Ch. 41: Chapter 32 — Head Over Heels

• CHAPTER 32 •

The competition arena looks the same. It always does. No matter where you are in the country or the world, regardless of who’s winning or what the year is. The familiar, standard-issue apparatus and mats and chalk bowls are arranged on a basketball floor under fluorescent lighting, surrounded by bleachers, with frenzied energy pulsing through the air. Ryan and I flank Hallie as we arrive, looking like a real team in our matching Summit tracksuits. For the first time in months, I truly feel like the three of us are in sync again. I’m glad Ryan and I got the chance to talk this morning.

Hallie takes in the view of the arena with a curious expression.

“This is it,” she says, sounding stunned.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” I remind her.

“That’s kind of chill,” she says.

“Good,” Ryan says. “I like that attitude. Go warm up.”

She nods, slips out of her tracksuit, and jogs to the floor to run a few laps. Ryan slides closer to me on the bench, bridging the empty space Hallie left behind.

“You know, no matter what happens today, whether she makes it or not, I’m proud of us,” he says. “I think we did a killer job.”

“We made a pretty good team,” I say.

“We did, didn’t we?” He lets out a short laugh. “It’s crazy to think of how much has happened this year. You moving back to Greenwood, joining me at Summit, the Kaminsky scandal, the Powerhouse offer, your foundation…”

He trails off. He doesn’t need to say the rest. I know what he’s thinking: we got together, broke up… and yet, we’re still here. So is Dimitri, across the arena. He won’t even look at me.

“Hey, the schedule’s up,” I say, nudging him, glad to have a safe talking point emerge.

It’s a crowded roster: fifteen gymnasts competing for just four real spots on the Olympic team. Technically speaking, two other gymnasts are named as alternates, just in case anyone gets seriously injured during the Olympic Games—they can swap in and compete as backups. But obviously, nobody aspires to be an alternate. That means that after barely missing the chance of a lifetime, probably by a fraction of a point, you have to sit on the sidelines and cheer for your teammates to achieve your dream. It sounds like torture. As terrible as my experience was, at least I could choose not to watch the competition from the comfort of my own home.

Hallie is up against several gymnasts I know—Emma Perry, Delia Cruz, Maggie Farber, Kiki McCloud, Skylar Hayashi, and Brit Almeda—and also several that I don’t: Olivia Walsh, Madison Salazar, Riley Robinson, Jocelyn Snyder, Ayanna Clayton, Taylor O’Connor, Charlotte Chan, Lucy Shapiro. It’s dizzying and heartbreaking to consider that the majority of these girls will have their careers end today. The next few hours will change all of their lives.

Once again, Hallie has been assigned to start on bars, which means she’ll cycle through vault, beam, and then floor. Apparently having finished her cardio warm-up, she trots back to where Ryan and I are sitting to stretch. She rolls her wrists, bends over her feet, and occasionally waves at cameras passing by.

Before the first rotation starts, Ryan squats down next to her and waves me over to join.

“Look, I’m not going to make a big speech to psych you up, because I know you’ve got this,” he says simply. “All I want you to do is go out there and perform just as beautifully as you’ve been doing every day. Don’t worry about anything beyond the actual work. Because that’s all you can control.”

She nods heavily, then hugs each of us.

“Got it. Thank you for everything. Let’s do this,” she declares.

I’m secretly glad that she’s up first on bars, because that will get her started on the right foot. She puts on her grips and warms up for the allotted few minutes, and then waits for her turn. When the announcer booms her name over the loudspeaker, she waves to a girl in the stands holding a poster with her name on it as she strides toward the bars. This is her moment to shine, and she knows it.

“Let’s go, Hallie, let’s go!” I cheer.

