A high-pitched beep rings out across the arena, indicating that Hallie is permitted to start. She strides to her spot on the floor, settles into position, and waits for her music to begin. I watch carefully as she hits the opening steps of choreography. Her movements aren’t quite as elegant as they should be, but at least her chin is lifted proudly and her toes reach toward a sharp point. Her first tumbling pass is sky-high, but there’s too much power in her landing; she bobbles out of place, and then out of bounds. She takes three separate steps as she winces and struggles to slow her inertia. Not good.

Mom and Dad gasp and squint. Old habits die hard—they still get anxious and overly invested, even as unattached bystanders, rather than parents with skin in the game.

“Three steps, that’s a three-tenths deduction,” Jasmine notes.

Hallie slides down into a one-legged squat to wind up for her wolf turn, looking determined. She pushes off the ground into a hasty spin, but her left hip drops like usual, and her left heel drags across the floor—another deduction.

“Oof!” Barry says. “She’s struggling.”

Duh. I really could do better commentary than this.

I feel a prick of pain in my hand, and realize I’m biting my knuckle out of nerves. It’s tough to watch her sloppy execution and stiff style while powerless, stuck here in my parents’ musty living room.

Hallie drags herself through the rest of the routine and sheepishly salutes the judges before trotting off the floor. Ryan wraps his arm around her shoulders and walks with her quickly away from the cameras. He’s muttering something under his breath.

“So, that routine probably knocks Hallie off the podium for all-around, but she still has a shot at medaling on individual events,” Barry says.

“Let’s go back to that gorgeous double Arabian, though,” Jasmine suggests.

Sure enough, the channel plays back that impressive tumbling run. Jasmine walks the viewer through exactly what makes it so special to fill the time as the judges deliberate on Hallie’s score. When it finally arrives—12.475—Hallie furrows her brow and looks away, dejected.

I feel myself tunneling back in time to every shaky routine I performed at a competition. I remember the raw horror that seized my nerves, the way my frenzied brain taunted me on a loop—You’re never going to make it. Just give up now. Failure is inevitable in this sport; it happens to everyone at some point. But there’s no room for failure, not if you want to make the Olympics. Not if you want to win. The paradox is crushing.

“Poor girl,” Dad says. “She’s talented, but that routine didn’t do her any favors. What’d you think of her?”

I sigh and slide off the couch. “I think I’d do a better job coaching her than whoever Ryan hired.”