“Avery, I like you. I respect you. I want to be honest with you—I don’t know if this is going to work,” he says apologetically. “Worlds is so close, and then there are just a few more months until the Olympics. I don’t know if your approach is the right one. I think she needs to polish what’s she’s got—not start over.”

A mental image appears in a flash: me slipping underwater, slumped on the couch in my parents’ basement, with nothing to look forward to tomorrow or the next day or any day at all. I don’t have to imagine it; I know it intimately. This gym is the only place I’ve ever felt truly at home; this job feels like it should be mine. I can’t fathom Ryan giving it to anyone else. But I don’t know how to succinctly explain the territorial greed I feel for this coaching gig and how badly I need it without sounding desperate.

Ryan opens the door handle, and I mutter “Thanks” as I propel myself through the waiting area, down the hallway, and into the locker room, where Summit gymnasts who aren’t quite good enough have always gone to break down into silent tears.

Part 2. November 2019

NOVEMBER

2019

Chapter 4

• CHAPTER 4 •

A familiar voice blares from the TV. I crunch an apple noisily between my teeth to block out the sound. My parents are sprawled out on the couch in the living room with their feet kicked up on the ottoman, passing a single glass of red wine between them as they watch the World Championships on TV.

“Hon, you’re sure you don’t want to watch with us?” Mom calls from the room next door.

“It’s Jasmine!” Dad adds. “She’s doing great.”

I groan.

“I’m fine in here!” I call back.

Jasmine has been a regular commentator for televised gymnastics competitions since the last Olympics. As jealous as I am, she does a fantastic job. Her deep knowledge of the sport, status as a household name, and pretty features make for good television.

It’s been two weeks. Ryan never called. I assume he must have gone with the other coach. I bet the coach is even there with Ryan and Hallie in Stuttgart right now. Truly, I can’t imagine a worse evening than watching a person who knocked me out of the running for a job while listening to commentary that—had life gone differently—I could be delivering instead.