She centers herself in front of the low bar, lifts her chin, and with just a hint of a smug smirk, jumps forward into her mount. Across the arena, another gymnast’s floor music begins to play, but it’s clear that Hallie has tuned out everything except the bar under her hands. Her body rockets cleanly to the high bar, where she swings up into a handstand, pirouettes, and flings herself into the series she’s been drilling all year with Ryan: a Tkatchev into a Pak Salto. It’s gorgeous. She finishes strong with two giants and her breathtaking dismount, a double-twisting double back tuck. Hallie sticks the landing solidly with her fingers splayed out in an elegant flourish. The audience cheers as she straightens up into a proud salute for the judges, then waves to the crowd. That was a goddamn perfect routine.

Ryan, who was spotting her release moves, high-fives her with both hands. They look triumphant as they make their way back to where I’m sitting.

“That was epic!” I say.

“Let’s see what the judges have to say,” she says modestly.

The judges barely need to deliberate. They award her routine with a well-deserved 15.150.

Hallie squeals, smooshing a hand over her mouth to muffle her excitement.

“See? Nothing to worry about. You’re doing an amazing job,” Ryan tells her.

By the end of the first rotation, she reigns in second place. The only person who scored even a sliver higher than her for the first round was Dimitri’s gymnast Emma, with a 15.250 on beam. That doesn’t faze me. Emma is freakishly, supernaturally, horrifyingly talented. Hallie’s second-place showing is still fantastic. With a strong start like that, she could be a real contender for one of the four Olympic-bound spots.

Thanks to her excellent bars routine, Hallie’s sure-footed confidence carries over to vault. The event goes by in such a flash, I don’t even have time to get nervous. She sticks clean landings on both her first run, an Amanar, and her second, a Mustafina. After her final salute, she glides back to the bench serenely. The judges reveal her score as she settles down: 14.975.

Vault is the shortest event, which means there’s a bit of wait before the second rotation ends and we can see where Hallie will fall in the rankings. As she sucks down the contents of her water bottle, I watch the competition. Delia polishes off a glorious floor routine. Ayanna completes an impressive series of release moves on bars. On beam, Charlotte sways off balance when trying to land a front aerial and loses her footing. The crowd lets out a somber “Ooooh” when she falls to the ground. I cringe; I feel so terrible for her. She climbs back up on beam and finishes her routine with a disappointed grimace.

When the second rotation ends, Hallie has dropped into fourth place. That’s still a very good spot to be in—if the competition were over right this second, she’d make the Olympic team—but it also means there’s no more room for error or bad luck. If she doesn’t perform the hell out of her next two routines, or if anyone else happens to have a startlingly successful showing, it’s game over.

I’ve always known, of course, that making the Olympic team is a long shot. I knew there were no guarantees of Hallie’s success when I signed on to coach her. But somehow, I’ve never thought through exactly what to say or do to console her if it turns out that she doesn’t make the team, despite our best efforts. There’s no good way to comfort a person whose sole dream has just slipped away. I hope it doesn’t come to that.

Hallie heads off to warm up for beam.

“You okay, Avery?” Ryan asks, once she’s gone.

“Ha. Hanging in there,” I say.

“You look stressed,” he says.

He knows me well enough to see through the calm act I’m putting on for Hallie.

“I didn’t realize this would bother me until I got here, but being at Trials again? It’s just kind of a lot,” I confess.

“Because of what happened to you?” he asks.

“I know I’m fine, and it’s not that I expect Hallie to have a freak accident the way I did, but today’s major, even if we’re pretending it’s not. No matter what happens today, a few people’s lives change for the better, and everyone else’s lives will really suck,” I explain. “I know that sounds really stupid and obvious, but I just… I feel for these girls.”

“It’s high stakes,” he says, nodding.

He reaches for my hand and runs his thumb soothingly across my palm. The gesture is comforting.

“I hope Hallie makes it,” I say glumly.

He heaves a giant sigh. “Me, too.”

I barely breathe when it’s Hallie’s turn on beam. The problem with this apparatus is that you can’t get cocky: it doesn’t matter how talented you are or how hard you’ve worked to prepare—you can still fall, and then you’re screwed. “Come on, come on, come on,” I whisper, watching her execute the back handspring, whip back, back layout step-out combo we’ve drilled so many times. It’s solid, but I still can’t relax. Every muscle in my body tightens as she winds up to perform the wolf turn. I’m relieved when she stays on the beam without a wobble. There’s a brief glint of surprise on her face, too. Her dismount goes smoothly, too, and it’s only when she salutes the judges that I can finally exhale. The routine was good, but not great: I can imagine one tiny deduction for not seamlessly connecting two jumps, and another one for a leg that could’ve been a little bit straighter. But overall, it was a fine showing.

