“And this isn’t just about me. You have a great job and a great life, but I know you want more. I bet you’ve been lonely. That’s why you jumped into a relationship right after retiring from gymnastics. That’s why you flirt with me, even when you say you know better. I know what it’s like to want a real connection and not find it, and it’s awful.”
Ryan is still just inches away. I take in the soft, dark depths of his eyes, the faint scar over his eyebrow, the smattering of stubble along his jaw, his tensed, broad shoulders. He swallows.
“You’re right,” he says quietly, not breaking my gaze. “About all of it.”
“Okay…” I say, feeling hopeful, though not secure enough to relax just yet.
“I’m just not sure that’s enough,” he says. “Not when there’s so much at stake. As long as we’re responsible for Hallie, she comes first. There can’t be any distractions.”
Distractions. The word reverberates uncomfortably and settles into the pit of my stomach. That’s what I’d be: a distraction. I can’t look at him. I’m not a monster—I don’t want my love life to stand in the way of Hallie’s shot at Olympic glory. But I don’t think it’s quite that simple. She would never need to know. I fiddle with the zipper of my jacket.
“Look, I’m not saying no to this. To us,” he says, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “I’m just saying we need to think carefully here, because the Olympics are right around the corner. And you, more than anyone, can understand how devastated Hallie would be if she doesn’t make it.”
I’m sure Ryan didn’t mean to do it, but linking my feelings for him now to the depression I felt years ago just crushes me. It’s cruel.
“I have to go,” I mutter, blinking back tears.
Ryan doesn’t protest as I head back inside.
FEBRUARY 2020
• CHAPTER 13 •
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Hallie asks at practice a week later.
I hold her feet as she dangles her upper body off the back of the vault, then muscles her way up into a sitting position. Her abs swell in size by the second.
“What?” I spit out, caught off guard.
I’m very careful to resist the urge to peek across the gym at Ryan. In fact, I’ve spent the majority of the past week avoiding him, because it’s painful enough to replay our awful last conversation in my head every night before I fall asleep. I don’t want to have to relive it in his presence, too.
“I asked if you had a boyfriend,” she repeats, finishing another rep of crunches.
She rarely, if ever, asks about my life outside the gym. I don’t share, either. Did she Google me? If so, there’s a handful of tabloid stories about me and Tyler—I hope she didn’t uncover those.
I laugh nervously. “No. Why?”
Her face turns beet red, and it’s not from the physical exertion. She can do this workout in her sleep.
“I was just wondering because you’ve seemed kind of sad all week, and I wondered if you got into a fight with your boyfriend,” she mumbles, rushing to add, “I just wanted to see if you were okay, butnevermind.”
“Oh my god,” I mutter, more to myself than to her.
The last thing I want to do is to make a scene, because then Ryan will come over and ask what we’re laughing about.
“Hallie, no, that’s very sweet of you,” I say quietly, trying not to attract attention. “I appreciate you checking in on me. I’m fine, just a little tired, that’s all.”
“Got it, got it, got it,” she says. “Uh, sorry for asking.”
She dips backward into another crunch. “So, you’re single, then? I know my aunt is always trying to set up my older cousin,” she says, giggling.
“Hallie, focus!” I say, clamping down harder on her feet. “Ten more reps in this set. Let’s go.”
We make it through conditioning without any more forays into my personal life. When it’s time for her to move on to bars, she skips off to the changing room to grab her grips. I’m relieved she didn’t dig any deeper. I remember what it was like when I was her age. I knew that the girls I had grown up with had boyfriends, or at least dates to the winter semiformal. I opted for homeschooling instead of attending an actual high school, but even I heard rumors about my old classmates having sex, saying I love you, flirting at beer-soaked parties. I wondered if some people were born hardwired for it, the way I was primed for athletic excellence. I couldn’t fathom having the guts to do any of that on my own. (But a death-defying stunt on a sliver of wood? Sure, no problem.) I’m impressed that Hallie was brave enough to ask me about my personal life—and I wonder how much of her curiosity stems from wondering what it’s like to have a personal life at all.
