Chapter 2

• CHAPTER 2 •

Mom and Dad meet me at the arrivals gate at Logan airport with faces scrunched in concern.

I had returned home plenty of times since moving to LA, but this time, it has a sense of finality. I’m not here for a quick Thanksgiving visit—when Mom hits the clicker and rolls her Honda into the cold, musty garage, I’m returning for good. I take a suitcase in each hand and trace my old, familiar steps through the house.

A corner of the living room serves as a shrine to what once was. There’s a life-sized cardboard cutout of me, frozen forever at seventeen years old, in a red-white-and-blue spangled leotard with chalky thighs and a pile of medals around my neck. Trophies, medals, and competition photos fill the floor-to-ceiling bookcase behind it. I heave my suitcases past the living room, up the stairs, and into my childhood bedroom. It’s still painted a childish shade of pink, and there’s a smattering of glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on the ceiling. Once-glossy posters of gymnastics greats like Nadia Comaneci, Mary Lou Retton, and Shannon Miller cling to the walls.

I flop on the bed. Compared to the king-sized one I shared with Tyler, this twin-sized mattress feels like a flimsy pool float. I’m no longer a hundred pounds of pure muscle; I don’t fit here anymore. I look at my phone with a sigh, wishing desperately for any sort of distraction. I have no texts; barely anyone knows I’ve moved.

I open Twitter. At first, it’s a mindless stream of news, memes, and snippy comments from people I can’t remember following in the first place. I see missives about gratitude and accountability from Krista, my old college roommate; according to her tweets, she’s been sober for a year now. But then a headline catches my attention. My heart lurches as I open the story on TMZ: TYLER ETTINGER NEWLY SINGLE? SPOTTED COZYING UP TO A SWIMSUIT MODEL.

I read it over—once, twice, three times—but the words seem to swim on the screen. Someone on Twitter recognized Tyler at Bootsy Bellows, a celeb-studded club in LA, and took a grainy video of him grinding up on a woman that TMZ identifies as model Brianna Kwan. She apparently had a four-page spread in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue this year. In a fit of self-loathing, I hit play on the video. He nuzzles her neck as his hand trails down the front of her dress; she tilts her head back to whisper something in his ear. Paparazzi caught them outside the club, too, striding hand in hand from the back door to a waiting black car. Tyler knows what he’s doing—he knows better than that. He’s the one who taught me how to ditch the paps or throw them off the trail: don’t show affection or even walk within the same photo frame when photographers are around unless you want the attention. He never did. He said he didn’t like too much publicity around his personal life, but now I just wonder if he didn’t want it with me.

TMZ concludes that Tyler has likely split from Avery Abrams, his ex-gymnast girlfriend of four years. “Or if not, he’s sure to hear from her soon…” the site snarked.

I shove my phone under my pillow and bury my face in it. While Tyler is moving on, I’m spiraling into the worst version of myself: lethargic, self-pitying, aimless. The same way I felt after Trials. The version of myself that he didn’t want anymore. I want to scream. I feel full of bitter rage in a way that makes me tear up. I went so many years without crying: not when Dimitri assigned me triple sets of conditioning because I talked back one day; not when a fall off beam knocked the wind out of me; not when I developed a stress fracture in my spine at fourteen. The Olympic Trials failure opened up a floodgate I couldn’t close. Ever since then, the littlest things set me off. It’s embarrassing, how quickly hot tears spring to my eyes now.

This isn’t little, though. I wish it were.

I pull up Tyler’s Instagram on my phone and scroll down, scanning for the occasional photos he posted of me or of us together. There should be one from a month ago, when we attended his cousin’s wedding together—but it’s gone. So are the pictures from our anniversary getaway to San Francisco. It’s like he’s erased me. My stomach drops when I see he’s unfollowed me, too. Worse, still, I see he just recently followed that swimsuit model.

I feel sick. I can’t remember the last time Tyler touched me the way he touched Brianna in the club, like my skin gave off the oxygen he needed to breathe. I knew our relationship had its issues, but Tyler always said that if you love each other, you stick it out the whole time, no matter what. Nothing a person could say or do would push you away forever. I believed him, because he was the first guy I’d ever really dated, and he had had a serious girlfriend in college. He knew. He and Megan had the kind of relationship where they went on summer vacations with each other’s families and talked about future baby names. It only dawned on me later that he eventually left Megan, too.

When the phone rings at dinner, I’m grateful for anything that cuts through the conversation. Mom plated an endive salad and asked probing questions about why I think Tyler broke up with me; she served grilled tilapia and suggested jobs I could apply for; she refilled our water glasses and peppered me with updates about childhood friends I haven’t seen in fifteen years. She can’t do silence or stillness. She picks up the call on its second ring.

I push a bite of fish across my plate and try to shut out the unwanted image of Tyler’s fingers snaking down Brianna’s taut abs. Mom listens, draws out an elongated “ummm,” and cocks her head toward me.

I can’t imagine who it is. Nobody knows that I’m here. I take the phone from Mom and wander into the living room.

Of course I remember him. His name is seared into my memory; you never forget the name of your teenage crush. Ryan was a top gymnast around the same time that I was. He trained in Florida, and like me, he was homeschooled for most of his teenage years. Because we both competed on a national and international level, we crossed paths at meets a few times a year. When my best friend Jasmine and I made lists of the cutest boys we knew, his name was always on them. To be fair, we were both homeschooled and knew of just eight or ten boys who didn’t sport rattails—an unfortunately popular fad among male gymnasts in the 2000s—but still. His thick, dark hair; chocolate-brown eyes; and nicely muscled arms and abs made a lasting impression. He went to the Olympics in both 2012 and 2016.

It’s like all normal social niceties have completely fallen out of my brain.

I wonder if he read the TMZ story and drew his own conclusions.

Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. She’s the office manager at my old gym, Summit. I loved her.

There’s a beat of silence on the line.

Years ago, if Jasmine and I could’ve chosen a personal phone call from Ryan Nicholson or Ryan Gosling, we would’ve picked Nicholson every time. I pace the width of the living room and wind up face-to-face with my cardboard cutout. I swivel to dodge her.

Dimitri put Summit on the map in the 2000s by producing more Olympic gymnasts there than any other training facility in American history—Lindsay Tillerson, Jasmine, and plenty of others. But after 2012, he left Summit to found his own gym, Powerhouse. Summit was taken over by one of its own longtime coaches, Mary Li, but I haven’t heard much about her. It sounds like she prefers to stay behind the scenes these days, running the business, rather than training athletes on her own.

The truth is that if 2012 had gone differently for me, I might not have the hard feelings that I do now.

I know what he means. There are two types of gymnasts: the powerhouses who nail sky-high tumbling and have so much energy, they nearly bounce out of bounds, and the delicate dancers who captivate fans with beautiful choreography, but never attempt the toughest tricks. I was among the latter. You can’t choose—you work with what comes naturally to you. At five-foot-three, I was relatively tall and elegant for a gymnast, and my flexibility put the famously bendy Russians to shame. Floor was where I shone—I had a sense of poise and presence to my artistry that’s almost impossible to teach. You either have it or you don’t.

Gymnastics is split by gender: women and men compete on both floor exercise and vault, though women also do balance beam and uneven bars, while men do parallel bars, high bar, rings, and pommel horse. But even though Ryan and I both did floor, the event is drastically different for men and women. We both performed difficult and exciting skills, but his focused on brute strength while mine were interwoven with dynamic choreography. It doesn’t matter that Ryan earned an Olympic gold team medal, a gold on high bar, and a bronze on parallel bars. His skills don’t fully translate to women’s gymnastics, although plenty of men coach women. That’s how it’s always been. The greatest coaches in the sport’s history—like Igor Itzkovitz and, yes, Dimitri Federov—are all men.

I can’t help it. I actually laugh.

I hesitate. It’s dark outside now, and the row of gold trophies on the top shelf gleam menacingly in the living room window.

He sighs heavily on the other end of the phone. “Why don’t you take my number in case you change your mind?”

I add his number to my own phone, even though I know I won’t use it.

His words make me pause. It’s like UCLA all over again, when my name was bigger than my actual achievements.

I say goodbye and hang up. When I turn back to face the kitchen, Mom and Dad’s eager faces already look hungry for news.

They exchange glances.

They’re eager because that’s all they know. Gymnasts don’t ascend the ranks to become Olympians unless the whole family is committed from the start. My ambition burned out, but theirs never did.