She barrels back to the bench, where I wrap her in a hug and stroke her hair.

“You’re amazing,” I say. “You’re doing a really beautiful job.”

She shudders. “At least beam is over.”

The judges give her a 13.500, and by the time the rotation ends, that lands her in sixth place—barely in Olympic contention, but only as an alternate. She’s fallen behind Emma, Kiki, Delia, Taylor, and Ayanna. From what I can tell, the problem wasn’t that her beam routine was terrible, but rather that everyone else had an unusually great rotation. I wish I could calculate what score she’ll need in order to guarantee a full spot on the Olympic team, but I don’t know how to even begin figuring that out. My stomach cramps with nerves.

Hallie presses her lips together like she’s trying not to wince or groan. I kneel down in front of her, gripping both of her hands in mine. I have to go off script.

“Look, I know that we’ve been saying all day that you should just pretend like this is a normal day, and that you should just chill out and not sweat the competition, but that isn’t going to work for floor,” I tell her bluntly.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“This is the most important performance you’ve ever had,” I tell her honestly. “You need to pour every ounce of energy, every ounce of passion into this routine. Go out there and enjoy every single second of it, because this is what you’ve been training for your entire life.”

The hairs on my arms stand up on end. Hallie locks her eyes with mine and nods seriously.

“This is it,” she says.

“This is it,” I repeat. “No matter what the outcome is, I’ll always be so proud of you. But I want you to feel proud of yourself, too, and that means giving it your all.”

“I can do that,” she says.

She gives me a hug and heads to floor to warm up.

“That was a solid pep talk,” Ryan says.

I groan. “I just hope it was enough.”

I’m almost too antsy to watch Hallie practice her tumbling passes, but I know I have to pay attention in case there’s any last-minute practical advice I should offer her. I wish we could just fast-forward through the fourth rotation.

Finally, enough time creaks by and it’s Hallie’s turn to compete on floor. Ryan and I stand fifteen feet to the left of the judges’ table, which is just about as close as we can get without causing a distraction. Adrenaline rushes through me as her name is announced over the loudspeaker one more time.

Hallie composes herself at the edge of the floor. She smiles warmly at the judges as she salutes, then gracefully walks to her starting spot. She settles into position and waits for her music to begin. For a moment, everything is still and quiet—or as quiet as a bustling arena like this can be. She’s a vision in sparkling red. As the jazzy opening notes play, she blossoms into a swirl of motion. The flick of her wrist is precise and delicate; the swing of her hips is flashy and flirty. She’s always been a gymnast, but here, after months of hard work, she’s developed the grace of a dancer, too.

On her first tumbling pass, she bounds cleanly across the floor, rocketing skyward in an elegant stag jump to channel her extra energy. It works beautifully: she looks powerful, strong, and in control of every movement. She dances toward another corner of the floor, polishes off two precise leaps, then dives straight into a second excellent tumbling pass. As I watch her prance, pirouette, and flip, I get a chilling sense of excitement. This is one of the most gorgeous routines I’ve ever seen from her. Something genuinely special is unfolding here—this is a determined athlete at her peak.

After Hallie executes her third tumbling pass seamlessly, something in her posture shifts. By this point in a floor routine, even the fittest gymnasts can start to look a little sluggish or out of breath. But Hallie looks even lighter and more buoyant than ever. With fifteen seconds left in the routine, she bursts forward into a triumphant fourth tumbling pass, landing easily on her feet. As she sinks into her final dramatic pose, her face crumples with joy. She holds the position just long enough to give the end of her routine a real sense of gravitas, and then bounces to her feet to salute the judges. The minute she’s done, I see her eyes glistening with tears of joy. She claps one hand over her mouth and waves to the crowd with the other. The audience roars in applause.

