The next morning when I walk out of my house to head to the gym, there’s a white paper bag on the hood of my Jeep. My steps slow as I approach it, but when I see my name written in Sharpie on the front, I just know. Iknowit’s fromhim,even without having ever seen his handwriting before. It’s small and slanted and there’s a little smiley face to the right of my name. And inside is a huckleberry muffin.
At least it isn’t Cocoa Pebbles.
7
HANNAH
On Friday, Coach Rodier comes over to watch while I’m working on low to high transitions on the uneven bars. It’s my best event, but I need to increase my difficulty level to match many of the other girls in the gym.
I drop to the ground to give my arms a break. Blowing out a breath, I finally glance at him—something I’ve not let myself do for the past five minutes. He’s not the kind of man who wears an encouraging smile at all times (or really, any of the time) and I don’t need any help getting stuck in my head.
We’re coming up on the weekend and Premier is hosting a men’s competition, which means this is the last day I’ll be able to practice before the end of my trial period. I can’t help but feel like this is my final opportunity to show Coach Rodier that I belong here.
“Your arms are bent when you catch.” His voice is filled with a calm, unwavering confidence that leaves no room for doubt he’s correct. And honestly, his track record supports it.
I nod and then step up to the bar to go again. This time when I come off the low bar, I focus on grabbing the high bar with straight, unbent arms. I drop and look to him.
“More power from the hips.”
I try again. Again. And again.
I don’t see it happen but at some point, I realize he’s moved closer. I’d like to think he’s taking a personal interest but maybe he’s only taking pity on me and giving me a smidge of attention before he kicks me out of this fancy gym.
“Better.” It might be my imagination, but I believe his voice lifts a half octave. So close to sounding like he might be pleased with me, but not quite cheery enough for me to be certain.
My chest heaves from exertion, but I’m not tired. I’m filled with adrenaline and the drive to get this right. On my next attempt, I add in the next move in the routine. I’m concentrating too hard on remembering all his feedback, and my timing is off. I jump to the mat and bite back a frustrated groan.
Coach Rodier steps backward. “In order to add more difficulty, we must first master the fundamentals. Every detail matters.”
I read a million things into his words.
You’re not going to cut it here, but nice try. Keep working on it anywhere but here.
If you can stop screwing up so much, you might just make it here.
I see great potential in you, Hannah.
Okay, admittedly that last one is more of a dream than a real possibility.
I smile, despite myself. He coached me. A stretch of the word? Absolutely, but if it’s the only advice he ever gives me, it’s so much more than a million other gymnasts wishing they were in my place.
“Nice work,” Kinsley says, coming to stand next to me. I blink away my focus only to realize we’re two of only a handful of people left.
“I’m never going to get this transition right.” I move to the chalk bucket and douse my hands.
She lets out a disbelieving chortle, then a mock high-pitched voice that I think is supposed to be me, says, “Thanks, babe. I’ve been working really hard and it’s paying off. Thank you for noticing.”
I aim a wobbly smile at her. “Sorry. It’s just…I still don’t know if he’s going to coach me. And if he doesn’t, I’m not sure that it makes sense for me to stay here.” Without Meyer and the funding to pay the gym fees, I’m already stretched too thin.
“And even if he does agree, I’m not sure how I’m going to pay for his fees on top of everything else. Or if it’s going to make a difference. Maybe I’m too late.”
That last worry is only partially true. I do fear it but only when I’m really feeling sorry for myself, like now. Most gymnasts have already hit their peak at my age.
“Okay, well, let’s think worst-case scenarios.”
I can’t help but laugh as she gets a serious expression on her face. Gaze turned to the ceiling, lips pursed. She’s the picture of concentration for a moment before she says, “Coach Rodier doesn’t take you on as a client and you can no longer train at this gym anymore.”
My stomach twists as she voices the worst possible outcome. Except, is it? Iamworried about being forced out when I’ve just gotten here. But more than that, I’m scared that no one else will be able to see in me what I feel down to my very core. I was born to do this.
