I know Hallie and Ryan won’t stay in Stuttgart for long. There are just eight precious months to go until Olympic Trials—no time for a European vacation. I figure they’ll travel home on Sunday and start practice again on Monday. I give myself one extra day, just to be sure, and on Tuesday night, I drive to Summit. I back into a parking spot under a maple tree and stay in the driver’s seat so I can watch the last few gymnasts stream out the front door. They have pink cheeks and messy buns, with bare legs stuffed into Uggs. I listen to Kiss 108, the Top 40 station, as I wait for Hallie to emerge.

I dressed carefully tonight: no-nonsense black leggings and white sneakers paired with the red, white, and blue hoodie every member of the US elite women’s gymnastics team received during training in 2011. The once-bright cotton has faded, but my name is still embroidered on the sleeve—proof that I once belonged.

Sure enough, Hallie trudges out of the gym with a phone in one hand and an electric yellow bottle of Gatorade in another. A navy canvas gym bag hangs from one shoulder. She spots what must be her dad’s car and makes her way toward it. I dip my head and pretend to fiddle with the radio dial; I don’t think she sees me. Once she’s buckled up and her dad has pulled out of the parking lot, I get out of my car and walk toward the gym before I can lose my nerve. It’s dark, and a chill nips at my ankles.

Inside Summit, the fluorescent lights are still on in the lobby, but the parents have all cleared out. I take a deep breath and venture around the corner to the office. For a split second, the cozy familiarity of the charcoal-gray-flecked carpet and the neat rows of paper schedules thumbtacked to the wall make me slip back in time. I could be here to give Winnie my parents’ check for the quarter, or to kill time before practice by flicking through rows of plush velvet and slick Lycra leotards. But it’s late. Winnie’s gone home for the night. Instead, Ryan is hunched behind the desk, one fist clenched tightly in his hair, the other propping up an iPhone, the sound turned all the way up.

“Yes!” he whispers. “Yes! No!”

Then, sensing my presence, he snaps his head up.

I give a belated knock on the door frame.

“Hi. Can I come in?” I ask.

He gives his phone screen a pained glance, then pauses the video he’s watching.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” he says.

“I know.”

I take a couple of hesitant steps toward him. There’s nowhere convenient to sit, so I hover a few feet from the desk.

“Watching anything good?” I ask, nodding toward his phone.

“Football,” he says, tapping the screen. “You a fan?”