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

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

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

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

“I just want to get floor over with,” she whispers to me.

“I know. I’m sorry. Let’s stretch,” I suggest, stepping forward to place myself protectively between her and any cameramen who might be approaching with a long lens.