Nothing about it feels real. For starters, he’s more than twenty years our senior. He called us each “girl” interchangeably, like it would’ve been too much effort to learn or use our names. And between me and Jasmine, he was always harder on her. When he mocked my vault, chided me for running like a girl, and made me do laps around the gym with weights strapped to my ankles, I could get through it. I knew his next compliment was just one good routine around the corner. But when Jasmine wobbled through a beam routine and he screamed that she was a “sloppy cow,” everyone knew that he really meant it. His abrasive demeanor, stormy mood swings, cruel nicknames, and outsized punishments were intended to mold us into champions, but they left me with pure distaste for him. I can’t fathom how Jasmine survived all that and could stomach marrying him. If we were still friends, maybe I could ask her. Maybe I’d see a different side to him. But my chance is long gone.

“Now, Hallie always has very strong showings on vault and bars, and today was no exception. Her beam routine was fairly decent, but floor hasn’t historically been her strength,” Jasmine explains. Her tone is authoritative but sympathetic—she knows exactly how it feels to be the underdog.

Barry tuts in agreement, launching into a list of her floor scores from the past year.

“But I hear she’s been training hard on floor recently, so let’s see how she does,” Jasmine adds diplomatically.

She tucks her hair behind her ear, and I catch a flash of a diamond ring glinting on her left hand. I just can’t fathom how or why she’s with Dimitri. I certainly can’t imagine her loving him.

The camera pans to Hallie lingering by the edge of the floor, awaiting her turn. She rolls her toes under her foot, bites her lip, and tugs on her ponytail to tighten it up. She’s alone. Jasmine and I at least always had each other. Before every competition performance, we’d huddle up, arms looped around each other’s shoulders. We’d chant something encouraging, like, “We got this,” or, “You’re gonna nail it.” It made us feel confident, centered. And as we approached each performance, we’d call out the same singsongy chant for each other: “Let’s go, Avery, let’s go!” Clap, clap. “Let’s go, Jasmine, let’s go!” Clap, clap.