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smile as I took the woman’s outstretched hand.
    Livvie grinned and waved an arm between us as she regarded the young woman. “Coach Shea, meet Nev. Nev, this is Coach Shea, X-Factor’s athletic director.”
    “Nice to finally meet you, Nev. Livvie’s told us great things about you.”
    I stifled the urge to whack my cousin upside the head for talking about me so much and reciprocated the woman’s greeting, ignoring the second half of her comment. Any greatness I once had was long gone. “Nice to meet you too.”
    At about five-foot-seven, Coach Shea sported an athletic build, showcased by a pair of form-fitting black yoga pants and a tiny black tee with “X-Factor Cheer: A Cut Above The Rest” screen printed across the front in red and white lettering. Her long, strawberry blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail and topped with a stylish black cap decorated with the gym’s logo in rhinestones. She had a friendly smile, a spattering of freckles across her nose, and an overall aura of kindness.
    She placed her free hand on her hip, the other held a clipboard. “Livvie tells me you were a level ten gymnast. Where did you train?”
    I cleared my throat. “Valley Flyers in Vegas.”
    Coach Shea gave a nod and cast me a look of appreciation. “I’ve heard of them. They run a good program. So, you ready to warm up?”
    No! Every muscle in my body simultaneously cried out in panic, the anxiety I’d built up over my forthcoming tryout at an all-time high. Could I do this? Could I step onto a blue mat and not fall apart? My therapist thought I could. So did my aunt and my cousin. I clung to their faith in me, as I had none of my own.
    I shuffled my feet in place and tugged at the hem of my shirt. “Um, yeah, okay.”
    Coach Shea reached forward and gave my upper arm a squeeze. “Feel free to check the place out before you warm up. You’ve seen the trampoline, obviously. The training belt is located at the far end of the mat to your left, though I don’t expect you’ll need to use that today. Bathrooms and cubbies are at the far end of the gym along the left wall. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a standing tuck class to get to.”
    With a wink and a smile, she strode purposefully toward a circle of girls standing just in front of the training belt. Callie glared at me from amidst the small group before turning to chat with one of the athletes.
    My brow shot up in surprise and I tapped Livvie on the upper arm. “Nasty girl doesn’t have her standing tuck?”
    A smug grin lifted the corners of her mouth and she shook her head. “Nope. She’s off and on again with it. Callie’s a power tumbler. The standing stuff jacks her up.”
    I blew out a gust of air, chomped down on my lower lip, and shook my head. Callie Porter’s nasty attitude and tumbling issues were the least of my problems. The old adage “if you don’t use it, you lose it” lingered at the front of my mind, the dull pressure from its nagging presence giving me a whopper of a headache.
    Ages ago, before my mom succumbed to Alzheimer’s and my entire life turned to shit, I’d trained as an elite gymnast. Round off double backs, double fulls—you name it, I did it. I hated bars. Hated vault. Beam and floor were my events, particularly floor. Tumbling had been my passion, the one thing I could lose myself in. The only thing that helped drown out the crappy drama that came along with everyday life.
    I glanced over my shoulder toward the bleachers. Part of me still expected to see my mom smiling and waving as she watched me practice. The other half knew better.
    My chest squeezed as I thought back to the last time my mom tried to take me to the gym. We’d made it halfway across town before she looked at me like I was a stranger, then asked me who I was. I never did make it to the gym that day.
    Alzheimer’s sucked.
    The sport didn’t hold the same joy for me anymore. Nothing did. Going to gymnastics practice turned into a giant