She lingers on the floor for a few seconds longer than necessary, soaking up this once-in-a-lifetime moment. The judges are still deliberating over her score, so for the next few precious seconds, this is all that matters—she delivered the hell out of a routine that challenged her, scared her, and forced her to grow into a better athlete. Soon, her fate will be sealed, but for now, I can tell that she’s happy with herself. That’s a rare feat in this sport.

She bounds off the floor into my waiting arms.

“I’m so damn proud of you,” I repeat over and over.

Ryan joins us for a group hug. “You were phenomenal. Incredible. The best I’ve ever seen,” he says.

“I can’t believe I just did that,” she says, breathing hard.

Suddenly, she freezes. Her score appears on the scoreboard: 15.100, pushing her into second place. Even though there’s one more gymnast left to perform on floor, it doesn’t matter what score she’ll receive—she won’t knock Hallie out of the top four slots.

“I made it, I made it, oh my god, I made it,” Hallie sobs.

Ryan and I break away to look at the scoreboard, then turn back to her in awe.

“Oh my god, Hallie!” I say, voice breaking.

Watching her recognize that her lifelong dream is coming true is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever had the privilege of seeing. I can’t help the tears coming. I don’t mind. We’ve all worked hard enough to justify them.

“I knew it,” Ryan says. Even his voice is shaking. “You’re going to be an Olympian.”

“We did it,” Hallie says, sounding stunned. “I can’t believe we did it.”

Not her. Not Hallie and Ryan. Us. All of us.

In my own time as a gymnast, there were so many ecstatic moments, like when a gold medal was draped around my neck or the day I qualified for Olympic Trials. But truthfully, nothing quite compared to this victory. I feel as if I could burst from bliss.

The medal ceremony is a happy blur. In the end, Emma takes the top spot, as everyone knew she would. Hallie is the surprise dark horse in second place, followed by Olympic veteran Delia, with Kiki rounding out the team in fourth. The girls confer for seconds before they announce their team name: the Fantastic Four, superhero reference very much intended. Madison Salazar and Taylor O’Connor are named alternates.

There’s no avoiding it—I feel terribly sad for the girls who didn’t make the cut. But if I can come back to this sport years later as a coach and make a real difference, they can, too. There’s life for all of us after our gymnastics careers end. It just might take some time to figure out exactly what that means.

Hallie’s parents have stumbled, dazed and overjoyed, from the bleachers into the main part of the arena, where they shower their daughter with hugs.

“Let’s give them some space,” I whisper to Ryan.

It’s crowded in the center of the arena, anyway—gymnasts, families, judges, photographers, reporters.

“Good idea,” he says. “Come with me to get something to drink? I’m thirsty.”

“Sure,” I say.

We walk by the bench with our bags so Ryan can grab his wallet, then wander down a maze of hallways until we find a vending machine, chattering the entire way about the highlights of Hallie’s performances.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over that floor routine,” Ryan says with a note of awe in his voice. “I mean, it was perfect from start to finish. She’s never been better.”

“I can’t believe we pulled that off,” I say, feeling giddy.

“We? No, that was you,” he insists. “I’ll take full credit for hiring the best floor coach on the planet, but that whole routine was all you.”

The vending machine is stocked with Gatorade bottles lined up in bright, color-coded rows. Ryan tilts his head.

“Berry or Fruit Punch?” he asks.

“Berry all the way,” I say.

“I’ll get two, then,” he says.

He feeds dollar bills into the slot and presses the right buttons. I lean against the side of the machine as it whirs to life, retrieving the plastic bottles and dropping them down with two solid thunks. It’s cool and quiet here. After today’s whirlwind, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Tonight, I’ll sleep easily in the luxe hotel bed, and tomorrow we’ll all book our flights to Tokyo. This doesn’t feel real. It’s unbelievable, somehow, that after all these years, I’m finally going to the Olympics. Everything is falling into place. Or, rather, almost everything.

