunge forward during her riskiest release moves when she’s most likely to fall, in case he needs to catch her. I don’t want to be a distraction, so I’ll watch from the sidelines.

Hallie reaches into the chalk bowl to add one more layer of dust to her grips, and nods to Ryan that she’s ready. Moments later, an announcer’s voice booms over the loud speaker. A hush falls over the crowd in the bleachers.

The audience roars a cheer. “Let’s go, Hallie, let’s go!” I call out, clapping.

Hallie strides to the center of the low bar, totally transformed. She stands tall, suddenly looking five years older and twice as serene as she really is. She raises both arms to the table of judges and beams, performing the customary salute of respect that every gymnast does at the beginning and end of each routine. I see a judge flick to a new sheet in her notebook and peer over the tops of her thick-rimmed glasses.

Hallie takes a deep breath, then jumps on the low bar and swings up into a perfect handstand with such easy grace that I forget to be nervous for her. She transitions smoothly to the high bar, then pirouettes in a handstand, and executes a clean Tkatchev–Pak Salto combo, flinging herself backward and soaring smoothly down to the low bar. Everything is tight, as it should be: vertical handstands, straight knees, pointed toes, rock-hard core. The routine concludes with a mesmerizing series of giants—swinging, 360-degree circles around the high bar—and then she’s slicing through the air into a double-twisting double back tuck. The moment she hits the mat, she’s sturdy and sure of herself—she sticks the landing. The audience erupts into a cheer as she arches backward.

Hallie waves to the crowd, turning to face each corner of the arena to blow grateful kisses.

Giddy, she crashes sideways into Ryan for a one-armed hug.

Thirty seconds later, the judges confirm what everyone knows: It was a beautiful performance. They award her a 15.025—and anything in the fourteen range or above is incredible. By the end of the first rotation, she’s in fourth place—Emma, Delia, and Kiki have just barely edged her out for the top spots. Hallie’s face falls slightly.

Nobody has to say out loud what she really means: her best event is now over, so it could all go downhill from here.

Per the rules of the competition, she competes twice on vault. Judges score both efforts, then take the average as her final score. Her first run, an Amanar, is impressive. But any success there is canceled out by the deductions she receives for the two extra steps she takes upon landing her second vault, a Mustafina.

I know the rules of the sport well enough to know better, but it still seems incredibly unfair that Hallie gets points docked for her dynamite energy. She’s like a high jumper in a ballerina’s body—if she were a track-and-field star instead of a gymnast, her explosive power would make her an Olympic champion. But not here. My nerves feel frayed as I watch the judges grimly turn over the final score: 13.250. Hallie slips to fifth place. The mood on the bench is tense.

Her third rotation is beam, and if there’s one event that demands confidence and precision above all else, it’s this one. When I was a gymnast, beam was always intimidating, but at least I felt in control of the experience. If I shook or bobbled or fell, it was my own fault. But now, as Hallie competes, that sense of control crumbles. My muscles spasm as I watch her move. When she pirouettes, I crane my neck, as if I can manipulate the speed of her spin. As she wobbles on the landing of a front aerial, my stomach and glutes and thighs clench hard, as if I can keep her centered on the beam through sheer force of will. Her tumbling pass—a back handspring, whip back, back layout that’s usually just pure fun to watch—tilts slightly off center. One foot curls desperately around the beam, while the other leg ricochets sideways in a last-ditch attempt to regain balance. She stays on, but just barely. After her dismount, she salutes limply to the panel of judges and trudges into Ryan’s arms.

Hallie makes it back to the bench just as the stony-faced judges reveal her score: a flat 12.850. That means she’s officially slipped down to ninth place. I feel sick. As long as she doesn’t completely bomb floor, she should qualify to compete at Olympic Trials. (The top fourteen competitors will go to Trials.) But there’s no guarantee of that—anything could happen at a competition, especially with her confidence at an all-time low right now—and ninth place is a brutal, embarrassing spot to be in, even out of seventeen total spots. Ideally, she’d be in the top five or six, if not fully in the top three for medal contention. I hate to imagine Jasmine’s commentary right now. It can’t be good.

Ryan spots Hallie’s empty water bottle and goes to refill it.

Hallie scowls and slumps down further in her seat. There’s a beat of silence between us.

She slides over a few inches but doesn’t look at me. She’s staring at the big screen, transfixed as Emma sticks a powerful double-double on floor and makes it look easy.

