In response, her body flinches into position. She pulls off the turn well and bounds into the home stretch. When the routine is finished, she walks back to us, panting.

“Better?” she asks.

“The beginning was much better,” I admit.

“Looks great,” Ryan says.

I wait for him to give her notes on the rest of her lackluster routine, but he doesn’t. Instead, he claps her on the shoulder. This gymnast-coach dynamic is one hundred and eighty degrees opposite from what I was raised on—I’m not sure I understand it.

“Let’s break on this for now. Grab your grips, and meet me at bars in five,” he instructs.

“ ’Kay. Thanks, Avery! This was cool,” she says, giving me an exhilarated high five.

It’s not my place to argue coaching strategy in front of her. Ryan and I watch as she scampers away toward the locker room.

“Nice work today,” Ryan says, turning toward me and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming in.”

He catches me off guard. I didn’t realize I’d be dismissed so quickly.

“Oh, that’s it? That’s— Oh. Thanks for having me.”

He nods at the door leading out toward the lobby. “I’ll walk you out,” he says.

My chest tightens at the prospect of leaving behind this musty haven of adrenaline and ambition. I don’t want to leave—I want to dangle from the bars, tiptoe across beam, and launch myself eight feet high above the white trampoline.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask awkwardly. My cheeks flush.

His eyes stay glued to the floor. “I, uh, I don’t know. To be honest, I’m interviewing another coach, too. We’ll see how things go.”

“Who?” I spit out.

“Does it matter?” he asks. He hesitates, then adds, “She wasn’t ever at your level herself, but she has a decade more coaching experience than you do. I think she could be good for Hallie.”

“I really feel like I can make a big difference here,” I insist, pushing past the insistent lump that’s beginning to form in my throat. “I know I can.”

He doesn’t respond. This is humiliating. I’m surprised at how bold I am with him, but I have nothing left to lose. I’m lucky enough that this gig fell into my lap; finding another one that would make me feel even a fraction as excited as I’d be coaching at Summit doesn’t seem possible.

We’re at the door now. Ryan places his hand on the handle. Parents lined up in gray plastic folding chairs peer at us through the waiting area window. Their passive boredom in Lululemon leggings and zip-ups is so familiar to me.