7. Chapter Seven
It’s official. Fifteen days. No breaks. No real rest. Just ice, training, workouts, stretching, more training. My body feels it, but that’s the point. That’s the plan.
I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around myself, steam curling against my skin. The mirror is fogged, but not enough to hide what’s underneath. When I wipe my hand across the mirror and take myself in, I’m not sure how to feel.
I was always lean. Now, I’m just light. Too light. Or maybe just light enough. My arms don’t look as strong as they used to, but they’re not meant to be strong. They’re meant to be elegant, refined, graceful. My collarbones cut sharper. My ribs press faintly against my skin when I exhale, each breath shallow and calculated.
I run my fingers along my hip bone, tracing the sharp edge of it. My stomach is flat and hollow, every last trace of softness gone. My legs, once quietly strong, feel different. Not weak. Just… less. Less to carry. Less to hold me down.
Still, it’s not enough.
My jumps still feel heavy. My landings still sink too much into the ice. The rotations aren’t where they should be. Every ounce matters. Every fraction of weight is a fraction of a second lost in the air.
I roll my shoulders, watching the way my body moves, how my skin pulls tight over muscle, how there’s nothing extra left. It’s closer. It’s better. But it’s not there yet.
Not yet.
I grip the edge of the sink, exhaling slowly. My body has always been built for precision. But precision isn’t enough.
Precision needs freedom.
And freedom means lighter.
I can hear my parents downstairs. Mom is probably either cooking something or bringing in the chef to handle it. She loves to cook when she has time, but most of the time, she doesn’t. If she’s on a deadline, she barely steps foot in the kitchen.
She’s a photographer. And not just any photographer—she’s sought after, booked months in advance, her work printed in magazines, hanging in galleries, displayed in homes most people will never step foot in. She captures the world through her lens, but sometimes, I wonder if she even sees the one right in front of her.
Dad’s the same way. An architect, in demand, always moving, always working. His buildings are known for their clean lines and detailed fixtures.
I grew up in a house designed by two people who see the world in frames and blueprints. Clean edges, perfect compositions, control in every decision.
And I was raised to fit into it. That’s not to say they don’t love me, they do. It’s just that we’re a different sort of family than Nina and hers.
I tighten the towel around me, shaking off the thought.
Downstairs, I hear my mom’s laugh, light and effortless, my dad’s voice steady beside her. They’re home, but they’re always somewhere else too.
That’s just how it is.
I throw on something comfy—my go-to yoga pants and a sweatshirt. Even though my parents are formal, dinners at home are always casual. They love being able to just let loose. Well, to the best of their ability, that is.
Ana Lucia Blaze, my mom, is poised, always. Dark brown hair, streaked with gray, swept back in effortless waves. Her deep brown eyes hold warmth, but there’s always something else beneath it—concern, calculation, quiet expectation. She moves with grace, every step measured, every glance thoughtful.
Emilio Blaze, my dad, is the same way. Tall, lean, his posture straight like it was trained into him. His dark hair, now threaded with gray, is neatly styled, adding to his polished demeanor. Even now, dressed in something casual for him—perfectly tailored slacks, a crisp shirt—he still looks ready for a business meeting. His warm brown eyes scan the room with quiet observation, never missing anything.
I step into the kitchen and pause.
The chef is already at work, plating what looks like an entire feast. Rich sauces, delicate garnishes, portions too precise to be homemade.
Fuck.
How am I supposed to just eat less?
"Hi, dear," my mom says, sweeping into the room, effortlessly put together like always. She gestures toward the chef. "This is Chef Laurent. He’s preparing dinner tonight—last-minute booking, but I got lucky. He just finished a shoot with Gastronome Weekly ."
The chef looks up briefly, nodding in greeting before returning to his work
"Hi, Mom," I reply, tearing my eyes away from the food, already calculating.
It all looks rich. Heavy. Too much.
We all settle around the dining table, the usual hum of conversation filling the space. The food is plated beautifully, steam rising, the scent of roasted garlic and warm bread thick in the air.
Before anyone reaches for their plates, the chef steps forward, hands folded neatly in front of him, his tone professional but easy.
"For tonight’s dinner," he begins, "we have fresh baguette with whipped herb butter and sea salt, followed by a seasonal greens salad with lemon vinaigrette and toasted almonds. The main course is a roast chicken with garlic and thyme jus, served with parmesan mashed potatoes and sautéed green beans with shallots. And for dessert, an apple tart with vanilla bean ice cream."
A murmur of approval spreads around the table as plates are set down, warm rolls passed around, glasses filled. The meal is rich but familiar, something comforting without being extravagant.
Then the chef turns to me.
"And for you, Miss Blaze," he continues, his voice smooth, practiced. "Grilled chicken breast, lightly seasoned, with a side of steamed greens and roasted sweet potatoes. No butter, no oil, as requested. Your salad is without almonds, and the dressing is on the side. And for dessert, we have fresh fruit or yogurt, whichever you prefer."
Mom smiles, lifting her glass. "Honey, Chef prepared a separate meal for you. I know that you're eating a specialty diet."
"Thank you, Mom," I reply with a small smile. She always tries. I just don’t know how to let her in.
I turn to the chef, polite, controlled. "Thank you," I say.
He nods and walks back to the kitchen to clean up.
It looks great. Smells even better.
I know I can eat the salad. So I eat that. I move on to the greens, finishing all of them. A few bites of chicken and potatoes. No more than that. Just enough.
And I feel it—satisfied. Full, even.
Which is exactly when my mother notices.
"Sweetheart, is that all you’re having?" Her voice is light, but there’s a hint of concern.
My father glances at my plate. "You should eat a little more, Valeria. You’re training hard. You need the fuel."
I take another sip of water, slow and measured, even as my stomach feels too full, even as my pulse stays steady by force alone. "I am eating."
Mom gives me a small, approving smile, but I can see the hesitation in her eyes. Dad nods, satisfied enough, but I know them. I know how they work.
They notice everything.
The clink of silverware fills the silence. No chaotic sibling debates. No laughter. Just quiet, refined conversation. Controlled. Predictable.
Mom dabs at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "How’s training?"
"Good. Nikolai is pushing me harder than ever," I say, cutting my next bite of chicken smaller than necessary. "But that’s nothing new."
Dad nods approvingly. "Discipline. That’s what keeps you ahead."
Mom watches me for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. "Are you still keeping up with yoga?"
"Every morning," I reply.
She nods, satisfied. "Good. Balance is just as important as strength."
Dad cuts another piece of his chicken, his movements precise, efficient. "You’ll be ready for Nationals." It’s not a question. It’s certainty.
I nod, setting my fork down. "I will be."
That’s the end of it. They don’t ask about anything else. They’ve always waiting for me to tell them more, it’s something I appreciate about them.
It’s not about how I feel. Not about exhaustion. Not about the toll of fifteen straight days on the ice. It’s about results. About expectations. And nothing else matters.
They move on. Another bite. Another sip of wine. As if nothing is wrong.
And maybe nothing is.