That night, I can’t sleep. The TMZ video loops cruelly in my head, interspersed with my most romantic moments with Tyler. I see him hand-delivering a bouquet of two dozen white roses and lilies, just because it was Wednesday and he missed me. I flash to his eyes shut tight, head bopping to the beat of the club’s house music. I remember the sexy, sleepy way his hair stuck up in bed when he woke up on Sunday mornings, and the time he bought out an entire theater so I could see a showing of Stick It on my birthday. My brain cuts to the way he slipped his hand into Brianna’s as they exited the club, heads ducked from the flashing cameras. And then there’s Mom’s voice: You should have something to do. Something other than this: lying sweaty in a twin-sized bed in a room decorated by an eight-year-old.

Fuck it. If Tyler can move on, so can I. I download a dating app and throw together the bare bones: a full-body photo from my skinny days before the Freshman 15 set in; a close-up from Tyler’s cousin’s wedding, when my hair and makeup looked good; and no bio at all, because what’s there to say? I set my location radius to thirty miles. Even after all this time, my name is easy to recognize in this small town. People still think of me as that girl who almost made the Olympics.

It’s past 11 p.m.—probably too late to swipe without looking like I’m only here for hookups. But I feel a morosely intoxicating combination of sadness and loneliness, so I swipe anyway. I reject the first seven men right off the bat because once you’ve dated a pro football player on People’s 50 Most Beautiful list (number forty-one, but still), it’s tough to recalibrate your standards. But I find a groove eventually, indicating interest in a local firefighter, an accountant, and a middle school math teacher I vaguely recognize as someone who grew up in Greenwood a couple years ahead of me. I match with the teacher—Lucas—and involuntarily shudder. He’s not Tyler. It’s disorienting to actively seek out other men. I don’t know if I really feel ready for this.

hey, Lucas messages me. what’s up?

Not much, I write back. Just moved back here this week from LA, actually.

You grew up here? he asks.

I hold my breath. Yeah, I write.

But miraculously, he doesn’t seem to recognize me. Instead, he asks what I’m up to tomorrow. When I answer truthfully that I have nothing major going on, he invites me out for a drink tomorrow night. I hesitate, then swipe quickly through a few more potential matches. Nobody else stands out to me. So I say yes. It’s not like I have anything better to do.

Jade Castle is a mediocre Chinese restaurant with one of the few liquor licenses in this formerly Puritan dry town. My family never came here; we always preferred to eat at Ming’s House—not that I could ever have anything besides the steamed chicken and broccoli—because Jade Castle has always attracted a less family-friendly crowd. When I arrive at seven thirty tonight, I spot the father of one of my middle school classmates sitting at the bar with a girl half his age, and a large round table crowded with boys in matching lacrosse team jackets, probably using an expired ID swiped from an older brother. I take an empty bar stool; I’m not sure if Lucas intended for us to eat or not. When a bartender asks if she can get me a drink, I awkwardly decline. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been on a first date, and it feels like the muscle has atrophied. I felt optimistic setting up the date on the app, but now my confidence has evaporated.

Lucas walks in at seven forty, when I’m on the verge of losing my nerve and leaving.

I make an attempt to stand, but my feet get tangled behind the leg of the bar stool. He slouches onto the seat next to me instead and leaves his phone faceup on the bar.

When the bartender glances our way, he holds up two fingers, and mouths, “Two.” I get the distinct sense that he’s been here on plenty of dates. He drums his fingers on the bar in a staccato rhythm, then visibly relaxes once he sees her returning with our drinks.

The question makes me frantic. “Uh, I just needed a change.”

I feel stupid telling him I spent six years in LA and can count my number of beach days on one hand because I wasn’t confident enough to wear a bathing suit.

It’s obvious that this date is not off to a strong start. And what’s worse, it’s not a stretch to imagine my future as a string of evenings just like this one, probably at this exact bar, probably while Lucas conducts a similar string of dates a few bar stools down.

I do. The suburb’s strong public school system attracts a wildly overachieving, goal-oriented population. When I was in elementary school, nobody thought it was weird that I spent sixteen hours after school every week training in a gym because everyone else spent that amount of time on horseback riding lessons, piano lessons, theater classes, or all three.

I don’t know what else to say, so I cast around for anything we might have in common.

He nods and rolls his eyes. “Yep. With a stick up her ass.”

He cocks his head and really stares at me. For a few stretched-out seconds, neither of us speak.

My blood runs cold. In my most pathetic moments, I’ve watched the damn video alone. But Lucas is jubilant, leaning in closer but talking louder than ever.

I feel cornered. I shrug and try to cast around for another topic of conversation to distract him.

Lucas opens YouTube on his phone and starts to type in “worst gymnastics crashes.” It doesn’t take him long to zero in on the clip he’s searching for. He gleefully hits play, and I hear the familiar roar of an athletic arena cut through the bar’s din. I can hear the faint, singsongy chant of my name—“Let’s go, A-ve-ry, let’s go!” I don’t need to watch; I know it by heart: me, nineteen years old, in a shimmering red leotard and a ponytail, performing the sharply sultry opening dance moves of my floor routine at the 2012 Olympic Trials. Even all these years later, the music stirs my muscles; this is where I pirouette; this is where I roll my hip. I ground myself back into reality on the bar stool, willing myself into stillness.

But I can’t forget what I know is playing out on-screen: the younger version of me launching into my first tumbling pass. It’s the most impressive one of my routine: round-off, back handspring, whip, back handspring, double-twisting, double back somersault. I had performed it a thousand times before. But this time, I underrotated and came crashing down onto the blue spring floor while I was still spinning. There was a horrific shredding sensation in my knee before my hands even hit the ground.

My floor music continues as the audience gasps. I scream. Lucas taps the screen to watch the crash over again, cutting short the moment when Dimitri rushed onto the floor to carry me away in his arms. My stomach lurches as I watch Lucas lean even closer to the video.

I clear my throat. “Please turn that off,” I say.

He makes no move to stop the video.

I do my best attempt at a smile, but I can sense it comes out all thin and strained.

Somehow, I have a hard time believing he’s “got it.” I had trained for that moment since the time I was four years old, when my ballet instructor complained I had too much energy for dance and suggested I switch to gymnastics instead. By age eight, I was practicing four times a week. At twelve, I sat in a straddle on my living room floor, transfixed as Lindsay Tillerson won the all-around gold—I knew I could follow in her footsteps. Two years later, I convinced my parents to let me drop out of school and study with a tutor so I could train full-time under the legendary coach Dimitri Federov. In this sport, it’s outrageous for anyone to claim an easy path to Olympic glory. But everyone from Dimitri to Jasmine to the girls who sent me fan emails all said the same thing: I had a better chance than any other athlete out there.

I was furious that I’d just missed the cutoff to be eligible for the 2008 Olympics. Sixteen is the minimum age to compete, and my birthday fell just weeks after the Beijing games at the end of August. So I threw myself into the next four years of training, desperate because I had dreamed of this one moment for nearly my entire life.

The Olympic Trials for gymnastics are held just seven weeks before the actual Olympic Games. Trials and the Games are held closely together to limit the likelihood of anything disastrous happening in the middle; god forbid a gymnast sprain an ankle, or worse, develop. In 2012, fourteen athletes competed for just five spots on the team, plus three alternates. I performed beautifully all day long, and floor was my final event of the competition. I liked the idea of finishing on a high note.

And then I crashed. It was over. All of it. Gone. Recovering from surgery was tough because it seemed as if there was nothing to recover for. I was nineteen years old. Even if my knee healed well, I was too old to seriously consider the prospect of training for Rio in four years. The cruel reality of the sport is that you train your entire life for one event, and then the moment disappears in a flash. By twenty-one, twenty-two—forget about twenty-three—your body has taken beatings for too many years.

So, the same night my career ended, Jasmine’s took off. She didn’t just make the Olympic team—she became the star of it. While she competed in London, I watched the competition on the couch, recovering from knee surgery. In lulls between performances from the American gymnasts, the commentators noted that Avery Abrams, widely considered the front-runner, the shoo-in, hadn’t made the team due to a last-minute injury. They rattled my name off like a fun fact, the same way they commented on the architecture of the stadium and the number of Swarovski crystals sewn onto competition leotards. Jasmine won a gold on bars, a silver on beam, and a gold team medal.

I had imagined that I’d return home from London as America’s sweetheart. I’d model for Wheaties boxes, chat up talk show hosts, and land Sports Illustrated covers for a few months. Then, once the mainstream interest in my athletic prowess had died down, I’d enjoy a revered career within the world of gymnastics. I’d be a commentator on TV, design a collection of leotards for GK, and give motivational speeches to aspiring athletes across the country. There was no plan B.