She gives me a look full of skeptical contempt that reminds me she is still a surly teenager. She might have traded in the typical trappings of a teen girl’s life for the discipline, demands, and pressures of a fully grown adult athlete’s, but this is one thing she can’t change. She’s a sixteen-year-old girl, behaving the way any sixteen-year-old would.

She scrunches up her face. “I didn’t work this hard to be all the way down the scoreboard.”

She tilts her head and stares at me.

She takes a long sip of her water and shakes her head slowly.

She sighs dramatically.

She shakes it. “Deal.”

An event coordinator waves Hallie over to start warming up for floor. I shout ridiculously supportive comments as she walks away. But once she’s gone, the pit in my stomach returns.

Floor warm-ups fly by. Brit delivers a surprisingly lovely performance to a delicate piece of classical music, and Hallie whispers to me that she must have gotten new choreography. Up next, Delia strides calmly onto the floor to perform a knockout routine that inspires the audience to give her a standing ovation. On the big screen, you can see tears glittering in her eyes as she waves to her fans and hugs her coach. The moment is powerful and heartbreaking. When the judges award her the breathtakingly high mark of 15.275, it’s clear she’s earned every bit of it.

Meanwhile, Hallie is trembling. She rises from the bench and shakes out each leg so her knees don’t buckle beneath her. More than any other moment in her life, the pressure is on.

Hallie’s name rings out over the loudspeaker, and the judges flick to new sheets of paper in their notebooks. She salutes at the edge of the blue mat, then struts into position. There’s a high, clear beep to signal that she should prepare herself, and then the opening notes of her new floor music. This is her first time performing the routine I crafted in competition, and I’m anxious to see how it’s received.

Hallie throws herself into the first few fierce steps of her choreography, just like we practiced, and I am so proud. She’s a swirl of limbs and piercing gazes as she pivots, backs up into the corner, and lunges into her first tumbling pass. She whips across the floor with enough energy to power a fleet of Maseratis, rocketing skyward at the end into the stag jump we drilled on the trampoline. Her leg levers up elegantly behind her, and she lands on beat.

She beams and surges onward through a frenzied attempt at her leap series. She’ll get a small deduction for failing to hit the full 180-degree split, but it’s a marked improvement from the first time she tried that combination. When she slides down to set up her wolf turn, I cringe and grab Ryan’s hand. His palm glistens with sweat. Hallie’s brows knit together as she steels herself to spin. I can’t breathe as I watch her rotate cleanly. It’s the best wolf turn I’ve ever seen her do.

On her second tumbling pass, she flies high above the floor and sticks the landing. As she prances through her choreography, I whisper a prayer. Please keep this up. Please let this be okay. Hallie attacks her third and fourth tumbling passes with pure grit. She spirals through the air and digs in her heels when she lands. As the music hits its final note, she throws her head back into the dramatic pose we practiced so many times in the Summit mirror. Her chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath. There’s a second of silence, and then Hallie climbs to her feet, saluting the judges with all the energy she has left. The crowd claps as the judges continue to scribble down notes.

Ryan and I intercept her along the side of the floor for high fives and hugs, and we walk back to our spot together. Her breathing is ragged.

She pants and gives a half-hearted thumbs-up. “Don’t congratulate me until the score is ready,” she warns.

I hope, of course, that the judges reward her for one of the best floor routines she’s probably ever done in her entire life. But I’m also nervous—they don’t award medals for personal improvement. Her score will be compared to the other gymnasts’.

The judges deliver their score: 13.475. It moves Hallie up to seventh place.

Hallie lets out a low moan. “That’s not good enough,” she wails.

A full point! Selfishly, I glow with excitement.

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.

Hallie zips up her tracksuit and pulls the hoodie down low.

She shoves her feet into her Uggs and slings her gym bag over her shoulder.

She makes a beeline for the nearest exit.

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.

She scans the crowded room.

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.

Jasmine is watching expectantly.

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.

The bartender slides a menu my way, and I order a glass of wine as quickly as I can.

She would grow up to be the kind of woman who raves about lettuce.

That sounds like a euphemism for bad.

She winks, as if there’s a camera waiting somewhere to catch her reaction. There’s not.

The question catches me off guard. “We don’t really need to discipline her.”

Jasmine doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she sips quietly from her wineglass. I regret speaking so candidly about Dimitri in front of her.

The word still leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I know I’m prying, but it occurs to me that Jasmine might not have anyone else she can talk to like this. We used to confide in each other all the time—more often than not about the man who’s now her husband—but I wouldn’t be surprised if she stays tight-lipped about what he’s really like among her new set of friends.

