Watching her recognize that her lifelong dream is coming true is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever had the privilege of seeing. I can’t help the tears coming. I don’t mind. We’ve all worked hard enough to justify them.

“I knew it,” Ryan says. Even his voice is shaking. “You’re going to be an Olympian.”

“We did it,” Hallie says, sounding stunned. “I can’t believe we did it.”

Not her. Not Hallie and Ryan. Us. All of us.

In my own time as a gymnast, there were so many ecstatic moments, like when a gold medal was draped around my neck or the day I qualified for Olympic Trials. But truthfully, nothing quite compared to this victory. I feel as if I could burst from bliss.

The medal ceremony is a happy blur. In the end, Emma takes the top spot, as everyone knew she would. Hallie is the surprise dark horse in second place, followed by Olympic veteran Delia, with Kiki rounding out the team in fourth. The girls confer for seconds before they announce their team name: the Fantastic Four, superhero reference very much intended. Madison Salazar and Taylor O’Connor are named alternates.

There’s no avoiding it—I feel terribly sad for the girls who didn’t make the cut. But if I can come back to this sport years later as a coach and make a real difference, they can, too. There’s life for all of us after our gymnastics careers end. It just might take some time to figure out exactly what that means.

Hallie’s parents have stumbled, dazed and overjoyed, from the bleachers into the main part of the arena, where they shower their daughter with hugs.

“Let’s give them some space,” I whisper to Ryan.

It’s crowded in the center of the arena, anyway—gymnasts, families, judges, photographers, reporters.

“Good idea,” he says. “Come with me to get something to drink? I’m thirsty.”

“Sure,” I say.

We walk by the bench with our bags so Ryan can grab his wallet, then wander down a maze of hallways until we find a vending machine, chattering the entire way about the highlights of Hallie’s performances.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over that floor routine,” Ryan says with a note of awe in his voice. “I mean, it was perfect from start to finish. She’s never been better.”

“I can’t believe we pulled that off,” I say, feeling giddy.

“We? No, that was you,” he insists. “I’ll take full credit for hiring the best floor coach on the planet, but that whole routine was all you.”

The vending machine is stocked with Gatorade bottles lined up in bright, color-coded rows. Ryan tilts his head.

“Berry or Fruit Punch?” he asks.

“Berry all the way,” I say.

“I’ll get two, then,” he says.