Meanwhile, Jasmine was on the Wheaties box. She was on the cover of not only Sports Illustrated, but People, Seventeen, and Essence, too. She was invited to New York Fashion Week and the Grammys. She won Dancing with the Stars and seemed to be Ellen DeGeneres’s new best friend. Little girls across the country did cartwheels in leotards she designed. We had been best friends, training side by side for six years. At first, she called often, asking sincere questions about my knee surgery and saying she wished I could be there with her. She even sent me a care package of souvenirs from London—British chocolate bars and a commemorative mug stamped with Prince William and Kate Middleton’s wedding portrait, taken the year before. I could barely stand to reply, and I let our friendship wither to monthly texts. I saw her in person just once after the Olympics; it was her twentieth birthday dinner, and I couldn’t come up with a plausible excuse to turn down the invitation. It felt like all the comfort had been sucked out of the air between us. She didn’t bother texting at all after that.

Lucas makes a show of sliding his phone into his pocket. I don’t know what the protocol is for ending a bad date early, but I sense with absolute clarity that I should leave. I saw a woman on TV once slap money on the bar and saunter away, which looked supremely classy, but I’m not carrying any cash. I don’t want to leave Lucas—as awful as he is—with the bill, just on the matter of principle. Instead, before I lose my nerve, I clear my throat and tell Lucas I’m leaving.

I signal the bartender. As I wait for her to come my way, I stare straight ahead, not brave enough to even glance at Lucas.

He sputters, “You’re leaving? Now?”

I hand my credit card to the bartender. “Just for the one drink, please,” I tell her. Then I turn to my date. “I’m sorry, yes, I’m leaving. It’s been a long night.”

I grab my purse and jacket and stride through Jade Castle to get to the parking lot. I’ve only had a few sips of beer; I should be fine to drive home. Before I back the car out of the spot, my fingers find the preset for the angriest indie rock channel on the radio. The presets haven’t changed since I was in high school. I take the familiar turns through the town center, replaying Lucas’s moronically cruel behavior on a loop in my head. If I had to venture a guess, this is not how Tyler felt after his first night out with Brianna.

When I reach my driveway a few minutes later, I’m still too angry to get out of the car. I know that when I walk into the house, Mom and Dad will probably pepper me with questions about how the night went, and I’m not ready to face that.

I look up Ryan’s phone number in my contacts. The unfamiliar area code is proof that he’s an outsider—a fresh start. He saw me in the context of the sport, where career-ending falls are unfortunately more common than you might think. They’re par for the course, not a local tragedy. Unlike Lucas, Ryan—hopefully—doesn’t look at me and think, train wreck. He’s seen me draped in gold medals. And it’s not like I have anything else going on. I dial his number.

• CHAPTER 3 •

Arriving at Summit hurls me back in time. On Thursday afternoon, I swing open the front door in a daze, but no one else seems fazed by my entrance. Moms congregate in the windowed lobby, watching their children’s practice. The office is still home to racks of leotards with matching scrunchies and warm-up shorts available for purchase. The entire building has the mingled scents of chalk and sweat. The only clues to the passage of time are the selection of photos hung in the front hall. There used to be a larger-than-life print of me at a competition with my signature in black Sharpie. It’s gone now, and in its stead are a series of framed team portraits. I recognize a few of the faces—the younger siblings of the girls in my age group. The last time I saw these kids, they were seven or eight years old. Now they’re teenagers.

When I enter the locker room, I feel the acute sense of no longer belonging. The narrow space is crawling with skinny kids who don’t yet know that the scrunched cotton underwear hanging out the sides of their leotards makes them look like amateurs. The middle of the room is occupied by stacks of cubbies stuffed with gym bags, grips, sweatpants, and Uggs. My usual one is occupied, so I find an empty spot to store my socks and sneakers. I tighten my ponytail and steel myself to find Ryan in the main training area.

I open the glass door that separates waiting parents from the gymnasts and coaches and scan the gym for Ryan. The room is thick with memories. Everywhere I look, I flash back to younger versions of myself: six and crying because I just straddled the beam when I was supposed to land a cartwheel; twelve and high on the adrenaline rush of my first giant on bars; eighteen and prepping my floor routine for Nationals. I spot Ryan and a girl I assume to be Hallie sequestered on a stretch of mats by a mirror. They’re conditioning—the full-body workout designed to build the strength necessary to perform. I used to do an hour a day of crunches, push-ups, squats, rope climbs, and more, just to stay in competitive shape. Ryan’s in track pants and a T-shirt, holding a stopwatch as Hallie does V-ups with weights strapped to each ankle.

I call his name as I approach. He glances at me, then down at the stopwatch.

It’s odd to see him all grown-up now, and I wonder if he feels the same way about me. In some ways, of course, he looks exactly the same: chocolate-brown eyes, high cheekbones, a dimple in his left cheek, a thin scar over his right eyebrow, an impressively strong physique. But his thick, dark hair is longer on top—I guess he can wear it like that, now that he’s no longer competing—and there’s a smattering of stubble on his sharp jaw. Up close, I can see a colorful sliver of a tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his T-shirt. Of course. He has the Olympic rings, just like his teammates do. Just like I would have, if things had gone differently.

I take in the view of the gym, catching sight of coaches I recognize from way back when. “It’s weird,” I admit. “But this place feels like home.”

But he’s not. Because I remember it, too.

He’s talking about Nationals the year I was sixteen, when the competition was held at an arena in Houston, Texas. The space was large and confusingly laid out; I must have walked in circles for five minutes on my way to finding the bathroom. I was returning from the women’s restroom when I spotted Ryan—or Cute Ryan, as Jasmine and I called him. We had seen each other around at other competitions before, but hadn’t ever spoken. Still, I was pretty confident that he recognized me.

I was secretly thrilled that he knew my name.

I wanted to project the façade that hot guys spoke to me all the time. Totally normal. Yawn.

Luckily, I had just walked past them. I pointed him in the right direction. I won the gold all-around medal later that day, cementing my status as a gymnast to watch. But when I think back to that competition, what stands out is the twinkling, giddy adrenaline rush from Cute Ryan knowing my name.

All these years later, I feel vindicated, knowing that I’m not the only one who remembers the interaction.

The stopwatch beeps. “Done!” he calls to Hallie. She collapses on the mat. “Come over, I’ll introduce you,” Ryan says.

Hallie sits up, clutches her stomach for a moment, and undoes the Velcro straps securing her ankle weights. I’m sure that whatever set of reps she just completed was no joke, but she leaps to her feet. Her auburn ponytail swings over her broad shoulders. She’s muscular and compact; the rippled outline of a six-pack is visible through the fuchsia Lycra of her leotard.

She gives me a shy smile. “Hi. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I was a level four when you were training here. I remember you.” She must have been one of the skinny kids running around in the locker room years ago.

I don’t want to tarnish his perception of my life since then, so I let the subject drop. “What are you working on?” I ask brightly.

Ryan alternates between leading Hallie through her remaining reps and filling me in on the situation. Hallie is sixteen now; he moved here to coach her three years ago, not long after he competed in Rio. The Olympics are the long-term goal, of course, but the next hurdle is the World Championships, held later this month in Stuttgart, Germany. She’s very strong on bars and vault, and pretty solid on beam. But she’s feeling less confident when it comes to floor. He wants me to watch her routine and see how I can help her polish it.

She refills her water bottle, takes a slurp, then trots to one corner of the blue spring floor to practice her tumbling passes. She’s diligent, efficient, and polite; she bounces in diagonal lines from corner to corner, letting other, younger girls tumble across her in between passes while she catches her breath. The other gymnasts defer to her with an obvious sense of reverence. Hallie’s skills are strong, and she moves with a powerful sense of energy. It’s too powerful, in fact—at the end of each tumbling pass, she bobs and stumbles to control her motion.

Next, she warms up the other elements of her floor routine: leaps, jumps, pirouettes, smaller acrobatic elements. Here, I see why Ryan is concerned. She has talent in spades, but lacks poise. The one lesson coaches drill into gymnasts from the first lesson is to always point your toes. Hallie points hers—but not with the sharp lines or intense muscular focus that she should. Until you’ve felt your thighs quaking as your toes curl toward your heels, you haven’t really pointed your toes.

The problem, I realize, is presentation. Her chin needs to be a fraction higher, her shoulders should pull back by two inches. Her posture is stiff and strong, lacking grace. She goes through the motions of each skill in a technically accurate way, but that’s it. She’s moving, not performing. If I could teach her how to do that, she could be a champion.

If. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if anyone can. It’s a lot of pressure.

I get the sense he’s been watching me take her in to gauge my reaction.