My salad arrives. Jasmine pauses, politely watching the busboy set it down in front of me. She looks grateful for the opportunity to collect her thoughts before she speaks.

I know what Jasmine looks like when she’s not being totally honest. I’ve seen it before, back when we were kids. It was easy to lie about doing two sets of reps of crunches instead of three, or to pretend we didn’t eat the extra whipped cream on our chai lattes at Lolly’s. I’m not married, so I can’t judge firsthand what’s normal and what’s not in her relationship. But she doesn’t sound like a woman in love. She sounds like a defense attorney.

Discomfort clings to me like an itchy, too-small sweater. There’s more I want to know.

It sounds like I’m openly gawking, and I guess I am. I’ve spent years wondering what their relationship could possibly be like, and after getting a glimpse of it at their party, my curiosity has only intensified.

She gestures to the bartender for another glass of wine.

Maybe that’s a step too far, but Jasmine doesn’t disagree with me.

In the back of my head, I hear the word in a guttural Russian accent, and I bet she does, too. For a moment, the past seven years collapse, and I feel like we’re just kids again—giggling friends who finish each other’s sentences. It makes me miss how we used to be. Nobody has ever replaced her.

We don’t even need to say it out loud.

We both look limply down at the remaining salad on our plates.

Jasmine lets out a low whistle, understanding the implication: Hallie’s not like we were. “Good for her.”

I don’t have to spell it out for Jasmine. For us, there was no other world. We’re here, after all, aren’t we? I stab a piece of lettuce with my fork.

I vaguely recall her sketching evening gowns and spindly high heels on a long car ride to a competition. We must have been twelve. She erased and redrew and erased and redrew each line on a model’s body until it matched the vision she held in her mind.

My question comes tumbling out before I have time to realize that it’s a rude one. “Are you happy?” I blurt.

The words hang in the air. Jasmine uncrosses and crosses her legs, catching one stiletto along the rung of the bar stool and taking a long sip of wine.

The wine is getting to her now; there’s a looseness to her energy, so unlike the sensitive, tightly wound girl I used to know.

I have the sickening sensation of being the last person to know what’s going on, and I hate it. I don’t want to have to play catch-up with my own boyfriend’s whereabouts and career.

I groan.

I race to the elevators.

• CHAPTER 21 •

The moment before I knock on Dimitri’s door, my stomach tightens and my mind spirals into tight focus. It’s the same sensation I used to get right before I saluted the judges and strode forward to perform a routine. I knock.

Dimitri opens the door. Surprise flits across his face.

He doesn’t greet me.

He cocks his head and clicks his tongue, signaling for me to enter. Somehow, that’s more humiliating than him shutting the door in my face. There was a time I spent more of my day with him than with my own parents. Now he won’t even use my name.

The suite is far larger and nicer than the room I’m staying in. The bedroom is identical to mine, but there’s also a lounge with a pair of upholstered armchairs and a love seat arranged around a coffee table. There’s a crystal decanter of whiskey with two matching, half-filled glasses. Ryan rises from one of the armchairs, confused.

There’s real concern in his voice.

The way he calls me girl, it’s like he’s hurled me more than a decade into the past. He has a knack for making me feel so small. It makes me burn with rage, especially because I know he’s right—I barged in here without an invitation—but I can’t apologize. I can’t bow down in front of him and pretend to be sorry. I’m not.

Ryan looks from me to Dimitri and back again.

But Dimitri’s already halfway to the bedroom. We’ve been dismissed.

I hate how furious and flustered and thrown off course I feel, just from spending one single minute in Dimitri’s presence. But maybe it’s for the best—maybe this is exactly the raw, hateful energy I need to fully convince Ryan he can never work with that man.

Ryan follows me out of the suite. I turn to face him the minute the door closes behind us, but he shakes his head, pressing a finger to his lips, and ushers us farther down the narrow hall, toward the elevator. I jab the up button.

We enter the empty elevator, and the tight quarters make it feel impossible to keep my thoughts to myself. We’re so close, he can probably hear what I’m thinking.

The edge of my voice sounds hard. Angry. Ugly.

For a moment, I feel too bitter to speak.

The elevator doors ding open on the seventh floor, and I follow him to his room.

I grab his arm and stop walking. “That’s not fair.”

He sighs and pulls his arm away. “Okay. It’s not, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Now, in his hotel room, I stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to produce any explanation that makes sense. He sits on the edge of the bed, and I join him reluctantly. My heart pounds. I just want this conversation to be over with.

