“New music? New choreography?” he asks, looking concerned. “Now? With less than a year to go?” We both look back to the floor as Hallie lands her final tumbling pass, throws her arms into a dramatic flair, then sinks into her end pose. She holds it for a second, then flops down on her back, chest rising and falling hard with the intensity of her breath. Floor is an endurance test; the best gymnasts make it look effortless, but that’s just an act.

“Yeah, now,” I say. “This is okay, but it doesn’t play to her strengths. And there’s so much to refine. It could be better for her to start from scratch and learn something she loves, rather than beating a dead horse here.”

Ryan grimaces and rolls his neck, letting the vertebrae crack. Reflexively, I rotate my wrists until they crunch and push each knuckle into a satisfying pop. The sport is brutal on our joints.

Hallie joins us by the stereo. She has her hands on her waist and she looks like she’s trying not to appear out of breath.

“What’d you think?” she asks, biting her lip.

“Awesome,” Ryan gushes. “Great height and rotation on the double Arabian; that’s really come a long way. The wolf turn looks tighter today, too. Your left hip isn’t dropping as much anymore.”

His comments aren’t the full picture. Of course her double Arabian had fantastic height—she excels at tumbling, even the forward-rotating flips requiring superhuman power like that one—and she knows it. Her wolf turn was passable, but that’s hardly the most pressing item to critique. I don’t know Ryan well enough to determine if he’s a softy or if he just lacks the gimlet eye necessary to pick apart the subtleties of a women’s floor routine. But either way, he’s shortchanging Hallie. He’s letting her slide by without the grueling feedback she needs. If Dimitri ever saw this routine, Hallie would never hear the end of it.

“Avery? How did I do?” Hallie asks.

She radiates desperate energy; I can feel how badly she craves my approval. I was just like her once.

“That was very good,” I say honestly, steeling myself to be straight with her. “But there’s room for improvement, and I’d love to work with you.”

Her jaw sets with disappointment. “Yeah?” she asks.

She shifts her weight onto one hip and crosses her arms across her chest. The muscular curves of her triceps jut out proudly, and for a split second, a wave of doubt washes over me. My triceps are soft and flabby. Seven years ago, sure, I could do what Hallie just did. I could do it better. But now? Who am I to tell this lean, powerful dynamo how to improve?