I hesitate. “She could be better,” I admit.

He nods and silently watches his charge work. She squats with one leg extended, then winds up to perform a clunky pirouette with her foot maneuvering inches above the ground. It’s an awkward spin—known as the wolf turn—but the Olympic code of points awards it an insanely high difficulty score, so almost every top gymnast attempts to squeeze it into their floor and beam routines these days. I’m glad the move wasn’t in vogue when I was competing.

Ryan nods in agreement, and that gives me the confidence to keep going.

I pivot to face him, and I’m grateful to see a bemused expression on his face. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. He calls out across the gym, “Hallie, ready to run a routine? Let’s show Avery here what you can do.”

Ryan connects his phone to a stereo system and calls for the other gymnasts to clear the floor. They scatter, giving Hallie a wide berth as she makes her way to a spot a few feet from one corner of the floor. She freezes into a pose with her left leg extended and her right arm above her head. Then, a tinkling flute leads into a sweeping piano melody, and her body comes alive. The structure of her routine is familiar: a few brief dance steps, an impressive tumbling pass, followed by a series of hastily executed acrobatic movements and artistic elements designed to propel her into a new corner of the floor, where she launches into another tumbling pass. The structure repeats again, giving her exactly ninety seconds to pack a lifetime’s worth of training into a single performance.

There’s no denying it—it’s a good routine. But it’s not the kind of show that brings home Olympic medals. Here, too, her posture is rigid; her motions seem rote and uninspired. The elegant music she’s chosen doesn’t fit her style at all.

I nod. “She needs an upgrade,” I say.

Ryan grimaces and rolls his neck, letting the vertebrae crack. Reflexively, I rotate my wrists until they crunch and push each knuckle into a satisfying pop. The sport is brutal on our joints.

Hallie joins us by the stereo. She has her hands on her waist and she looks like she’s trying not to appear out of breath.

His comments aren’t the full picture. Of course her double Arabian had fantastic height—she excels at tumbling, even the forward-rotating flips requiring superhuman power like that one—and she knows it. Her wolf turn was passable, but that’s hardly the most pressing item to critique. I don’t know Ryan well enough to determine if he’s a softy or if he just lacks the gimlet eye necessary to pick apart the subtleties of a women’s floor routine. But either way, he’s shortchanging Hallie. He’s letting her slide by without the grueling feedback she needs. If Dimitri ever saw this routine, Hallie would never hear the end of it.

She radiates desperate energy; I can feel how badly she craves my approval. I was just like her once.

Her jaw sets with disappointment. “Yeah?” she asks.

She shifts her weight onto one hip and crosses her arms across her chest. The muscular curves of her triceps jut out proudly, and for a split second, a wave of doubt washes over me. My triceps are soft and flabby. Seven years ago, sure, I could do what Hallie just did. I could do it better. But now? Who am I to tell this lean, powerful dynamo how to improve?

Hallie’s hazel eyes narrow, and in them, I recognize a self-conscious flicker. I see her swallow hard. If I’m guessing right, she’s gifted, hardworking, but anxious. I bet she knows her natural talent and ambition can only take her so far. Ryan knows it, too. That’s why I’m here. In my experience, a coach can’t only be your friend—they have to push you, too. Ryan doesn’t seem like the type to zero in on a gymnast’s insecurities and manipulate them into motivation, the way Dimitri did. But if he’s an effective coach on bars, beam, and vault, then maybe I could be the bad cop on floor. Gymnastics is classified as an individual sport, but it’s not really. No gymnast can succeed without a coach shaping them into the best version of themselves.

I take a deep breath and try to plaster on the front of calm confidence I used to wear in competitions. I’m out of practice.

I’m stunned into silence. If I had given Dimitri so much sass, I would’ve suffered through an extra hour of conditioning alone.

She gapes a little and turns to Ryan. He shrugs and juts his chin out at me.

I think for a moment. I could run through feet stretches until she learned what it really means to point her toes, but that feels low-impact, unimpressive, and possibly a sore spot. Instead, I tell her to follow me to a mirrored wall along one side of the floor.

She gets into position, pauses, then launches into motion. Her arms swing, her legs bend, her head tilts. She pivots and shimmies into place. The entire thing takes five seconds. When she’s done, she looks up at me with a flat, expectant look.

I copy her movements, but amp them up. Each arm movement ends in a sharp flick of my fingers. Each step is taken with perfectly pointed toes. I pivot with a dramatic bump of my hip. As I spin, I catch my reflection in the mirror, and feel another crashing wave of nostalgia.

She resumes her position, then dives into the first step.

I squat down next to her and push her foot into the arched position it needs to be. Her ankle stiffens at first, then reluctantly turns to putty.

She watches herself in the mirror and bends her knee experimentally.

We work like this for ten minutes, dissecting each step of choreography until she understands exactly when and how to move each muscle in her body. I bet she’d rather be practicing a new skill or drilling tumbling passes until she can stick one perfectly, but she lets me train her. When I demonstrate a move for her, she studies me carefully. And when she regurgitates the choreography back at me, she attacks it with new energy. As she hones in on the right motions, she looks closer and closer to the way I would’ve performed this choreography when I was her age. It breaks my heart. But it’s not my time anymore. The only way I can belong to elite gymnastics now is like this, as a mentor.

Ryan had been watching quietly from the sidelines, but now he steps in with a suggestion. “Try the whole routine again,” he says. “Throw all that in there.”

I’m skeptical—you don’t relearn how to move your entire body after just ten minutes of instruction. You can’t simply “throw all that in there” and expect real change. But Hallie takes her usual place on the floor and winds up for another routine.

When the opening notes of her music ring out, she flies into action. The first few steps of choreography are sharper now, but soon enough, her poise falters. Her shoulders slump forward, her chin drops, her toes go slack.

In response, her body flinches into position. She pulls off the turn well and bounds into the home stretch. When the routine is finished, she walks back to us, panting.

I wait for him to give her notes on the rest of her lackluster routine, but he doesn’t. Instead, he claps her on the shoulder. This gymnast-coach dynamic is one hundred and eighty degrees opposite from what I was raised on—I’m not sure I understand it.

It’s not my place to argue coaching strategy in front of her. Ryan and I watch as she scampers away toward the locker room.

He catches me off guard. I didn’t realize I’d be dismissed so quickly.

He nods at the door leading out toward the lobby. “I’ll walk you out,” he says.

My chest tightens at the prospect of leaving behind this musty haven of adrenaline and ambition. I don’t want to leave—I want to dangle from the bars, tiptoe across beam, and launch myself eight feet high above the white trampoline.

His eyes stay glued to the floor. “I, uh, I don’t know. To be honest, I’m interviewing another coach, too. We’ll see how things go.”

He doesn’t respond. This is humiliating. I’m surprised at how bold I am with him, but I have nothing left to lose. I’m lucky enough that this gig fell into my lap; finding another one that would make me feel even a fraction as excited as I’d be coaching at Summit doesn’t seem possible.

We’re at the door now. Ryan places his hand on the handle. Parents lined up in gray plastic folding chairs peer at us through the waiting area window. Their passive boredom in Lululemon leggings and zip-ups is so familiar to me.

A mental image appears in a flash: me slipping underwater, slumped on the couch in my parents’ basement, with nothing to look forward to tomorrow or the next day or any day at all. I don’t have to imagine it; I know it intimately. This gym is the only place I’ve ever felt truly at home; this job feels like it should be mine. I can’t fathom Ryan giving it to anyone else. But I don’t know how to succinctly explain the territorial greed I feel for this coaching gig and how badly I need it without sounding desperate.

Ryan opens the door handle, and I mutter “Thanks” as I propel myself through the waiting area, down the hallway, and into the locker room, where Summit gymnasts who aren’t quite good enough have always gone to break down into silent tears.

NOVEMBER

2019

• CHAPTER 4 •

A familiar voice blares from the TV. I crunch an apple noisily between my teeth to block out the sound. My parents are sprawled out on the couch in the living room with their feet kicked up on the ottoman, passing a single glass of red wine between them as they watch the World Championships on TV.

I groan.

Jasmine has been a regular commentator for televised gymnastics competitions since the last Olympics. As jealous as I am, she does a fantastic job. Her deep knowledge of the sport, status as a household name, and pretty features make for good television.

It’s been two weeks. Ryan never called. I assume he must have gone with the other coach. I bet the coach is even there with Ryan and Hallie in Stuttgart right now. Truly, I can’t imagine a worse evening than watching a person who knocked me out of the running for a job while listening to commentary that—had life gone differently—I could be delivering instead.