Ryan bites his lip and shakes his head. I can’t tell if it’s in disbelief or disagreement.

It’s increasingly impossible not to shout. It feels like a match just caught fire in my chest. I ignite with anger. I’ve seethed silently about this in the past, but I’ve never let it all out before.

He sighs. His face contorts, but I can’t tell if it’s with guilt or exasperation.

My anger blooms into rage, then betrayal.

He sighs. “I’m sorry for not telling you about my plans sooner.”

I shake my head. I’m too overwhelmed to speak. What is there to say? I don’t recognize the person I’m arguing with.

I shudder and the words slip out before I can register what I’m saying.

Ryan bites his lip. His eyes search mine for a long time.

I look away, cheeks burning hot. There’s a painful, stretched-out silence. I wait for him to say those words back to me. If he loves me back, he won’t take the job. He’ll make things right. But he doesn’t say a word. I feel tears threatening to well up and a painful lump building in my throat, but I know I won’t cry. It’s a skill I learned long ago, honed so Dimitri would never see me more vulnerable than I could handle. The irony of it all feels bitter. I clear my throat.

I rise from the bed. I can’t stand being close to him right now.

He leaps up from the bed. “I didn’t say I didn’t love you,” he says.

I take a deep breath. “Do you?” I ask. “Do you love me?”

He wavers for a moment, like he’s going to say something. But he doesn’t.

I turn the door handle hard and storm out, hurrying toward my room at the opposite end. I wait for the sound of him chasing after me, begging me to change my mind. But there’s nothing except the cool hiss of Ryan’s door as it eases shut behind me.

• CHAPTER 22 •

The day after I get home from the National Championships, needing a distraction, I text Sara and entice her to be home at seven for one of the most exquisite meals I have under my belt: seared scallops on a bed of fresh corn and roasted hazelnuts, swirled in a creamy, paprika-infused brown butter sauce. Scallops cost a breathtaking twenty-four dollars per pound at the grocery store, and their soft, delicate white bellies make them tricky to cook without charring the skin and leaving the insides raw. In other words, don’t bother attempting to make them unless you know what you’re doing and have a reason to splurge. I’m making a pound and a half of them tonight because I want to feel talented and productive and like myself again as I recount the story of my breakup to Sara. I lost sight of who I am over the course of my relationship with Tyler; I need to prove to myself that I haven’t forgotten that again while dating Ryan.

I’ve unloaded the groceries and preheated the oven when Sara walks in and drops her yoga mat by the door. She taught a class tonight, so wisps of blond hair frizz up from her topknot, and her cheeks glow pink. It’s true that teaching yoga isn’t as physically taxing as doing it, or so she tells me, but she’s still one of those girls who never sweats. As a person who spent a good chunk of her teenage years sweating on national television, I’m jealous.

I look up carefully from the paprika I’m measuring. “Ryan and I broke up,” I say.

Sara gasps and gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m so sorry,” she says, hugging me.

I press my lips together into a tight smile so they don’t tremble. I can’t let myself cry again—not now, not after I’ve spent the better part of the last two nights crying myself to sleep. It feels important to add the technicality that I was the one to break off the relationship. I can’t stomach being the girl who gets dumped twice in six months.

Sara sinks into the kitchen chair next to mine, and while I slide the chopped hazelnuts into the oven and pat each scallop dry with a paper towel, I recount what happened. I don’t have to litigate Dimitri’s wrongdoings for her; I say he was emotionally and verbally abusive, and she understands.

As mortifying as that was in the moment, I discover the humiliation feels just as fresh recounting it the next day. Sara visibly cringes.

I sigh. The question sounds deceptively simple—yes or no. But there are too many other emotions swirling through my head right now to make sense of the situation: sadness, anger, embarrassment, shame, regret.

The realization stings.

I groan at how infuriating the situation is and drizzle olive oil into a hot skillet. I gently place the scallops one by one, listening to the sizzle as they bathe in oil. Cooking scallops looks intimidating, but it really all comes down to precise timing and skill—just like gymnastics. Not that I ever really want to think about gymnastics ever again, especially not right now.

I shrug and flip the scallops. “Not great,” I say. “Her confidence is shot, she’s stressed beyond belief, she’s frantic that she’ll fail at Trials.”

I finish the recipe, mixing bright yellow kernels of corn with the rich, slippery sauce, and plating it carefully all together so it looks like a real gourmet treat. I turn around and I’m just about to set Sara’s plate in front of her, when she makes a sour face.