My ponytail has loosened over the course of the morning, and it sags toward the nape of my neck. I take down my hair and am in the process of redoing my ponytail when my hair elastic snaps. I don’t have another one on me, so I head to the supply closet, tucked in an alcove at the back of the gym. The door is slightly ajar. I push it open farther and nearly bump straight into Ryan, who’s running his fingers over the shelves, like he’s in search of something.
“Oh! Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
“No worries,” he says, turning around to glance at me.
He looks worried, though, as if he’s waiting for me to say or do something inappropriate again.
“Uh, hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says, turning back around.
I rack my brain for some witty joke or easy banter to break the tension, but instead, I just freeze up. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s waiting for me to say something, anything.
“I just came back here for another hair elastic,” I explain, pointing to my awkwardly lumpy hair, still half-stuck in the shape of a ponytail. “Mine broke.”
“I see that,” he says, pulling the box of hair supplies off one shelf and offering it to me.
I find a fresh elastic, flip my head over, and smooth my hair back into a high, tight pony. I feel more like myself this way.
“Have you seen the blocks of chalk?” Ryan asks. “I know we’re running low, but I thought there was at least one more case in here.”
I scan the shelves, which are brimming with athletic tape, gauze, Advil, cans of hair spray and butt glue covered in chalky handprints, and water bottles branded with Summit’s logo. A colorful pile of latex resistance bands spools in one corner of the closet.
“Uhhh, yeah, here you go.”
I crouch down to the bottom shelf, where there’s one remaining block of chalk half-hidden in a white plastic bag. Our hands bump when he takes it from me.
“Thanks,” he says, turning to lean against the shelves.
Crammed into this narrow closet with him, it hits me that I miss the easy way our conversations used to flow, before I kissed him and messed everything up. Aside from strictly necessary conversations about Hallie’s training, we’ve barely exchanged a single word since then. We’ve stopped eating lunch together, too.
“How’ve you been?” I ask.
He exhales with the slightest hint of a laugh and looks down at the chalk in his hands.
“We’re really doing this?” he asks, muttering it more to himself than to me.
“Doing what?” I ask, suddenly alarmed that I’ve crossed a line.
He gestures vaguely at the space between us and makes air quotes. “You know… ‘How’ve you been?’ Pretending things are all normal, when, in fact, the first time we’ve spoken about anything but Hallie all week is because we accidentally stumbled into the same closet.”
I bite my lip, feeling the sensation of embarrassment flood my entire body. I always thought I had a decent poker face; it’s something I picked up from years of competing in front of judges, hiding grimaces when I was in pain or pissed about a low score. It’s mortifying that Ryan has seen right through me this whole time.
“Ryan,” I say, sighing, doing my best attempt to sound supremely casual. �
�I am just asking how you are. This isn’t some covert sneak attack attempt at rekindling anything. Not that things were, uh, kindled in the first place. Trust me, I got the message.”
I cross my arms. I feel like a fool for trying to strike up a conversation with him in the first place.
But instead of looking upset or embarrassed, his expression is apologetic.
“Avery, I’m sorry, no, you’re right. I know things have been kind of weird since that dinner, and I’m sorry about that. I’m trying to be a professional here—keep my distance, not make things awkward. This is new territory for me,” he explains.
“Same.”
He exhales heavily and gives me a hopeful look. “We’re not doing too badly, right?”
“What, at keeping this quiet?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Well… Hallie just asked me if I had a boyfriend,” I say, not daring to mention that she only wondered because I seemed sad about potentially fighting with him. That’s information Ryan simply never needs to know.
He laughs. “And what did you tell her?”
“The truth, obviously!”
He tilts his head, encouraging me to continue.
“I told her no, I wasn’t seeing anybody,” I clarify.
“Got it,” he muses.
