glances at me, then down at the stopwatch.
“Thirty more seconds, Hal,” he says. She grunts in recognition and keeps working. “Welcome back, Avery,” he says, giving a firm handshake.
“Thanks for having me,” I say.
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.
“What do you think of being back here again?” he asks.
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.”
“That’s one of the reasons I thought you’d be perfect for the job,” he says, clearly pleased that I feel the same way. “I want to take today slowly. Get to know each other. Have you meet Hallie. See how it goes.”
“You know, I don’t know if you and I have ever really hung out,” I say. I feel like one of us has to note that this is our first proper conversation—we’ve always been in each other’s orbit, but that doesn’t mean we actually know each other.
“I’m pretty sure I asked you for directions to the vending machine at some competition once,” he says, shrugging like he’s just taking a vague stab at a memory.
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.
“Hey, Avery—it’s Avery, right?” he had asked.
I was secretly thrilled that he knew my name.
“Yeah,” I said, trying not to blush.
I wanted to project the façade that hot guys spoke to me all the time. Totally normal. Yawn.
“Any chance you know which way the vending machines are? This place is like a maze,” he said.
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.
“You know there’s a machine in the lobby here, right?” I tease.
“Yeah, this one, I got covered,” he shoots back.
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.
“Hallie, this is Avery. She’s going to be coaching with me today,” he explains. “Avery, Hallie.”
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.
“Oh, really? Wow,” I say, unsure what else to add. Back then, I was so focused on my own training, I barely noticed the kids.
“Your poster was in the lobby,” she recalls. “I wanted to be just like you someday.” Instantly, her cheeks—already pink from exertion—flush red.
“Well, I’m sure you can aspire to loftier goals,” I say.
“No, you were great,” Ryan says confidently.
I don’t want to tarnish his perception