I chomp on another bite of apple while swiping left on three more dating app profiles. I haven’t been out with anyone since my Jade Castle date with Lucas. In fact, I’ve barely done anything at all. I’ve half-heartedly cobbled together a résumé and scanned job boards. I know I can’t coast like this for much longer—my bank account is running low—but I can’t get the thought of the Summit job out of my head. Nothing else compares. I’ve been slightly more proactive on the dating front; I have a handful of conversations going with different guys, though honestly, I’m too wary to meet up with any of them. Another profile pops up.

Cali > Mass, the profile reads. Love football, hockey, and 420.

I flick disinterestedly through the guy’s photos, if only because we’ve made the same geographic move. In his third photo, he’s wearing a Rams jersey with Tyler’s name stamped across it. I swipe left and, in a fit of frustration, delete the dating app from my phone.

I won’t get any peace in here.

I trudge into the living room and perch on the arm of the couch. There’s a glare on the TV from the overhead lights reflecting off the trophy case along one wall. I’ve told my parents to move them. Jasmine and a decorated male gymnast from the ’90s are on-screen. In some ways, she looks the same: her eyes still sparkle with a hint of the glittery eyeliner she’s always loved, and her warm, brown skin pops against a tight, long-sleeved, magenta top that looks vaguely reminiscent of a leotard. But now, dolled up for the cameras, she’s wearing bright lipstick that matches her outfit, and her hair is smooth.

A banner running across the bottom of the screen lists the commentators’ names: Barry McGuire and Jasmine Floyd-Federov. I always forget she works under her hyphenated married name. That was the other thing that happened during my downward spiral in LA: Jasmine and Dimitri. They got together. The news felt like the most violent hangover of my life. I turned down the invitation to their wedding, citing a family reunion that same weekend. It was a lie.

Nothing about it feels real. For starters, he’s more than twenty years our senior. He called us each “girl” interchangeably, like it would’ve been too much effort to learn or use our names. And between me and Jasmine, he was always harder on her. When he mocked my vault, chided me for running like a girl, and made me do laps around the gym with weights strapped to my ankles, I could get through it. I knew his next compliment was just one good routine around the corner. But when Jasmine wobbled through a beam routine and he screamed that she was a “sloppy cow,” everyone knew that he really meant it. His abrasive demeanor, stormy mood swings, cruel nicknames, and outsized punishments were intended to mold us into champions, but they left me with pure distaste for him. I can’t fathom how Jasmine survived all that and could stomach marrying him. If we were still friends, maybe I could ask her. Maybe I’d see a different side to him. But my chance is long gone.

Barry tuts in agreement, launching into a list of her floor scores from the past year.

She tucks her hair behind her ear, and I catch a flash of a diamond ring glinting on her left hand. I just can’t fathom how or why she’s with Dimitri. I certainly can’t imagine her loving him.

The camera pans to Hallie lingering by the edge of the floor, awaiting her turn. She rolls her toes under her foot, bites her lip, and tugs on her ponytail to tighten it up. She’s alone. Jasmine and I at least always had each other. Before every competition performance, we’d huddle up, arms looped around each other’s shoulders. We’d chant something encouraging, like, “We got this,” or, “You’re gonna nail it.” It made us feel confident, centered. And as we approached each performance, we’d call out the same singsongy chant for each other: “Let’s go, Avery, let’s go!” Clap, clap. “Let’s go, Jasmine, let’s go!” Clap, clap.

A high-pitched beep rings out across the arena, indicating that Hallie is permitted to start. She strides to her spot on the floor, settles into position, and waits for her music to begin. I watch carefully as she hits the opening steps of choreography. Her movements aren’t quite as elegant as they should be, but at least her chin is lifted proudly and her toes reach toward a sharp point. Her first tumbling pass is sky-high, but there’s too much power in her landing; she bobbles out of place, and then out of bounds. She takes three separate steps as she winces and struggles to slow her inertia. Not good.

Mom and Dad gasp and squint. Old habits die hard—they still get anxious and overly invested, even as unattached bystanders, rather than parents with skin in the game.

Hallie slides down into a one-legged squat to wind up for her wolf turn, looking determined. She pushes off the ground into a hasty spin, but her left hip drops like usual, and her left heel drags across the floor—another deduction.

Duh. I really could do better commentary than this.

I feel a prick of pain in my hand, and realize I’m biting my knuckle out of nerves. It’s tough to watch her sloppy execution and stiff style while powerless, stuck here in my parents’ musty living room.

Hallie drags herself through the rest of the routine and sheepishly salutes the judges before trotting off the floor. Ryan wraps his arm around her shoulders and walks with her quickly away from the cameras. He’s muttering something under his breath.

Sure enough, the channel plays back that impressive tumbling run. Jasmine walks the viewer through exactly what makes it so special to fill the time as the judges deliberate on Hallie’s score. When it finally arrives—12.475—Hallie furrows her brow and looks away, dejected.

I feel myself tunneling back in time to every shaky routine I performed at a competition. I remember the raw horror that seized my nerves, the way my frenzied brain taunted me on a loop—You’re never going to make it. Just give up now. Failure is inevitable in this sport; it happens to everyone at some point. But there’s no room for failure, not if you want to make the Olympics. Not if you want to win. The paradox is crushing.

I sigh and slide off the couch. “I think I’d do a better job coaching her than whoever Ryan hired.”

I know Hallie and Ryan won’t stay in Stuttgart for long. There are just eight precious months to go until Olympic Trials—no time for a European vacation. I figure they’ll travel home on Sunday and start practice again on Monday. I give myself one extra day, just to be sure, and on Tuesday night, I drive to Summit. I back into a parking spot under a maple tree and stay in the driver’s seat so I can watch the last few gymnasts stream out the front door. They have pink cheeks and messy buns, with bare legs stuffed into Uggs. I listen to Kiss 108, the Top 40 station, as I wait for Hallie to emerge.

I dressed carefully tonight: no-nonsense black leggings and white sneakers paired with the red, white, and blue hoodie every member of the US elite women’s gymnastics team received during training in 2011. The once-bright cotton has faded, but my name is still embroidered on the sleeve—proof that I once belonged.

Sure enough, Hallie trudges out of the gym with a phone in one hand and an electric yellow bottle of Gatorade in another. A navy canvas gym bag hangs from one shoulder. She spots what must be her dad’s car and makes her way toward it. I dip my head and pretend to fiddle with the radio dial; I don’t think she sees me. Once she’s buckled up and her dad has pulled out of the parking lot, I get out of my car and walk toward the gym before I can lose my nerve. It’s dark, and a chill nips at my ankles.

Inside Summit, the fluorescent lights are still on in the lobby, but the parents have all cleared out. I take a deep breath and venture around the corner to the office. For a split second, the cozy familiarity of the charcoal-gray-flecked carpet and the neat rows of paper schedules thumbtacked to the wall make me slip back in time. I could be here to give Winnie my parents’ check for the quarter, or to kill time before practice by flicking through rows of plush velvet and slick Lycra leotards. But it’s late. Winnie’s gone home for the night. Instead, Ryan is hunched behind the desk, one fist clenched tightly in his hair, the other propping up an iPhone, the sound turned all the way up.

Then, sensing my presence, he snaps his head up.

I give a belated knock on the door frame.

He gives his phone screen a pained glance, then pauses the video he’s watching.

I take a couple of hesitant steps toward him. There’s nowhere convenient to sit, so I hover a few feet from the desk.

This feels like a sign that I shouldn’t even be here at all. I wonder what Tyler would think if he knew I was returning to the gym to beg for a job. He’d probably nod encouragingly with puppy-dog eyes, like, That’s great, Ave! and then go throw a winning pass or whatever. I clear my throat.

I nod. “I really respect you, Ryan. You’re doing an amazing job with her. But she needs extra help on floor. Remember how quickly she picked up what I was teaching? What if we could do that every day? Just imagine how much we could accomplish together, you and me and her.”

My heart is racing. Everything rests on his reaction. Ryan leans forward onto the desk and rests his chin on his interlaced knuckles. For a moment, he doesn’t speak.

Then finally, he says, “It didn’t work out.”

He shakes his head. “Svetlana Morozova. You know her?”

He lifts one dark eyebrow. “She likes you, though.”

I laugh; I had no idea he knew me well enough to think of me in any particular way, much less like that. I could volley back a joke about how that didn’t last so long, but it feels too sad, given the reason I spiraled out of control.

Ryan nods wordlessly. He holds my gaze for a beat longer than is comfortable. I want the job so badly.

Pitching my plan to Ryan reminds me exactly how deeply I need this job. I’m on the verge of choking up, but I take a deep breath and force myself to hold it together.

