Now that she’s pointed out the connection, it’s impossible to ignore. Clad in red, she looks an awful lot like I did eight years ago. Except now, Hallie looks confident. Self-assured. Happy. I desperately hope she has better luck today than I did.

Chapter 32

• CHAPTER 32 •

The competition arena looks the same. It always does. No matter where you are in the country or the world, regardless of who’s winning or what the year is. The familiar, standard-issue apparatus and mats and chalk bowls are arranged on a basketball floor under fluorescent lighting, surrounded by bleachers, with frenzied energy pulsing through the air. Ryan and I flank Hallie as we arrive, looking like a real team in our matching Summit tracksuits. For the first time in months, I truly feel like the three of us are in sync again. I’m glad Ryan and I got the chance to talk this morning.

Hallie takes in the view of the arena with a curious expression.

“This is it,” she says, sounding stunned.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” I remind her.

“That’s kind of chill,” she says.

“Good,” Ryan says. “I like that attitude. Go warm up.”

She nods, slips out of her tracksuit, and jogs to the floor to run a few laps. Ryan slides closer to me on the bench, bridging the empty space Hallie left behind.

“You know, no matter what happens today, whether she makes it or not, I’m proud of us,” he says. “I think we did a killer job.”

“We made a pretty good team,” I say.

“We did, didn’t we?” He lets out a short laugh. “It’s crazy to think of how much has happened this year. You moving back to Greenwood, joining me at Summit, the Kaminsky scandal, the Powerhouse offer, your foundation…”

He trails off. He doesn’t need to say the rest. I know what he’s thinking: we got together, broke up… and yet, we’re still here. So is Dimitri, across the arena. He won’t even look at me.

“Hey, the schedule’s up,” I say, nudging him, glad to have a safe talking point emerge.

It’s a crowded roster: fifteen gymnasts competing for just four real spots on the Olympic team. Technically speaking, two other gymnasts are named as alternates, just in case anyone gets seriously injured during the Olympic Games—they can swap in and compete as backups. But obviously, nobody aspires to be an alternate. That means that after barely missing the chance of a lifetime, probably by a fraction of a point, you have to sit on the sidelines and cheer for your teammates to achieve your dream. It sounds like torture. As terrible as my experience was, at least I could choose not to watch the competition from the comfort of my own home.