Page 120 of Break the Fall

Sun Luli is up next, and there is something about that girl, an innate sweetness, that forces you to root for her, especially when she’s using all four feet nine inches of herself to command every eye in the arena into believing she’s a Norse goddess choosing who lives and dies while she dances and tumbles to “Ride of the Valkyries.” She finishes with a flourish, and while I’m not sure I really want her to pass Chelsea—no, I definitely don’t—I can’t help but smile when she does.

Chels is gracious about it, giving the younger girl a fierce hug when the 14.4 comes up and Sun Luli’s name replaces hers at the top of the scoreboard.

Just Dani left now, and as soon as the opening sounds ofThe Greatest Showmanburst through the speakers, the crowd is on its feet, dancing along as she pulls everyone into the music with the incredible tumbling she’s always been known for and the stunning control that brought her that all-around gold two days ago. It all goes by in a blink, and she’s landing her final pass with an emphatic stick that she makes look easy.

She’s going to pass everyone and stand on that top podium again. Not because she deserves it for all she’s been through. No, Dani Olivero’s going to win because she is the greatest gymnast in the world.

The suite is quiet. Janet is down at the dining hall grabbing lunch for us, and Mrs. Jackson is off scheduling media appearances for us tomorrow. Leo and Ben are off making dinner reservations for us so we can celebrate tonight as a team. For now, it’s just the four of us, alone, maybe for the very last time.

It’s barely one in the afternoon, and yet so much has happened that it feels like the sun should be setting in the distance. Instead, most of the athletes are out training or competing, and here we are, finished. That flame we didn’t get to see lit at the opening ceremonies won’t go out for another week, but for us, it’s all over. Tomorrow, our arena will be set up for the men’s competition and after that for basketball, barely resembling the place where we experienced the highest highs and the lowest lows of our careers.

Maybe that’s for the best. After all, we’re moving on too.

We don’t have to pack yet. We won’t fly home for another two days at least. Tomorrow, we’ll sleep in a bit and then spend the rest of the day with the media, maybe take in a few of the other events. We’ll smile and talk about how proud we are of one another and of representing our country, and maybe I’ll score some sponsorships and endorsements. I’ll probably answer a billion questions about Leo, and we’ll avoid questions about Gibby, and then at the end of it all, we’ll go to sleep in this suite one more time before it becomes nothing more than a memory.

And with that thought, an idea pops into my head.

Leaving the girls in the common room for a moment, I move into my room and gather up my medals, all safely nestled in their boxes.

Carefully, I take the two silvers and place them down on the common room’s wooden table before I lay the gold between them. The others understand immediately and follow my lead before returning with their own medals: two golds for Dani, a bronze and a gold for Chelsea, and one final gold for Emma. We arrange them on the table, making sure they all touch, their ribbons tangled together almost like they’re embracing. Perfect.

There are only four of us, and we won eight medals. That’s almost half the total individual medals you can win in Olympic gymnastics. We swept the golds in event finals and owned these Games, just like I said we would. We showed the entire world exactly what we’re made of.

I take a picture and add it to a post, but then I sit down and really think about what I want to say before I begin typing out a message to the world.

The words come slowly, but they do come.

What our team has been through was impossible. Yet here we are. We did it. As amazing as this ride has been, I hope it never happens again. I hope no one has to go through what we did these last few weeks. But it’s more than a hope. I know it’ll never happen again because we won’t let it. Tamara Jackson and Janet Dorsey-Adams won’t let it. And Dani Olivero, my hero, the bravest person I know, and Chelsea Cameron, who I’ve looked up to my whole life, but never more than these last few weeks, and Emma Sadowsky, the best friend I’ve ever had and my sister in all the ways that matter, won’t let it. Sarah Pecoraro and Brooke Cohen, Olympians forever, won’t let it. And Jaime Pederson and Sierra Montgomery, who thought they had to choose between their lifelong dreams and a friend, won’t let it. I won’t let it happen again. And I defy anyone to look at this picture, to look at what we’ve accomplished together, and tell me that we’re not the greatest team in the world.

I send it out into the universe and turn off my phone.

The other girls are done posting too, and we stand there for a moment in silence, staring down at our medals, the embodiment of everything we’ve been through and everything we’ve accomplished, physical markers of these days we spent together in Tokyo, our Olympics suddenly at an end.

“What’s next?” Dani asks.

Chelsea grins, her eyes twinkling playfully. “Only the rest of our lives.”

“Oh, is that all?” Emma laughs.

I look at each of them, at these girls, at these competitors turned teammates turned sisters.

“I can’t wait.”