Ryan bends down to pick up the drinks and hands me one, interrupting my train of thought.

“Thanks,” I say.

He starts to open his bottle, but I stop him.

“Wait,” I say, reaching for his hand.

“Yeah?” he asks.

I kiss him before I can lose my nerve, sliding my arms over his shoulders and pulling him toward me. I can feel the muscles in his shoulders tense for a split second, and I lean back, but then I see a dimpled smile spreading across his face.

“Come here,” he says softly. “I like that.”

We find our way back to each other tenderly. His hands brace my hips, and soon, our lips fall into rhythm together. I’ve spent so many months aching to be close to him, and from the way his mouth moves against mine, it’s clear that he’s felt the same way. He kisses me deeply, and it just feels so right.

“I didn’t expect that,” he mumbles into my hair.

“I didn’t plan on that,” I explain.

“I’m glad it happened, though,” he says earnestly.

“Me, too,” I say.

I didn’t know it was humanly possible to feel more relief and happiness than I’ve already felt today, but I’m so glad that my gut instinct was right—he wanted that kiss as much as I did. Ryan takes the Gatorade out of my hand and places both bottles on the linoleum floor by our feet so that he can kiss me again. It’s perfect.

“Look, I know I messed up—” Ryan starts, but I shush him with another kiss.

“There’s no need to keep apologizing,” I say, wrapping my hands around his waist.

“No, hear me out,” he insists. “I never stopped caring about you.”

He speaks slowly and fiercely, giving each word the weight it deserves.

“I didn’t say it before because I was an idiot, but the past few months have made me realize exactly how I feel,” he continues.

I go very still, even as my heart races. His dark eyes search mine.

“Avery, I love you,” he says.

I feel a rush of pure joy and a ballooning sense that everything is right in the world. This moment? It’s better than a perfectly stuck landing. It’s sweeter than the view from the top of the medal podium.

“I love you, too,” I say.

I know I’ve never stopped. This time, I’m not self-conscious to voice how I really feel. Suddenly, the significance of where we happen to be standing hits me, and I can’t help but laugh.

“What?” he asks.

“Do you remember our first conversation?” I ask.

“The night I called you about coaching at Summit?” he guesses.

“No, think—the very first time we ever spoke,” I prompt.

His eyes light up. “It was Nationals. I asked if you knew where the vending machine was.”

I smirk and lean back against this current vending machine, fingers dancing over his chest.

“Here we are,” he marvels.

JULY

2020

• EPILOGUE •

It’s competition day in Tokyo. I gasp when I enter the arena for the first time; the space is larger and flashier than anywhere I’ve ever competed, and handmade signs written in multiple languages wave in the crowd. Cameras capture every angle.

Hallie and the rest of the Fantastic Four warm up for the competition’s first rotation. They’re resplendent in matching royal blue leotards, and they work with an efficient, upbeat energy. Even though the stakes are higher today than ever before, everyone seems just so plain happy to be here. Hallie’s on floor first.

While the gymnasts get ready to compete, I stand on the sidelines with Ryan. We flew to Tokyo a few days early so Hallie could prep for the competition while adjusting to the fourteen-hour time difference, and though we’ve been working a lot, there’s also been just enough downtime to sneak out together on dates. The sushi dinner, sumo match, and Zen garden visit were amazing, but truthfully, we could’ve had just as much fun sitting in the supply closet at Summit. Since we got back together at Trials, I’ve felt so at peace. We’ve decided to keep our relationship private until after the Olympics.

A competition official signals to Hallie that she has time for one more tumbling pass, and then the warm-up will be over. Hallie nods, and I watch as she launches into a high-powered, tight double Arabian with a cleanly stuck landing. I shake my head in awe.

“Today’s going to be a good day,” I predict. “I can feel it.”

“Me, too,” Ryan says. He watches me studying Hallie on floor, then asks quietly, “Do you wish it were you out there?”

The question catches me off guard. For so long, I so desperately wanted to be in Hallie’s exact position. Losing out on the chance to compete in the Olympics was the single most devastating experience of my life—worse than surviving Dimitri’s rage, worse than watching my relationship with Tyler fall apart, worse than the time I thought I lost Ryan for good.