Ryan runs a hand along his stubbled jaw and squints at me. I feel too exposed now; I curl my fingers around the sleeves of my hoodie and fold my arms tightly across my chest.

I’m grinning so hard, my cheeks hurt. “Thank you,” I say.

The gravity of Ryan’s decision fills me with a giddy sort of delight; my mind glosses right over the fact that the Conway family has to approve of me first and skips straight toward a blur of practice, choreography, and chalk dust. I throw my arms around Ryan in a hug, and to my surprise, he actually hugs back. He promises he’ll let me know when he’s had a chance to speak with Hallie’s parents. When I exit the gym, I don’t even feel the crisp night air. I feel the way I felt about leaving practice a decade ago: pink-cheeked, high on adrenaline, blood running hot.

As I cross the parking lot, I feel this primal urge to cartwheel across the smooth pavement. I turn to check over both shoulders before letting my arms stretch down and my feet pinwheel over the top of my head. I feel weightless when I sink into the driver’s seat of the car and turn up the radio. It’s late, and the roads home are empty at this time of night. I wish I had somewhere to go or someone to tell about my exciting news, but my only real option is home. I drive a little faster than I should, and for the first time, the glittering green traffic lights in the town center and the dark pine trees along the back roads feel like exhilarating markers of what could be my new life, not dull reminders of my old one.

The house is quiet when I walk in. Mom’s probably watching TV in bed, and Dad is probably reading in his office. I slump down on the couch in the living room, feeling restless but unsure what to do. That old life-sized cardboard cutout of me in a leotard is propped up against the mantel. There are visible shadows marking each individual ab and the muscular curve of my thighs, but even so, I’m slender and lithe. The cardboard version of me has one hand on my tight waist and the other casually holding the gold medal dangling from my neck. I don’t want that old image of myself haunting me anymore. I get up from the couch and fold the cardboard stand in the back into the cutout. I pick it up and see a soft gray coat of dust on the floor. I carry the cutout to the garage and prop it up by the recycling bins, facing the wall. Then I grab the vacuum from the front hall closet and suck up a decade’s worth of dust bunnies. I’m glad to see them go.

• CHAPTER 5 •

Two days later, Ryan arranges a meeting with Kim, Todd, and Hallie Conway before practice. I want Hallie to like me, of course, but I’ve already done my best to win her over. Now, it’s crucial that I can convince Kim and Todd to trust me with their daughter’s career. My nerves jangle with anticipation as I slog through rush-hour traffic in the town center. I used to dread being up this early, but today I’m wide-awake. This morning will make or break me.

Summit is still sleepy when I arrive. The practice space is empty; the fluorescent lights are off; there’s no hum of Top 40 radio over the sounds of creaking bars and coaches’ shouts. I meet Ryan and the Conway family in the office. Walking into that room makes my heart pound; I wish I had more professional experience to bolster my confidence.

She has bangs brushed across her forehead, and she’s dressed casually in jeans and a faded, oversized button-down. I wonder if she still works, or if—like so many moms at this level—she quit her job to support her daughter’s gymnastics career.

Like his wife, he looks as if he’s in his midforties. He’s in a charcoal-gray suit, like he’s heading straight to some office job after this meeting. Hallie gets her square face and hazel eyes from him.

I take the open seat between Ryan and Hallie.

Kim’s sunny demeanor turns slightly strained. She glances at her husband and continues, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to see that you’re so passionate about helping Hallie here, but I also do want to know for sure that you’re one hundred percent qualified to get her through 2020.”

Hallie slumps back in her chair, like she’s heard this complaint one too many times.

Todd clears his throat. “We’d like to hear more about your experience as a coach.”

Families make enormous, life-changing sacrifices to give their kids a chance in this sport, and I don’t fault them for wanting nothing less than the best for their daughter. Otherwise, those sacrifices aren’t worth it.

Ryan nods.

It’s impressive that she has the next dozen years of her life mapped out, but I’m not surprised. Since childhood, her entire life has revolved around a singular, far-off goal.

She’s right. In 1996, the US gymnastics delegation included seven athletes, nicknamed the Magnificent Seven. But the rules have changed over time. By 2012, the year I tried to make the Olympics, only five gymnasts competed, known as the Fierce Five. Another five girls, the Final Five, competed at the 2016 Olympics, but by that point, the Worldwide Organization of Gymnastics had already ruled that team sizes would dwindle to four spots each in 2020. Making the Olympic team this year will be harder than ever before.

I have a flash of Hallie’s disastrous floor routine at Worlds.

I take a deep breath to steady my voice. “Kim and Todd, I coached gymnastics while living in LA, and before that, I was the top gymnast in America when I was Hallie’s age. Barring an injury, I would’ve made the Olympics, and I don’t mean to brag, but I would’ve medaled on floor. I know floor. I’ve watched your daughter perform, and I have a good grasp on how to help her improve.”

They lean forward hungrily. As much as Hallie has her eyes set on the Olympics, so do they—maybe even more so.

Todd sits back in his seat. Kim bites her lip. They look at each other.

I can’t tell yet if they’re fully convinced.

Todd rubs his jaw. Kim swallows. I feel the same way I did during competitions, back when I had finished a routine I felt unsure about and had to wait torturous minutes for the judges to reveal my score.

Her parents exchange glances.

She throws her arms up, exasperated. “I don’t have time to waste. I’m going to go warm up.”

Hallie heads to the locker room to drop off her bag.

Kim sighs. “All right, but if the new routine doesn’t come together soon… we’ll have to have another conversation about what’s next.”

Todd gets up, closes the button on his suit jacket, then shakes hands with Ryan and me again.

I can’t tell if that’s a promise or a threat.

Kim and Todd leave, and Hallie and Ryan enter the gym. I tell them I’ll join in just a minute, and make it to the bathroom just in time. Locked in a stall, I slump against the cool white tile wall, clap a hand over my mouth to muffle my sobs, and break down silently. I’ve never felt such intense relief in my life. I felt aimless in LA and completely lost back in Greenwood; once I had my heart set on this job, nothing else remotely measured up. I can’t believe it’s mine. The tears come in hot and fast. My shoulders shake. There is still so much of my life to figure out—I can’t live in my childhood bedroom forever, and the loneliness I’m facing in the wake of my breakup is awfully isolating—but this is a start. This is good. I will be okay.

After wiping away my tears, I find Hallie warming up on floor, running through the same rote cardio exercises and stretches every gymnast has burned into their memory. Ryan flicks on the lights and the radio for her, then joins me to watch on the sidelines. I’m still buzzing with adrenaline.

All gymnasts are.

Ryan pulls a three-ring binder from the shelf under the stereo. “I have her training mapped out for the next eight months, but I want to get your take on it,” he says, taking a seat on the floor. “Sit. Let’s look at this together while she finishes up.”

We sit side by side. I try not to notice the way his white T-shirt stretches across his broad chest, though it’s not easy. He flips through the stuffed binder, showing me the Code of Points, which assigns a different level of difficulty to each skill and changes every three years; a practice schedule; a list of goals; Hallie’s emergency contacts and list of doctors. He finds the calendar section, outlined with what he and Hallie will be working on every month until Trials. It’s crammed with his spiky handwriting—notes to himself.

Those are two of the most difficult vaults in the world, both named after the first gymnast to perform each, as is the sport’s custom. The Amanar is a round-off, back handspring onto the board, with a two-and-a-half twisting back layout off, while the Mustafina is a round-off and half turn onto the board with a full-twisting front layout off.

It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken the language of gymnastics, and I’m relieved that it all comes flooding back: the Tkatchev involves flinging yourself up and over the high bar backward in a straddle position; a giant means swinging around the bar in a full circle with body outstretched; a Pak Salto is when you swing off the high bar, arch into an elegant back flip, and catch the low bar.

Because the Tkatchev and the Pak Salto are both release moves, Hallie would earn more points for connecting them back-to-back, rather than separating them with a giant, which is considered an easier (and less risky) move.

His eyes sparkle. “It’s a transition move. Imagine a toe-on circle on the low bar with a full twist to catch the high bar.”

Ryan smirks and taps on the binder again. “I mean, you gotta come up with a plan,” he says.

I already know I want to choreograph a new floor routine for her, and that includes selecting new music for her to perform to. I know the rest will come in time.

The next hour of Hallie’s workout slips away—for me, at least. I can tell she works hard. She doesn’t skimp on tough ab work or mind-numbing reps, like some kids do. On the contrary, I get the sense she deepens her squats and tightens up her plank form when she notices me watching. I’m honored she considers me worthy enough to impress. When she’s finished with conditioning, she takes a water break, then meets Ryan and me on floor. She places her hands on her hips and looks from him to me, waiting for instructions.

