Down the runway she went at a hard run, into her round off, backwards off of the springboard and onto the table, and up and off, twisting and soaring with great form and distance. She took a big step on the landing though, her power almost too much for the amount of rotation.

I looked back to find Callie looking on, a determined gleam in her eye and a smile hugging just the corner of her mouth.

She was in the competitive zone, ready, feeling the experience of having done this two times before and excited to use it to her advantage.

She climbed the stairs to the vaulting platform without a word, knowing she was next, and I did my part by walking down to the end of the platform with the table.

I climbed the stairs as well, adjusting the springboard to her positioning and making sure the mat was snug around it.

I cleared the space, going back down the stairs and standing back to watch as she repeated much of the same routine Jillian had performed. Chalk on the hands and feet, wiping the feet on the floor.

She did do one thing differently though, saluting the judges and looking down to check her spot, but stopping to look at her hands on the way back up.

My chest swelled and heaved as I glanced at my own hands. Excitement tore through my body at the same speed as her run, each step toward the springboard like a pound of my heart. Her body stretched in preparation, twisting into her round off, slamming off of the board and onto the table, blocking perfectly, and soaring through her two and half twists.

Her feet hit the mat and stuck as if suctioned to the ground.

Raucous cheers hit me like a wave, the crowd instantly on their feet to cheer for her.

I couldn’t clap my hands hard enough or scream loud enough, the cupping of my hands around my mouth meant to help Callie, and Callie alone, hear my voice.

“That’s it!” I yelled as she stepped off the mat and jogged down the steps closest to me.

She flew into my arms for a hug, and I embraced her fully, savoring the scant second before I released her again.

We walked together toward the other end where her bag lay on one of the chairs and her smile was infectious.

“Three more events like that, yeah?” I asked as she walked next to me, her hand on her hip and her breathing labored from the exertion.

She smiled and nodded, grabbing her bottle of water from her bag and taking a big swig.

Immediately, the lion’s paws came off and the focus shifted. She’d be going to Bars next, and the preparation started then. It didn’t matter what her score was or what had happened only moments before because it was in the past and nothing could be done to change it.

Not all gymnasts had the ability to compartmentalize like that, breaking a meet up into parts and separating them with bolted and locked doors once they were done. One fall on one event couldn’t be the reason you crumbled, just as one success couldn’t be the reason you lost focus.

Her grips came out of the bag along with a roll of pre-wrap and tape. I grabbed it from her hands without saying anything and directed her over to the side and out of the way. I helped her wrap both wrists, enjoying the opportunity to be close to her as I did.

Her score flashed on the LED screen that ran the circumference of the arena just as it blasted over the loud speaker. Her head came up to take a look at the fifteen point eight, but that look was it.

I could feel the camera over my shoulder, zoomed in on her face to get her reaction.

This was a huge event, and every moment of it would be immortalized on TV and internet everywhere. Maybe that was the reason we didn’t say all that much. Neither one of us knew when someone was there or when the camera was on.

Callie didn’t let it bother her though. She moved with the ease of someone watched and filmed twenty four hours a day for a reality show—like the cameras weren’t there.

She had a steady hand and a focused gaze.

It was like she had none of the same monsters bullying their way around my stomach.

The thing I liked to call—

Nerves.

Raw and chewed out and used up, I finally reached the point where they got so active, I went numb.

Kind of like getting to the point where you have to pee so bad it goes away, or starving from a hunger so deep it stops.

That’s what I was feeling for nearly the entire competition last night. I’d done okay.

Actually, I’d done well, but the whole thing felt like a dream. I floated around in my head so much I almost forgot where I was.

Success felt like enjoyment, but only when I saw the way it lit Nik’s eyes and body up like a beacon. He was without a doubt my biggest cheerleader, practically running along the runway of the vault with me, jumping five feet in the air at the end of my routines with a ridiculous fist bump, and always waiting with uplifting and encouraging words for me when I rejoined him.

He didn’t hover and tell me what I should have been doing or what I shouldn’t because he knew I didn’t need it. My mind was already crowded enough, all of the voices of my naysayers, supporters, my self-doubt and opposing drive, and the many hours of advice Nik had managed to cram all the way inside from the time he’d shaken my spit-soaked hand.

Now I was on the final event of the second day of Trials, and by some gift delivered straight from God’s hands, I’d been given the chance to finish on Beam.

I knew most people wouldn’t praise this kind of fate, but for me, it felt like home.

It felt like the best chance I had at finishing on a high note, going out with a bang, and earning a spot on my third Olympic team.

I expected Nik to give me some kind of check-in question to see how I was feeling or a pep talk to make sure I was ready.

But as he smiled at me with genuine warmth, affection, and pride, he only had one thing to say.

“I can’t wait to watch you up there.”

And, after hearing that, I knew I’d do everything I could to make sure I gave him one hell of a show.

Climbing the steps to the elevated performance platform, I looked to the apparatus rather than the crowd, the dull roar of its patrons sounding like the waves of the ocean. Louder it would roll in and softer out, over and over again as gymnasts around me set off their reaction with the biggest performances or mistakes of their lives.

Floor music started up in the background, a melodic beat chosen by someone else to accompany and showcase their gymnastics. But I did as I always did, using it as my own and transforming my body to match its tempo and rhythm. The mood would change mine, but only in the artistic sense of my routine.

Timing of a Beam routine is important, a predetermined length set and policed by the judges at each and every competition. That’s what marveled me about my method, moving at different speeds on every occasion, even from last night to tonight, all based on the background music. And yet, I somehow managed to adjust and recalibrate each move to meld into the other, making my end come at a reliably uniform pace.

I greeted the judges with a salute and smile, stepping directly to the Beam in preparation for my mount and letting my hands hover. Once you touched the Beam your time started, and for me, a deep breath before that came to fruition was all important.

I closed my eyes briefly and shut out everything else, settling both open palms on to the top and simultaneously opening them again.

My feet left the ground courtesy of my arms, my press mount a perfect test of strength and body control in one.

The slightly roughened brown of the Beam stood out between my hands as it was dotted with white, the remnants of chalk from gymnasts past telling a story of its own. Legs and feet and hands all touched that surface at separate times on purpose and by mistake, a grip to avoid a fall and scrunch of an unsure foot’s toe.