I get that you’re jealous of girls like Delia and Emma, I get that none of this went the way you hoped. But you’re still here, in fighting shape, and you have the opportunity of a lifetime coming up in just a few short weeks,” I remind her.
She sighs and doesn’t look at me for a long time. “I’m just afraid that it won’t matter what I do to prep,” she admits. “Like, what if I’m not good enough? What if that’s just it? Some people have what it takes, and some people don’t.”
“You can’t think like that,” I say.
“But what if it’s true?” she asks. “I mean, how many millions of little kids take gymnastics classes? And then, what, only four people actually make the Olympic team every four years? Come on.”
She’s right, but I don’t want her to think that way. A failed Olympic hopeful probably isn’t the most convincing person to deliver a pep talk right now, but I’m the person she’s got. I fumble for the right words; I think back to the girl I was moments before competing on floor at Olympic Trials in 2012, and what I’ve so desperately wished I could have said to her. What I wished I had known.
“There are no guarantees at all,” I say finally. “Not in gymnastics. Not in life. But you have to give this the best goddamn shot you have, I swear to you, because it’s the one chance you have.”
Her lower lip trembles, and she buries her face in her knees.
“Now get up,” I command.
I stand, hands on my hips. For a moment, I worry that I’ve gone too far. She doesn’t move. But then she pushes herself off the ground to stand up. Her cheeks glisten with tears, and her chest rises and falls with emotion, but she’s here. Standing. Ready to work.
MAY 2020
• CHAPTER 24 •
The calendar slips into May before I know it. Each day at Summit is tightly packed: Hallie’s schedule is dominated by heavy-duty practice and punctuated by appointments with a revolving door of professionals: yoga and meditation sessions led by Sara, acupuncture and massage by a team of sports medicine doctors I found at Children’s Hospital in Boston, visits from a nutritionist to map out her pre-Olympic meals. I give so many pep talks, I spend my lunch breaks Googling inspirational quotes. My nights are busy, too: I hang out at home with Sara, go out for drinks with Jasmine more regularly now, and visit Mom and Dad for dinner when they complain it’s been too long since they’ve seen me.
I’m glad I’m mostly busy, because even with the little free time I have, it’s too easy to dwell on what happened with Ryan. The sadness creeps in during idle moments when I least expect it: I’ll be washing my hair in the shower when I realize how badly I miss kissing him. Or I’ll be waiting by the stove for water to boil when I get the urge to text him—and I can’t anymore. When I’m lying in shavasana at the end of yoga class, I should be relaxed. But instead, I rake over every memory I have of Ryan from February and March, trying to spot the moment I missed him betraying me. The last thing I want to do is let the weight of the breakup crush me. I have to keep moving in order to eventually move on.
When practice wraps up on Monday night, I’m heading out of the lobby when I see a missed call and a text from Jasmine. I pause in the doorway of the building to read the message.
Do you happen to be free tonight? Would love to talk to you. It’s important.
I’m about to text her back when I hear a noise behind me—someone clearing his throat.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, stepping outside into the warm spring night. It’s finally nice enough that you can get away without a jacket, and blips of music float by as cars drive past with their windows down. “Didn’t mean to block the door.”
I turn and flinch. There’s Ryan, awkwardly ruffling a hand through his hair.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.
We’ve worked alongside each other just fine, but that’s the key word: “alongside.” Not with each other. Outside of communicating the essential logistics of Hallie’s training schedule, we’ve barely spoken two words to each other since returning from Nationals. I’m afraid that if I start, I won’t be able to stop, and I’ll