Fifteen minutes in, I notice her grimace and roll her right foot carefully from side to side.

“Ryan, hey,” I say, catching his attention. He looks up from his phone. “It looks like her ankle is bothering her.”

“Yeah, let’s take a break,” he says.

“Hey, hey, Hallie, stop,” I call. “How’s your ankle?”

She winces. “It’s starting to hurt again,” she admits. “It’s really not that bad, though, promise. I’ll keep going.”

“No, let’s rest for a sec. I’m going to grab you some ice, okay?”

She exhales, clearly frustrated with herself. “Fine. Thanks.”

I retrieve an ice pack from the cooler and wrap it in a paper towel so it doesn’t freeze-burn her skin. By the time I make it back to the floor, Ryan is already wrapping up her ankle with gauzy prewrap and white athletic tape to keep the joint stable.

“Thanks for the ice,” Hallie says glumly.

“How long has this been going on?” I ask.

She sighs. “On and off for, like, two years.”

“I think it’s time to see that sports medicine doctor again,” Ryan says.

“Dr. Kaminsky?” Hallie asks.

“Yeah.”

She makes a face. “I’m fine.”

Every gymnast racks up injuries like these, but they’re nearly impossible to heal while actively training for competition. I pushed through my stress fracture at fourteen and wound up with back pain that flares up for weeks at a time, even more than a decade later. I sometimes wonder: if I could go back in time and make different choices, would I avoid a lifetime of pain? Even in my worst moments, I don’t think I would. As debilitating as the flare-ups can be, what I gained from gymnastics—identity, discipline, commitment—is worth so much more. But just because I’ve made peace with that choice doesn’t mean that Hallie needs to.

“A doctor might be able to really help,” I say. “Why don’t you go just once, just to check in?”

She juts out her chin like she’s going to protest, but Ryan’s reaction stops her.

“Hal, you don’t want to mess around with an injury this year. Be smart about this.”

“Fine. I’ll go.”

“Let’s take it easy today,” Ryan says. “After your break, we’ll do bars. No dismounts, nothing crazy, just to play it safe.”

She pouts. “But that’s such a waste of a training day.”

An idea hits me. “What about this—while you ice your ankle, why don’t we listen to new floor music? Pick something out?”