But the funny thing about your dream coming true is that it never quite happens the way you think it will. There’s always a twist. When I walked into the Olympic stadium for the first time, nobody cheered for me or waved signs with my name. My heart didn’t race with anticipation for my upcoming routines. Sports reporters didn’t hound me for interviews. And even stranger than all that? I didn’t care. I’m overjoyed to be here as Hallie’s coach. I’ve let go of my old dreams. My new life has replaced them.

Before I can tell him any of that, though, Hallie joins us on the sidelines for a slurp from her water bottle.

“We were just talking about how strong your tumbling looks today,” I tell her. “You’re gonna kill it out there.”

She grins and throws her arms around me. “Thank you so much for everything. I wouldn’t have made it here without you.”

She hugs Ryan, too, takes a deep breath, and walks proudly to the side of the floor with her head held high. An official booms out her name over a loudspeaker, and a hush falls over the arena. She waits patiently for the judges to indicate that she can begin. When it’s time, she salutes them and arranges herself into the starting pose I choreographed for her all those months ago. From where I’m sitting, I can glimpse the confident expression on her face. There’s a real poise to her today that she didn’t quite have when we met.

My eyes well up with tears as the first notes of her music ring out through the arena.

“No, Ryan,” I tell him. “I’m happy to be right here.”

• ACKNOWLEDGMENTS •

First, I’d like to thank you, reader, for picking up this novel. I’m honored that you chose to spend your time immersed in the world of this book. Thank you for reading!

I’m so grateful for the thoughtful, whip-smart guidance of my editor, Kaitlin Olson. This book is better in countless ways because of her creative instincts, attention to detail, and belief in these characters. From catching plot holes to sharpening dialogue, Kaitlin made this project shine.

I’m incredibly lucky to work with the same wonderful team at Atria Books yet again: many thanks to Megan Rudloff and Isabel DaSilva for ensuring this book falls into all the right hands, Tamara Arellano for her tireless copyedits, and Lindsay Sagnette, Suzanne Donahue, Jimmy Iacobelli, and Libby McGuire.

My agent, Allison Hunter, championed this idea from the moment my half-baked email landed in her inbox. Her vision for my career, faith in my abilities, and true friendship make her the best teammate an author could ask for. At Janklow & Nesbit, Clare Mao and Natalie Edwards made this process so seamless.

This book was born of my lifelong love of gymnastics. I will forever be awestruck by athletes, including Shannon Miller, Carly Patterson, Nastia Liukin, Shawn Johnson, Alicia Sacramone, Gabby Douglas, McKayla Maroney, Simone Biles, and more. Most important, thank you to my own hometown hero Aly Raisman, whose work ethic, talent, and bravery has been a source of inspiration to me since childhood.

I’m thankful for the support of all my colleagues at Elite Daily and Bustle Digital Group, including Kylie McConville, Veronica Lopez, Iman Hariri-Kia, Emma Rosenblum, and Bryan Goldberg. I always feel fortunate that I don’t have to choose between my work as an editor and as an author.

My friends were the ultimate cheerleading squad. They gave me plenty of positivity during tough writing days and celebrated with me every step of the way! Many thanks to Annie Kehoe, Morgan Boyer, Roshan Berentes, Kelsey Mulvey, Elyssa Goodman, Alexia LaFata, Dayna Troisi, Emily Raleigh, Emma Albert-Stone, and Devon Albert-Stone.

Thanks to Jerry and Eleanor Hart; Karen, Bob, and Jake Sykes; Bruce, Heather, Xander, Nathan, and Zoe Orenstein; and Jamie, Karin, Dani, and Rosie Orenstein for all their love.

To properly thank Mom, Dad, and Julia, I have to borrow my favorite word from Yiddish: when I think about how fully they’ve supported me with encouragement, enthusiasm, and so much love, I’m verklempt (that roughly translates to “overcome with emotion”). I can’t imagine a better family in the world.