She bites her lip and slides her phone across the table toward me.

The screen is filled with Ryan’s most recent Instagram, a photo of him I must have missed. His arms are slung around Dimitri and Jasmine’s shoulders, and his satisfied smile gives me goose bumps. Dimitri looks the same as always—gruff, like he’s only posing to humor them. I search Jasmine’s face for clues, but she’s wearing that blankly beautiful newscaster look again. It’s impossible to tell what thoughts are running through her head. The background of the photo looks familiar, but I can’t quite place it until I spot the glint of medals against the wall behind them—it’s Dimitri and Jasmine’s house. They’re cozy enough to do dinner at home together now, I guess.

It’s late March; Trials are at the tail end of June, with the Olympics stretching from late July through early August.

I try not to grimace, but right now, I need something a little stronger than yoga. There’s half a bottle of red wine left corked on the counter, although it feels like a bad omen to pour a glass from it: Ryan and I opened it together last week. But the only other drink with a buzz to it is Sara’s home-brewed kombucha, so wine it is. Fittingly, the flavor has turned bitter. I drink it anyway.

Tears prick at my eyes. I inhale deeply to calm myself down, but it doesn’t really work.

My shoulders start to shake with gentle sobs, and I wish I could disappear into a black hole. I don’t want Sara to see me like this. It’s embarrassing to lose your shit over a guy you’ve only dated for a handful of months, especially when Sara met me shortly after a breakup with a different guy. If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it’s a duck, right? And if I look like a boy-crazy mess, well…

I nudge a scallop with my fork. I wish I could know what he was thinking: if he believes what I said about Dimitri; if he regrets not chasing after me; if he’s wondering how I’m doing right now, the same way I’m wondering about him. I miss him, even though I know I shouldn’t. He crossed a line, and he was wrong—I feel this on a cellular level—but the only comfort I crave is a hug in his sturdy arms. It strikes me as heartbreakingly unfair that the one person who would lift my spirits best is also the person who crushed them.

I want Ryan to stroke my hair and whisper apologies into my ear and promise me he’ll take my word more seriously next time. I need him to tell me he cares as deeply for Hallie as I do, and that he wants to protect her and girls like her, no matter what the cost, even if it means his career doesn’t zoom up the ladder as quickly as he’d hope. I took it for granted that I could trust him. Now I realize I shouldn’t have.

She tries to catch my gaze, and because I don’t want to ruin her night, too, I let her.

I muster up enough energy to pretend like her advice is helpful. “Right,” I say.

But I’ve lost my appetite.

APRIL

2020

• CHAPTER 23 •

I’m in a terrible mood. I’m fifteen minutes late to practice because I couldn’t overcome the overwhelming dread of getting out of bed. The sight of Ryan’s spare blue toothbrush in my bathroom made me crumple. I don’t want to face him, but calling in sick would be worse.

I stride across the lobby, past the life-sized cutout of Hallie, beyond the poster with my face hanging dustily from a forgotten spot on the rafters, onto the floor. Ryan is chatting with another coach. His shoulders are hunched, and he leans his chin onto his fist as he talks; from the awkwardly self-conscious way he speaks, I’d bet anything that he’s discussing Nationals, even though I’m out of earshot. Once he notices me approaching, he shifts ever so subtly. He straightens up and clears his throat. He gives a small nod of recognition in my direction but doesn’t pause to say hello. The way he brushes me off looks so subtle to an outsider, but it stings because it’s light-years away from his attitude toward me even just a few days ago. I can’t believe I said that I was falling in love with him and was met with silence.

Hallie’s not here yet. I cruise to the water fountain just to have something to do. I lean against a low practice bar and look at my phone to kill time, but I can’t fully relax. The energy in the gym is all wrong. I can feel Ryan not even halfway across the room. Most of the kid gymnasts are too young or too casual about the sport to have understood the full ramifications of Hallie’s performance at Nationals—if they’re even aware a competition took place, they probably think it’s cool that she went at all—but the older, elite-track girls understand. So do their parents. Especially their parents, the ones who watch Hallie as if she’s a weather vane that can evaluate the gym’s worthiness and predict their own daughters’ success.

Hallie slinks into the gym ten minutes later with her tracksuit hood shielding half her face and quietly settles down in an empty corner of the floor to warm up. I head over to greet her, but she barely looks at me. Ryan joins us, squatting down to Hallie’s level on the floor and giving me a respectable amount of space. Luckily, Hallie is so caught up in her own morose world that I doubt she’ll even notice the tension between me and him.

