I feel for her. I wish circumstances were different—it’s only human to need some time to rebound, recharge, and return with a better attitude. But time isn’t on her side, and if she wastes the next few weeks or months by sulking, she’s letting a lifetime of hard work and sacrifice wither and die. It sounds dramatic and unfair, but so is this sport.

Hallie trudges my way, clutching her side and breathing hard from the workout Ryan just gave her.

“Ryan says we should start with floor today,” she says.

So, apparently, he won’t even speak to me unless it’s through her.

“Sure, let’s go,” I say brightly, trying to lift her mood.

“You want me to warm up tumbling first?” she asks.

That’s our usual routine, but today, I want to try something different.

“Actually, let’s hold off on that for now,” I say. “I want to go over the video of your Nationals routine together.”

She groans. “Do we have to?”

“Yes, we do, because that’s how we’ll know what to target over the next few weeks,” I insist, using my most authoritative voice.

It’s often all too easy to feel transported back in time at Summit, and to lose sight of the fact that I’m actually a decade older than Hallie, but it serves me well to remember I’m in charge sometimes.

“Let’s go, I have it on my phone,” I say.

“I hate this,” she mutters. “You’re the worst.”

“You’ll thank me when you win a medal on floor at the Olympics, okay?” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

We sit with our backs to the cool concrete wall and watch the routine on my phone screen. If it’s cringeworthy for me to watch her stumbles and mistakes again, this time with Jasmine and Barry’s sharp commentary playing in the background, I can only imagine how she feels.

“Ignore the commentary,” I say, turning my phone on silent.

To a casual viewer, Hallie’s routine gleams. She looks like a superstar dream. But to me, the mistakes are obvious: her leap series doesn’t hit the requisite 180-degree splits; there’s just a hair too much power on one tumbling pass; her poise drops as she loses energy toward the end of her routine. The second the video is over, Hallie pushes away the screen.

“I get it,” she says darkly. “I suck.”

“You don’t suck,” I retort.

She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on top, looking very, very small.