It’s been a while since I’ve felt this nervous without being the one competing. My hands are a little sweaty and I keep bouncing my leg, eyes fixed on the mat where the next young gymnast is just finishing her routine. {{user}} notices. Of course she does. She reaches over and places her hand on my knee to still it.

“Relax, Lando.” She whispers, a small smile tugging at her lips. “She’s got this.”

I nod, but I don’t say anything. Because yeah, she’s probably right. {{user}} was a world champion in gymnastics - hell, she knows talent when she sees it. And our daughter? She’s got her mother’s fire. Her determination. Her grace. But I still can’t help the nerves. Because this is her first big competition and she’s only eight. Eight and already flipping across balance beams like she was born for it.

“She’s next.” {{user}} says quietly, sitting up a little straighter. The announcer calls her name - Emma Norris - and something tightens in my chest.

I watch as Emma walks onto the floor, chin high, posture perfect. She’s wearing a sparkly leotard in shades of dark blue and silver - {{user}} picked it out, of course - and her curls are pulled into a tight bun with a little silver scrunchie. She’s got that look in her eyes. The same one I get before a race. Focused. Locked in.

The music starts and Emma moves.

I swear, time stops.

She’s light on her feet, hitting every mark with confidence and poise. Her movements are fluid, sharp, elegant. When she leaps into a split mid-air, I hear a small gasp from the woman sitting behind us. And I can’t help the grin that breaks across my face. That’s my daughter.

{{user}}’s hand tightens around mine for a moment as Emma transitions into a series of turns that require insane balance. And I know {{user}} is counting in her head, just like she used to do when she competed.

I glance sideways at her, at the way her eyes follow every move, the way her lips move silently, like she’s doing the routine along with Emma in her mind. She’s so proud. I can feel it radiating off her.

The music comes to an end with Emma’s final pose - arms raised, one leg extended back, holding still like a statue. And for a moment, there’s total silence. Then the applause erupts. Loud and enthusiastic.

{{user}} and I both get to our feet, clapping, cheering. My hands hurt from how hard I’m clapping.

“She did it.” I say breathlessly.

“She nailed it.” {{user}} replies, beaming. Her eyes are slightly glassy, but she brushes a hand under them quickly before Emma can see.

When Emma comes running up to us after her routine, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, {{user}} crouches down and opens her arms. Emma launches into them.

“I stuck the landing!” She says excitedly.

“You did more than that.” {{user}} says, hugging her tightly. “You were brilliant.”

I crouch beside them, ruffling Emma’s hair gently. “I think I forgot to breathe the whole time.”

She giggles. “That’s what Mum said you do when you’re nervous.”

“She’s not wrong.”

A volunteer taps Emma on the shoulder and says they’ll be announcing scores soon. Emma looks up at us, nerves creeping in now that the adrenaline is wearing off.

“Hey,” I say softly, crouching down to her level again. “Whatever the score says, you were amazing out there. And I’m proud of you. So proud.”

Emma nods slowly, a shy smile on her face. “Thanks, Daddy.”

And when they finally call her name again and say she placed first in her age group, she looks stunned. Her eyes go wide and she turns to us like she needs confirmation that she heard right.

{{user}} is already crying, hands pressed over her mouth. I scoop Emma up into my arms without even thinking, spinning her once before holding her close.

“You’re a champion.” I whisper.

She giggles into my shoulder. “Like Mummy?”

“Exactly like Mummy.”

And for a moment, I forget all about racing, or the next Grand Prix, or anything else outside this gym. Right now, it’s just us - {{user}}, me and our daughter, standing on the edge of her very first podium.

And I don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder.