I jog to the stereo to restart the song, then scamper into place for the opening steps of the routine. I’m terribly self-conscious of his gaze on my unmuscled arms and soft stomach, but that leaves me with only one choice: I have to throw myself into the choreography and perform it to the fullest extent, because otherwise it’ll look lackluster. It’s fine for him to think I’m out of shape—but he can’t think I’m bad at my job.

“Nice, nice, nice,” he calls over the music as I sashay through a section reserved for a tumbling pass. “I got it.”

Relieved, I turn off the music.

“So?” I ask, trying not to let on that I’m close to panting.

He crosses the floor to join me near the stereo. “So! That’s it.”

I laugh. “No, I mean, do you have any notes? Suggestions?”

“Mmmm… no? Not now, at least? Let’s see how Hallie does with it. Avery, you did an amazing job.”

He shakes his head, grins, and looks away.

“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

Now that he’s just two feet away from me, I realize he can probably see the sheen of sweat on my forehead and the halo of frizz that always escapes my ponytail when I dance.

“I just…” He trails off and laughs quietly. “Do you remember Worlds in 2010?”

“Yeah.”

The memories of that weekend snap into focus. My scrunchie flew off my head during my bars routine. That was the first day I heard whispers about me as a likely contender for 2012. Jasmine cried that night in our shared hotel room when Dimitri pointed out that maybe the reason she slipped off beam was because her ever-expanding hips and ass threw her off balance.

“I’ll never forget seeing your floor routine that day. I mean, I remember watching from the sidelines and thinking, Damn, that girl is going places,” he recalls. He gazes off into the distance, then snaps back toward me. “And now you’re here.”

The words should fall flat, but he says them with a sense of wonder. His face lights up. I don’t know what to say.

“If I had known, all those years ago, that we’d end up working together, I think I’d be kinda starstruck,” he adds.

I can feel my cheeks flush pink. “Starstruck?!” I yelp.

“Hundred percent,” he says, nodding.

A panicked thought flashes by—is he flirting with me? Am I imagining the coy warmth behind his words? I take in his casual stance and the impressive curve of his biceps straining at the sleeves of his T-shirt. He looks good without trying.

“Well, I was pretty starstruck, myself, when you called,” I admit. My voice is just a touch more honeyed than usual. “Olympians don’t call me every day, you know.”