“Finishing up conditioning,” Ryan says. “We have fifteen minutes left. Then we’ll move onto floor, cool?”

“Cool,” Hallie and I say in unison.

Ryan alternates between leading Hallie through her remaining reps and filling me in on the situation. Hallie is sixteen now; he moved here to coach her three years ago, not long after he competed in Rio. The Olympics are the long-term goal, of course, but the next hurdle is the World Championships, held later this month in Stuttgart, Germany. She’s very strong on bars and vault, and pretty solid on beam. But she’s feeling less confident when it comes to floor. He wants me to watch her routine and see how I can help her polish it.

“Warm up your tumbling,” he instructs Hallie, once she finishes conditioning.

She refills her water bottle, takes a slurp, then trots to one corner of the blue spring floor to practice her tumbling passes. She’s diligent, efficient, and polite; she bounces in diagonal lines from corner to corner, letting other, younger girls tumble across her in between passes while she catches her breath. The other gymnasts defer to her with an obvious sense of reverence. Hallie’s skills are strong, and she moves with a powerful sense of energy. It’s too powerful, in fact—at the end of each tumbling pass, she bobs and stumbles to control her motion.

Next, she warms up the other elements of her floor routine: leaps, jumps, pirouettes, smaller acrobatic elements. Here, I see why Ryan is concerned. She has talent in spades, but lacks poise. The one lesson coaches drill into gymnasts from the first lesson is to always point your toes. Hallie points hers—but not with the sharp lines or intense muscular focus that she should. Until you’ve felt your thighs quaking as your toes curl toward your heels, you haven’t really pointed your toes.

The problem, I realize, is presentation. Her chin needs to be a fraction higher, her shoulders should pull back by two inches. Her posture is stiff and strong, lacking grace. She goes through the motions of each skill in a technically accurate way, but that’s it. She’s moving, not performing. If I could teach her how to do that, she could be a champion.

If. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if anyone can. It’s a lot of pressure.

“What do you think?” Ryan asks.

I get the sense he’s been watching me take her in to gauge my reaction.

“She’s good,” I say truthfully. “Really good.”

“But…” he prompts.

I hesitate. “She could be better,” I admit.