Fans filed into the UCLA Pauley Pavilion, filling the 13,800- seat arena. As the stragglers took their seats, the low rumble of a hundred conversations echoed through the building, blending with the pulsating bass of a hip-hop track. The attention of the crowd shifted between the floor and a large digital display suspended from the ceiling. Pockets of cheering erupted as the announcer introduced each member of the UCLA Women’s Gymnastics Team.

“Sophomore, Sinclair Jordan!”

Another round of cheering broke out, but with a subtle lack of whistling or familial name shouting. Sinclair’s image filled the display. A smile split across her face like a crescent moon. Her eyes were radiant with a practiced joy. She stretched her arms out and above her head, face tilted back, presenting herself to the audience. After a quick round of double high-fives, the team jogged from the center of the arena to the Bruin’s home team staging area.

Amber leaned in close to Sinclair while nodding toward Coach Walters. “There he is.”

Sinclair glanced at the subject of Amber’s comment. Approaching Coach Walters was a middle-aged man; his gray suit stood out from the polos and windbreakers worn by the coaching staff. Daniel Martin was the representative from USA Gymnastics, the governing body for the sport, designated by the U.S. Olympic Committee.

Amber smiled and wrapped her arm around Sinclair’s waist. “You got this.”

“I know,” Sinclair replied.

She hugged Amber before jogging to Coach Walters as he beckoned her with a circling hand gesture. Sinclair squared up with him, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She glanced at Daniel Martin, who stood off to the side watching a member from the Stanford team approach the uneven bars.

“You ready?” Walters asked, with his signature blend of encouragement and concern.

“Of course,” she smiled.

He paused; for a moment his eyes betrayed more concern than encouragement.

“You know you don’t have to do the Produnova? You’ve got other routines I’ve seen you land a million times. Any one of them would be good enough to get you the points you need,” he said, his eyes rolling in Daniel’s direction.

“It’s not about that,” Sinclair said.

“No?”

“No. It’s not about good enough. It’s about doing what I know I’m capable of.”

“Alright,” Coach Walters said, placing a hand on her shoulder and pointing toward the vaulting table. “Remember, speed, height, and follow through. When you come off that table you’ve got to bring it all together.”

Sinclair nodded as Coach Walters stepped back. She jogged to the vaulting site and took her position at the start of the 115-foot run-up area. The crowd cheered as her image again filled the suspended LED display. She breathed in, and her compact body, a composite of grace and power, settled with a controlled exhale.

With a sudden fierce jolt, Sinclair exploded off the line. A synaptic surge coursed through her body as a series of foot falls, each faster than the last, propelled her forward. The smile and warmth of her face transformed into the visage of a predator. Her eyes never broke the plane straight ahead.

At the end of the runway, a culmination of speed ended with a forward leap off the springboard. As her feet left the ground, with arms outstretched, she launched off the vaulting table. The momentum catapulted her into a high arc. As she reached the pinnacle, she brought her legs in close to her chest and gripped her shins. Her body compressed, Sinclair entered a series of forward rotations, and descended toward the landing mat.

A collective gasp filled the arena, followed by abrupt silence. Most of the spectators turned away, but some watched on, hands cupped over their faces, eyes wide and filling with tears. The coaching staff rushed to the landing mat. Coach Walters knelt down beside Sinclair. He studied the unnatural curve of her neck, swollen and discolored. Sinclair’s eyes were open and unfocused. Coach Walter’s rapid finger snaps failed to provoke a response. He stood up and, with outstretched arms, pressed back the onlookers. The medics jogged through the cleared path and placed a stretcher next to Sinclair. They wrapped a plastic and foam brace around the sides of her head, neck, and shoulders.

At the Bruin’s staging area, her teammates held each other, struggling to peer through the crowd forming around the landing mat. Amber sank to her knees and cried as she glimpsed Sinclair’s still and twisted body.