This isn’t like her. She hasn’t been her typically energetic, goofy, fun-loving self since before Nationals. This isn’t good.

She gives a curt nod, slides into a wide straddle, and slumps forward so her cheek rests against the floor. Sometimes, coaches will sit behind a gymnast in a straddle and press her down flatter into the floor for a better stretch; all I want to do is give her a hug. I hate seeing her so sad like this.

Normally, if Hallie were working on her own, Ryan and I would hang out. But I have nothing to say to him—not anything appropriate that I could say here, anyway. From the way he avoids me, I don’t get the sense he’s interested in speaking to me, either. So, instead, I do a little ab work until I panic that it makes me look like I’m peacocking for him. I get up and straighten up the supply closet, even though nothing is really out of place. I bounce lazily on the trampoline, turning back tuck after back tuck just because they’re simple and fun. I go to the bathroom and run my hands under the faucet for three times as long as I need to, just because I feel lonely and out of place in the one spot that’s always felt like home. I loathe everything about today. Nothing about this entire disastrous situation feels right—nothing.

Eventually, I wander back into the gym and perch on one of the beams to watch Hallie condition with Ryan from a safe distance. After her shaky performance at Worlds last fall, Hallie returned to the gym with a powerful vengeance. She threw herself into her practice with dynamite energy, ready to shape herself into a better athlete. But this time, returning from Nationals, her spirit couldn’t be any different. Across the gym, she’s supposed to be drilling sets of reps on bars: chin-ups, pull-ups, and leg lifts. She dangles loosely from the high bar and works with sloppy form. If she cared about the outcome, she’d work better. Work harder. She’s throwing today’s practice away.

I don’t know the specifics of the ups and downs of Hallie’s athletic career as well as, say, Ryan would, but I know enough: she was a supernaturally talented kid, and when her coaches said she had a real shot at an elite gymnastics career if she took training seriously, her parents made sure she had every advantage: a private coach at Summit, summers at training camps, a tutor so school would be more flexible. She always performed well enough in competitions to nab medals and level up. For Hallie, the Olympics probably never felt like a long shot. And now, to come so close and still worry you’re not quite good enough? That can’t be easy.

I feel for her. I wish circumstances were different—it’s only human to need some time to rebound, recharge, and return with a better attitude. But time isn’t on her side, and if she wastes the next few weeks or months by sulking, she’s letting a lifetime of hard work and sacrifice wither and die. It sounds dramatic and unfair, but so is this sport.

Hallie trudges my way, clutching her side and breathing hard from the workout Ryan just gave her.

So, apparently, he won’t even speak to me unless it’s through her.

That’s our usual routine, but today, I want to try something different.

She groans. “Do we have to?”

It’s often all too easy to feel transported back in time at Summit, and to lose sight of the fact that I’m actually a decade older than Hallie, but it serves me well to remember I’m in charge sometimes.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

We sit with our backs to the cool concrete wall and watch the routine on my phone screen. If it’s cringeworthy for me to watch her stumbles and mistakes again, this time with Jasmine and Barry’s sharp commentary playing in the background, I can only imagine how she feels.

To a casual viewer, Hallie’s routine gleams. She looks like a superstar dream. But to me, the mistakes are obvious: her leap series doesn’t hit the requisite 180-degree splits; there’s just a hair too much power on one tumbling pass; her poise drops as she loses energy toward the end of her routine. The second the video is over, Hallie pushes away the screen.

She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on top, looking very, very small.

That catches her attention. She stares at me, dumbstruck and horrified.

She sighs and doesn’t look at me for a long time. “I’m just afraid that it won’t matter what I do to prep,” she admits. “Like, what if I’m not good enough? What if that’s just it? Some people have what it takes, and some people don’t.”

She’s right, but I don’t want her to think that way. A failed Olympic hopeful probably isn’t the most convincing person to deliver a pep talk right now, but I’m the person she’s got. I fumble for the right words; I think back to the girl I was moments before competing on floor at Olympic Trials in 2012, and what I’ve so desperately wished I could have said to her. What I wished I had known.

Her lower lip trembles, and she buries her face in her knees.

I stand, hands on my hips. For a moment, I worry that I’ve gone too far. She doesn’t move. But then she pushes herself off the ground to stand up. Her cheeks glisten with tears, and her chest rises and falls with emotion, but she’s here. Standing. Ready to work.