Jasmine and I wrote five different versions of that line before we hit on the right one, and maybe the familiarity of it stirs something in her.

“Nobody has to be alone,” she adds. Under the desk, she grips my hand. “I’m grateful to be partnering with my friend Avery here.”

“That’s a great message. Now, Avery, you’re hopefully heading to the Olympics in Tokyo later this summer, isn’t that right?” Cynthia asks.

“I’m coaching a young gymnast named Hallie Conway, and I have to tell you, she is such a superstar,” I say. “I can’t wait for you to see her compete at the Olympic Trials.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Cynthia says. She turns away from us to face a different camera, and wraps up the segment. “This has been Jasmine Floyd and Avery Abrams, cofounders of the Elite Gymnastics Foundation. Back to you, Michael.”

The network cuts to a commercial break, and the producer shuffles us quickly offstage, unclipping our mics and sending us back to the greenroom.

“I’m shaking,” Jasmine whispers.

“You were great,” I reassure her.

“I lost it,” she says. “Her comment before we went on threw me off. You were amazing.”

“I don’t think we sounded so bad,” I admit.

“Next time, I’ll be better,” she insists.

“Next time?” I ask.

She beams. “Girl, this is just the beginning.”

In the greenroom, I dig my phone out of my purse. I’m caught off guard by a text from Ryan. After the breakup, our endless stream of texts came to a sudden halt; now we rarely text, and only about work.

I caught you on TV, he wrote. Very impressive. Just wanted to say congrats—what you and Jasmine are doing is so cool.

I had mentioned the segment to him, but I didn’t think he’d bother watching it. It’s one thing for him to pay lip service to our cause, but this shows he actually cares. I’m happy to hear from him. I slip my phone back into my purse without mentioning it to Jasmine.

I drive directly from NBC to the gym, where I change out of Jasmine’s dress into an old pair of Soffe shorts and a faded T-shirt with Summit’s logo splashed across the chest. I pull my hair back into a ponytail but don’t bother scrubbing the gloss off my lips.

“Whoa,” Hallie says when she sees me on the floor. “Why do you look so fancy?”

I hesitate to explain where I was earlier that morning. I haven’t told her anything at all about the Elite Gymnastics Foundation because it felt too embarrassingly personal. But now that she’s asking, I don’t have a choice.

“You probably haven’t heard about what I’m up to,” I confirm.