I’m nervous, but know I have to drop the bomb anyway.

She flinches and recoils, crossing her arms over her chest. “But—but we—there are—we have just eight months to go,” she sputters.

I’m sure it’s just a flippant comment, but the cruel reality of her words cuts me deep.

She bites her lip. For a moment, she’s quiet, considering the prospect.

I pick up the binder and rifle through it until I find the section that lists every floor skill with value in the Code of Points. To test her capabilities, I rattle off different acrobatic and artistic elements and ask her to perform them, starting with tumbling. Her double Arabian is fantastic, but her triple twist isn’t doing her any favors—that tumbling pass might work better as a double-twisting double back layout. Hallie diligently follows my instructions and swivels to gauge my level of approval after each tumbling pass—so she’s sassy but ultimately obedient. I can work with that.

Fifteen minutes in, I notice her grimace and roll her right foot carefully from side to side.

She winces. “It’s starting to hurt again,” she admits. “It’s really not that bad, though, promise. I’ll keep going.”

She exhales, clearly frustrated with herself. “Fine. Thanks.”

I retrieve an ice pack from the cooler and wrap it in a paper towel so it doesn’t freeze-burn her skin. By the time I make it back to the floor, Ryan is already wrapping up her ankle with gauzy prewrap and white athletic tape to keep the joint stable.

She sighs. “On and off for, like, two years.”

She makes a face. “I’m fine.”

Every gymnast racks up injuries like these, but they’re nearly impossible to heal while actively training for competition. I pushed through my stress fracture at fourteen and wound up with back pain that flares up for weeks at a time, even more than a decade later. I sometimes wonder: if I could go back in time and make different choices, would I avoid a lifetime of pain? Even in my worst moments, I don’t think I would. As debilitating as the flare-ups can be, what I gained from gymnastics—identity, discipline, commitment—is worth so much more. But just because I’ve made peace with that choice doesn’t mean that Hallie needs to.

She juts out her chin like she’s going to protest, but Ryan’s reaction stops her.

She pouts. “But that’s such a waste of a training day.”

An idea hits me. “What about this—while you ice your ankle, why don’t we listen to new floor music? Pick something out?”

Ryan backs me up, and Hallie reluctantly agrees. He steps out to grab some coffee, promising to be back in just a few minutes. This is the first time that Hallie and I have ever been alone, and I want to make the most of it. I need to get on her good side—and right now, that means finding the perfect song.

Floor music needs to be exactly ninety seconds long and contain no lyrics, so you can’t use just anything. I start by rifling through the collection of CDs and cassette tapes still stacked under the stereo, but these have all been here since before even I was a gymnast. When my search turns up nothing fresh or interesting, I pull out my phone and Google new options.

She shrugs. “Yeah, it seems fun to perform to.”

For the next fifteen minutes, we listen to snippets of songs and debate their merits. When we land on a track packed with energetic trumpets, we know we’ve got it right. It’s a big band number called “Jazz Fling.” Hallie bops her head along to the melody. When Ryan returns, I play it back for him and watch his expression.

He gives a bemused smile. “On floor, I defer to you. Do you like it?”

This is my first big decision as a coach. The right song can make or break a routine. I know the upbeat tempo and playful sound are a strong match for the powerful physicality of Hallie’s movements. She has just enough bravado to pull it off.

At noon, Kim returns to the gym to pick up her daughter for her midday break for lunch and homeschooling before she comes back for a second practice. It’s completely unnecessary for Kim to actually walk into the gym and chat with us; Hallie could easily head out into the parking lot on her own. I get the sense that she’s probing to see how well I’m doing. She instantly notices Hallie’s taped ankle.

Kim sighs. “I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Kaminsky.”

It didn’t actually occur to me that I’d need to figure out a way to spend the afternoon.

I’d be happy to help other coaches with whatever they need, but the prospect of eating lunch alone with Ryan makes me nervous. Aside from Hallie, I’m not sure what we’d talk about. I grew up exclusively around fellow female gymnasts, gossiping about cute boys we saw at competitions, trading compliments on new leotards and scrunchies, and quoting Stick It to each other (“It’s not called gym-nice-tics”). I’ve never had any platonic male friends; the only times I’ve ever hung out one-on-one with guys were dates. Freshly heartbroken or not, I still can’t ignore that Ryan—formerly a cute boy—grew up into a highly attractive man. It’s not smart for me to let this crush of mine fester. The last thing I need to do is let my feelings get in the way of this job or dump my broken heart on Ryan’s plate.

Ryan fist-bumps me. “Cool, see ya.”

I head into the parking lot and sit in the driver’s seat, but don’t want to go home just yet. Now that I’m alone, I can’t help but dwell on Hallie’s tossed-off comment from this morning—the one about failing out of gymnastics and being stuck living at home forever. Out of curiosity, I look at Craigslist for houses or apartments with spare rooms nearby. I’ve never looked for a place to live outside of LA before, and the tiny selection of results makes me nervous. There aren’t that many people like me in Greenwood—the town is mostly filled with families raising kids in big, beautiful houses, not single people who need to rent out a spare bedroom. Rent here is more affordable than it was back in LA, but not by much. I’ll need to work for a few months to save up enough money to move out. It’s a daunting goal, but I know I can do it. I haven’t had much faith in myself these past few years, but I have faith in this: my ability to work hard.

It’s lunchtime. I could drive into the town center to pick up a sandwich or a salad. There’s a new Italian place that opened up since I’ve last lived here that looks delicious. But that’s money I don’t need to spend. Instead, I drive back to my parents’ house, thinking all the while about the day I’ll call somewhere else home.

• CHAPTER 6 •

After practice ends that night, I get ready to leave the gym. But the prospect of heading home is unbelievably depressing—I love my parents, but moving back into what is essentially a shrine to my failed childhood dream is unbearable. They hover. They ask too many questions about my plans for the future. I’m grateful that they let me stay with them (rent-free, even), but I’d be fine spending as little time there as possible. So, halfway through crossing the gym’s lobby, I turn around and head back onto the floor. It’s late, and the gym is empty; this is a golden opportunity to start choreographing Hallie’s new routine without gymnasts and other coaches gawking.

I choreographed all the girls’ routines back in LA, but this is a different beast. With Hallie, there are no physical limits; anything I can dream up, she can do. That doesn’t mean I have entirely free rein, though. The sport’s scoring system is laughably complex. It used to be simple: a perfect performance earned a perfect ten. But now, according to rules instituted in the 2000s by the Worldwide Organization of Gymnastics, a routine’s total score is made up of a difficulty score and an execution score. On floor, only the top five hardest tumbling skills and top three most challenging dance skills are allowed to count toward the difficulty score, though additional points can be earned by connecting multiple elements. Points are docked if you miss out on certain skills. I take Ryan’s binder from the shelf under the stereo and flip through it until I find the section of the Code of Points that details the requirements: I’ll need to include a leap or jump series, a front flip, a back flip, a flip with a full twist or more, a double flip, and a final tumbling pass with a difficulty value of at least a “D” (skills are ranked alphabetically, with the easiest ones labeled as “A”). In other words, choreographing a winning floor routine isn’t just an art—it’s a science, too.

I hook up my phone to the stereo system and roll my head and ankles out in a light stretch as I find “Jazz Fling,” the piece of music we’ve chosen. I play the first ten seconds to jog my memory—Dun dun dun… dun-dun-dun dun dun dun—and experiment with movement on the floor. I could start with this pose, or that one. There could be a flashy kick, or a spin, or a flick of my wrists. I watch myself carefully in the mirror as I string together a sequence of dance, and try it out to the beat of the music. It’s good. But what if I squeeze in a jump series before the first tumbling pass? I rework the choreography three different ways before I settle on a version I like. I try it out—and this time, I’m pleased.

The next section of the melody soars, and I make a mental note to reserve that for Hallie’s first tumbling pass, the impressive double Arabian. I listen as the music unfurls and try to imagine what could come next. The song has flaring trumpets and a sassy beat. You don’t just dance to this music—you strut. I pop my hip, flick my fingers, shimmy my shoulders. I let myself get lost in the song, leaping and pirouetting with abandon. It’s been close to a decade since I’ve allowed myself to indulge in this way, and I can practically feel my heart glowing with joy.