He shifts his weight, and my view of the doorway behind him disappears completely. Nobody can see me in here with him, not even if they tried. I’m close enough to take just one step forward and kiss him, but I know I shouldn’t. I inch backward, away from him, but my foot catches on the pile of resistance bands spilling out on the floor and I trip. The shelves are freestanding metal ones; I’m sure everything would topple down onto me if I grabbed them for support. I pitch off-kilter, and Ryan lunges forward to steady me.
I find my balance quickly, but Ryan doesn’t let go. Not at first. His fingers are wrapped around my bicep and my waist, and I’ve braced myself against his chest. He looks down at me. I look up at him. He looks down at his hand wrapped around my torso, like he’s just fully registered that it’s there, and can’t quite believe it. His lips, just inches away from me, curl up in an embarrassed sort of smile. I hate that I like his strong hands holding me up.
Then I hear Hallie’s voice calling my name. The sound jolts me out of Ryan’s arms. I squeeze past him, through the doorway, and into the main part of the gym so I can find Hallie.
“Avery? Avery?” she calls.
I find her near the bars, clutching her phone, frozen in place.
“Did you see the news?” she asks.
Her voice sounds timid.
“No, what news?” I ask.
She glances at Ryan, coming up behind me, then back to me. She holds her phone to her chest and motions for me to come closer. I get a bad feeling.
“Ryan, could you give us a sec?” I ask.
He looks confused, but ducks away.
Hallie flops belly-down on one of the plush crash mats by the bars. I sit cross-legged next to her. She sighs, hands me her phone, and then buries her face in her arms.
“Just read it,” she says, voice muffled and dejected.
My heart sinks when I read the New York Times headline on her screen: “Olympian Delia Cruz Accuses Sports Medicine Dr. Ron Kaminsky of Sexual Assault.” Of course Hallie isn’t the only one he intimidated or abused. I feel so stupid for not realizing she isn’t an isolated case. I know Delia, sort of. She’s halfway between my age and Hallie’s, so we briefly overlapped for a year at competitions, but we were never close. Back when I knew her, she was this bubbly, outgoing kid with a mane of springy, dark curls sprouting from her scrunchie. She used to sneak gummy bears into her gym bag and hand them out covertly in the locker room.
I skim the rest of the story, but after the endless wave of sexual assault allegations against politicians, CEOs, and Hollywood producers over the past few years, the details are sickeningly familiar. Delia says Dr. Kaminsky molested her while allegedly treating her for a hamstring injury. Her mom, like Hallie’s mom, was in the room. The Times reports that a representative for Dr. Kaminsky vehemently denies the claims.
“I had no idea,” Hallie says, voice shaking. “Delia never told me.”
I’m at a loss for what to say. I try to imagine what I would want to hear if I were in her shoes, but I come up frustratingly short. It’s not like I ever had heart-to-hearts with Dimitri.
“Hallie, this is awful. I’m so sorry you had to find out like this,” I manage.
She stares glumly off into space for a long time.
“Maybe if I had said something… spoken up… this wouldn’t have happened to Delia?” she asks.
She looks to me hopefully, as if I have the answers. It’s too horrible to comprehend. But this time, I know what to say.
“No,” I insist. “This isn’t your fault. The only person who could’ve prevented this is him. This is not on you. Please remember that.”
I realize that if Dr. Kaminsky did this to Delia, and nearly did it to Hallie, he must have done it to other girls, too. It’s too awful to imagine how many others there are, how big this is.
Hallie is still flat on the mat, but now her chin digs into her hands and her lower lip curls inward, like she’s trying to prevent it from trembling. I don’t know what to do, but I know I have to try something. I stroke comforting circles on her upper back, and her eyes start to water.
“Hallie?” I ask tentatively.
“It’s just… I don’t…” she begins, hastily rubbing away her tears and sniffling. “This is not supposed to be happening right now.”
“I know.”
“I have to focus right now,” she insists.
