Over the next hour, the bones of the routine begin to take shape. I’m reminded of one of the many things I loved about gymnastics: if you work hard, you can become a superhuman version of yourself, at least for a time. If I were in prime shape, I could spiral like a ballerina, contort myself like a circus performer, catapult myself like a soldier, and defy gravity like a goddess. There would be no limits on what I could do. Outside the gym, that’s never been true for me—I couldn’t make it through college, and I couldn’t make Tyler stay in love with me. But here? This is my world. Or at least it was. Until I went to Trials.

I run through the light version of the choreography—I cartwheel across the floor where Hallie will tumble for real; I spin on my butt where she’ll do a wolf turn. I don’t want to overextend myself and trigger another flare-up of back pain, so I take it easy. Watching the choreography gel together is satisfying, and I get so lost in performing it that I don’t hear the soft creak of the door on the other side of the gym. When the song finishes, there’s a beat of silence, then the sound of applause.

I whip out of the dramatic final pose—chest thrust out, back arched, arms outstretched—and turn toward the noise. I’m mortified to see Ryan walking down the vault runway toward the floor.

“Impressive,” he says.

I cross my arms over my chest, embarrassed. “I had no idea anyone was still here.”

“I was in the office. So, will that be Hallie’s floor routine, or are you just playing around?” He looks bemused.

“That depends,” I say. “Do you really like it or are you just being nice?”

“Come on, Avery,” he says with a smirk.

Ryan doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d joke around when it comes to work. The stakes are too high. I genuinely like the routine: the choreography is playful, energetic, and suited to Hallie’s strengths. But I’m not so brazenly confident to expect Ryan to like it right off the bat.

“It’s great,” he clarifies. “I love it.”

“You know this isn’t actually the real, final thing,” I warn him. “I just can’t perform at that level anymore. So Hallie will kick up the difficulty level by, like, five notches.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I figured. Show me the beginning?” he asks. “I missed it.”