He’s talking about Nationals the year I was sixteen, when the competition was held at an arena in Houston, Texas. The space was large and confusingly laid out; I must have walked in circles for five minutes on my way to finding the bathroom. I was returning from the women’s restroom when I spotted Ryan—or Cute Ryan, as Jasmine and I called him. We had seen each other around at other competitions before, but hadn’t ever spoken. Still, I was pretty confident that he recognized me.

“Hey, Avery—it’s Avery, right?” he had asked.

I was secretly thrilled that he knew my name.

“Yeah,” I said, trying not to blush.

I wanted to project the façade that hot guys spoke to me all the time. Totally normal. Yawn.

“Any chance you know which way the vending machines are? This place is like a maze,” he said.

Luckily, I had just walked past them. I pointed him in the right direction. I won the gold all-around medal later that day, cementing my status as a gymnast to watch. But when I think back to that competition, what stands out is the twinkling, giddy adrenaline rush from Cute Ryan knowing my name.

All these years later, I feel vindicated, knowing that I’m not the only one who remembers the interaction.

“You know there’s a machine in the lobby here, right?” I tease.

“Yeah, this one, I got covered,” he shoots back.

The stopwatch beeps. “Done!” he calls to Hallie. She collapses on the mat. “Come over, I’ll introduce you,” Ryan says.

Hallie sits up, clutches her stomach for a moment, and undoes the Velcro straps securing her ankle weights. I’m sure that whatever set of reps she just completed was no joke, but she leaps to her feet. Her auburn ponytail swings over her broad shoulders. She’s muscular and compact; the rippled outline of a six-pack is visible through the fuchsia Lycra of her leotard.

“Hallie, this is Avery. She’s going to be coaching with me today,” he explains. “Avery, Hallie.”

She gives me a shy smile. “Hi. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I was a level four when you were training here. I remember you.” She must have been one of the skinny kids running around in the locker room years ago.

“Oh, really? Wow,” I say, unsure what else to add. Back then, I was so focused on my own training, I barely noticed the kids.

“Your poster was in the lobby,” she recalls. “I wanted to be just like you someday.” Instantly, her cheeks—already pink from exertion—flush red.

“Well, I’m sure you can aspire to loftier goals,” I say.

“No, you were great,” Ryan says confidently.

I don’t want to tarnish his perception of my life since then, so I let the subject drop. “What are you working on?” I ask brightly.