That is, until I catch sight of the mirror across the floor, reflecting stiff joints that don’t bend the way I envision. It’s cringeworthy. I hear echoes of Dimitri’s criticisms: the split in my leap isn’t crisp enough; my Shushunova doesn’t get enough height; the routine would really look better if my thighs were thinner. I thought I was done mourning the loss of my ability years ago, but fresh grief springs up again. It’s overwhelmingly sad to know that no matter how hard I train, I can never regain the body I once took for granted.

I take a break, letting the music play out as I take an ice-cold slurp from the water fountain. Then I tighten my ponytail, take a deep breath, and queue up the beginning of “Jazz Fling” again.

Over the next hour, the bones of the routine begin to take shape. I’m reminded of one of the many things I loved about gymnastics: if you work hard, you can become a superhuman version of yourself, at least for a time. If I were in prime shape, I could spiral like a ballerina, contort myself like a circus performer, catapult myself like a soldier, and defy gravity like a goddess. There would be no limits on what I could do. Outside the gym, that’s never been true for me—I couldn’t make it through college, and I couldn’t make Tyler stay in love with me. But here? This is my world. Or at least it was. Until I went to Trials.

I run through the light version of the choreography—I cartwheel across the floor where Hallie will tumble for real; I spin on my butt where she’ll do a wolf turn. I don’t want to overextend myself and trigger another flare-up of back pain, so I take it easy. Watching the choreography gel together is satisfying, and I get so lost in performing it that I don’t hear the soft creak of the door on the other side of the gym. When the song finishes, there’s a beat of silence, then the sound of applause.

I whip out of the dramatic final pose—chest thrust out, back arched, arms outstretched—and turn toward the noise. I’m mortified to see Ryan walking down the vault runway toward the floor.

I cross my arms over my chest, embarrassed. “I had no idea anyone was still here.”

Ryan doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d joke around when it comes to work. The stakes are too high. I genuinely like the routine: the choreography is playful, energetic, and suited to Hallie’s strengths. But I’m not so brazenly confident to expect Ryan to like it right off the bat.

I jog to the stereo to restart the song, then scamper into place for the opening steps of the routine. I’m terribly self-conscious of his gaze on my unmuscled arms and soft stomach, but that leaves me with only one choice: I have to throw myself into the choreography and perform it to the fullest extent, because otherwise it’ll look lackluster. It’s fine for him to think I’m out of shape—but he can’t think I’m bad at my job.

Relieved, I turn off the music.

He crosses the floor to join me near the stereo. “So! That’s it.”

I laugh. “No, I mean, do you have any notes? Suggestions?”

He shakes his head, grins, and looks away.

Now that he’s just two feet away from me, I realize he can probably see the sheen of sweat on my forehead and the halo of frizz that always escapes my ponytail when I dance.

The memories of that weekend snap into focus. My scrunchie flew off my head during my bars routine. That was the first day I heard whispers about me as a likely contender for 2012. Jasmine cried that night in our shared hotel room when Dimitri pointed out that maybe the reason she slipped off beam was because her ever-expanding hips and ass threw her off balance.

The words should fall flat, but he says them with a sense of wonder. His face lights up. I don’t know what to say.

I can feel my cheeks flush pink. “Starstruck?!” I yelp.

A panicked thought flashes by—is he flirting with me? Am I imagining the coy warmth behind his words? I take in his casual stance and the impressive curve of his biceps straining at the sleeves of his T-shirt. He looks good without trying.

I’d assumed my ability to flirt had dried up after I started dating Tyler, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find it’s still there. My hands find my hips; I straighten up and suck in my stomach.

He waves away my comment. “You should’ve been one, too. It was just bad luck.”

I briefly weigh the pros and cons of what I want to say next, and spurred by a rush of adrenaline, I toss it out there.

A flicker of surprise crosses his face. He recovers by shoving his hands into his pockets and looking away, laughing.

He starts to walk away, but I realize I don’t want him to.

He wavers. “You want me to?”

It takes me a split second to think of a plausible excuse. “I need someone to film what I’ve choreographed so far, right?”

He turns back toward me with a smile. He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Let’s do it.”

DECEMBER

2019

• CHAPTER 7 •

By the time Hallie’s ankle is strong enough for her to learn the new choreography, the radio plays holiday shopping jingles between every song. The town center is decked out in blue and white lights. I have to throw a parka on over my sweats just to make it from the parking lot to the gym. Christmas break is three weeks away, and most of the gymnasts and coaches are buzzing about holiday plans and winter vacation trips to visit grandparents in Florida. But not us. Ryan, Hallie, and I will spend the week between Christmas and New Year’s here. There’s no sense in wasting a week of prime training time. I have been practicing the routine every night after Hallie leaves practice, ensuring the choreography flows flawlessly and I’ve maximized every moment to squeeze out the highest possible difficulty score. I’ve been waiting until she’s gone so she doesn’t catch a glimpse of it until I’m satisfied it’s perfect.

She’s just finished warm-ups, stretching, and conditioning, and is happy to sit on the sidelines for a ninety-second break. I give her my phone so she can control the music.

She snickers. “Understood.”

I unzip my hoodie and kick off my sneakers. They’ll only get in the way. I hear the bars creaking on the other side of the gym; Ryan is doing pull-ups. His muscles bulge cartoonishly. I force myself to look away.

She’s clearly skeptical, but not strong-willed enough to challenge my judgment. I’m relieved she doesn’t reject the routine flat out, but I know I can’t let my expression waver. The coach-gymnast relationship is sacred and built on a concrete foundation of respect and trust; she can’t catch on to the fact that I’m anxious and have feelings that can be hurt, just like anyone else.

From the other side of the floor, I see Ryan watching us with a smile.

I walk Hallie through the choreography step by step, focusing on teaching her the broad strokes of every move. We can sharpen each motion later on, once she’s gotten the hang of the routine. She hasn’t warmed up her tumbling yet, so she goes for lazy, easy passes, like a round-off, back handspring, back tuck instead of the real deal. With Hallie toning down her skills and me performing to the fullest extent of my abilities, the playing field is almost level.

She picks up the routine fairly quickly, delighting in the creative combinations I’ve thrown together for her. Not everything runs so smoothly, though. I planned a switch ring leap connected to a switch leap with a full turn. A switch leap involves scissoring your legs back and forth, so you hit both a left split and a right split in midair before landing; each variation is tricky on its own, but the two moves back-to-back are even more complicated. That’s the point, of course—the more difficult the series is, the higher the payoff is from the judges. Hallie fumbles the combination three times in a row. It doesn’t matter how powerful or energetic she is—the move requires an absurd amount of precision.

She exhales and tries it again. It’s sloppy, and she knows it. The moment her feet touch the floor, she shoots me a frustrated glance.

She takes a few steps backward and screws up her face. I can tell she’s trying to visualize the move in front of her. She sashays into the combination, but the series looks more like a jumble of flailing limbs than real gymnastics. If we had a stronger relationship at this point, I’d feel comfortable pushing her to work through it. But right now, I don’t want to bring down her mood. Today, her confidence is worth more than the difficulty value of that leap series.

When we make it through the end of the routine, I give her a celebratory high five.

I know she’s good, but she can’t be that good.

We repeat the choreography. This time, she deftly slides into most of the right moves, though she does spend half the routine with her neck craned toward me. Her switch leap series is a flop, but she pushes through to make it toward the final tumbling pass and the simple last bit of dance. (By the time you hit the fourth tumbling pass, you’re flat-out exhausted. Even waving to a crowd cheering your name feels impossible. So I kept her last few motions easy.)

Ryan drops down from the bars. “How’s it going over there?” he calls, wiping sweat from his brow.

She scrambles over to the starting spot, settles into the first pose, then peeks back at me, as if to ensure she’s doing it right. I nod and turn on the music. On her own for the first time, her performance is rough and uneven. She nails certain sections of choreography, though I’d still like to tighten up the way she moves and performs; other bits, though, she stumbles through, or forgets entirely. I watch her face freeze when she realizes she has no idea how to transition from upright and standing to down on the floor for the wolf turn. She doesn’t have enough time to figure it out; the music has already moved on. So she spasms and drops to the floor, shouting an apology as she goes.

Hallie flits through the rest of the routine, shouting a dramatic “Ta-da!” as she hits the final pose.

Hallie skips through the gym, leaning on one balance beam as she kicks up her feet and clicks her heels in midair, making her way toward the vending machine in the lobby.

I head toward the lobby. Ryan makes a soft noise like he’s clearing his throat, and when I look back toward him, his mouth is half-open, like he’s about to say something.

He presses his lips together and dips his gaze away from mine. “Nothing,” he says. “I was going to say something, but it’s nothing.”

I look at him curiously, but he just crosses his arms over his chest and nods toward the door of the gym.

• 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.