“Well—” I start, intending to remind her that taking care of herself is far more important than muscling through practice, but she’s too incensed to let me speak.
“I hate him, I hate him, he makes me so mad, I hate him so much!” she says, voice curdling with anger.
She’s close to shouting now. Other gymnasts and coaches have turned to stare. I want to snap at them. It’s like a spotlight follows Hallie around the gym; she’s the only one here worth gawking at. But right now, she’s not performing. She just needs privacy.
“Why don’t we take a break from this and head outside for a bit?” I ask.
I can practically see the first thought that flashes through her head: No. I need to work. But then she heaves a sigh, wipes under each eye, and nods silently in agreement. She strides across the floor and the vault runway—the other gymnasts defer to her right of way, letting her cross before they resume tumbling and sprinting—and pushes open the gym’s side door. It opens out to the parking lot. There’s a set of metal stairs there that we can sit on. It’s cold outside, but she’s been working hard; I bet the chill feels good on her bare arms and legs.
Hallie perches on the top step, hugging her knees to her chest, and kneads her chin into her kneecaps. She rocks back and forth silently, shaking her head. It looks like there’s too much frantic energy to contain in one tiny body. She leaps to her feet and her arms fly out in rage. She lets out an anguished groan into the frigid air and stomps her bare foot against the pavement.
“It’s just not fair!” she shouts.
And then she shrinks down into herself. She crosses her arms tight across her body and steers herself into me for a hug. I hold her close and stroke her hair. I guide us to sit down on the steps, and do the one thing I wish someone had done for me, back when I was in pain and enraged and swimming in sadness: I give her a plan. I suggest that if she feels comfortable, she should consider telling her parents the truth about her appointments with Dr. Kaminsky. She agrees to do it, and I offer to be there with her for that conversation, if she wants. And then, as a family, they can all figure out how to move forward—whether that means reporting what happened to her to the police, or simply letting it go. I remind Hallie that there’s no pressure to come back to practice today, or tomorrow, or any day.
“The most important thin
g right now is to take care of yourself,” I tell her. “Trust me, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now, that matters even more than your training does.”
She nods. I hope she believes me.
* * *
The next week is awful. Delia Cruz goes on Good Morning America, looking steely and powerful in a sleek white suit, and gives a searing retelling of the most horrific moments of her life. On Twitter, she releases a statement encouraging other survivors of sexual assault to get help. The replies to her tweet are mostly full of love and support, but there’s a mountain of replies from hateful trolls, too. I can’t even begin to fathom the mental gymnastics they have to employ to convince themselves that she’s the one ruining Dr. Kaminsky’s life, not the other way around.
Maggie Farber comes forward. So does her teammate Kiki McCloud. And then there’s a wave of others who speak up, both household names who competed in the Olympics and athletes who never quite made it into the spotlight: Emily Jenkins, Bridget Sweeney, Liora Cohen. By the end of the week, there are six names splashed across most of the major TV shows and publications, and a sickening sense that more will come. I feel both shocked and relieved, like I dodged a bullet. It was only by sheer luck that I visited other doctors instead of him.
Tara Michaels, the prominent conservative pundit and self-professed lover of “family values” who wears enough pearly pink lip gloss to single-handedly keep Sephora in business, unleashes a tirade that goes viral. She says it’s “disturbing” that America swallows up the stories of these six “unreliable” teenagers without giving a “respected” doctor a chance to tell his side of the story. “Facts are important,” she urges, disregarding that most of her own facts happen to be wrong. Half the gymnasts who have come forward are in their twenties by now. Dr. Kaminsky’s lawyer already issued a blanket statement denying any wrongdoing. Tara’s speech is peppered with racist jabs toward Delia, Kiki, and Emily, whose photos flash on-screen. The producers could have chosen photos of the athletes with medals around their neck; instead, they picked crotch shots—straddle jumps and leaps, taken from below. By the third time I see the video clip circulating online, it has more than ten million views.
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