13. Chapter Thirteen
Nationals. The final test. The moment that decides everything.
I roll my shoulders, breathing deep, shaking out my limbs. My body is ready, my muscles coiled, but my mind is loud. The arena hums with restless energy. Cameras flash. Voices echo. The weight of expectation presses down, thick and suffocating.
Somewhere, the commentators are speculating—Did the scandal get to her? Did she crack under pressure? Is she still the skater she was before all of this?
I shut them out. I’m here to win.
I glance toward the boards, toward the stands, searching for something—someone.
But the lights are too bright. The crowd is a sea of faces, blurring together, too many at once. I can’t pick anyone out.
It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to see anyone. I know my parents are in the crowd, despite their busy lives, they’ve never missed a performance.
I need to skate.
The music begins, and I let my training take over. I push off, my blades carving into the ice, steady, controlled. The noise fades. The crowd dissolves. The cameras, the judges, the weight of expectation—none of it exists.
There is only this.
My movements are fluid, exact, every step hitting where it should. Not too much. Not too little. Just enough.
I push into my first combination—triple lutz, triple toe. Knees bend, body coils, and I launch, rotating fast, my core locked tight. The landing is clean, absorbed into the next transition.
No reaction. No hesitation. I keep moving.
The choreography sequence should feel effortless. It doesn’t. The ice feels harder beneath my skates, my limbs tighter than usual, my breath shallower. I push through it.
Deep edges, sharp transitions, arms extending just enough to match the music. Not because I feel it—because I command it.
I prepare for my next combination—triple flip, double toe, double loop.
My body snaps into position in the flip, my skates touch down, for only a second, my weight feels too far back. A flicker of doubt. A fraction of hesitation.
I adjust instantly, flowing straight into the next jump.
It’s fine. It’s all fine.
But the fight is there.
I don’t let it shake me. I don’t let it rattle my control. I absorb the moment, I shift, I own every movement.
One final jump. Triple loop.
I step into it, push off strong, rotating effortlessly. The landing is clean, absorbed into the ice like it was always meant to be.
I coil in, the world blurring as I increase my speed. Faster, tighter, deliberate. Then, for the final extension, I extend, arms reaching outward, chin lifting—a flawless finish.
Silence.
A breath.
Cheers crash through the air, the roar of the crowd swelling, deafening. The energy pulses around me, vibrating through the ice, through my chest, through my bones.
Nikolai is waiting for me, eyes bright, his expression full of something rare—pride.
“That was brilliant!” He grabs my shoulders, squeezing. “You did it!”
I shake my head. “I can do better.”
His grip tightens. “Stop that, Valeria. Accept your accomplishments. Accept your wins.”
I exhale sharply, my pulse still pounding in my ears. “You don’t even know if I won.”
He huffs, like it’s obvious. “You are winning.”
I want to believe him. I really do.
I glance toward the stands, searching for my parents, for Grant and Hannah. They’re there, standing, cheering, their expressions proud. But it still feels… distant. Like I haven’t let it hit me yet.
I inhale slowly, trying to shake the residual energy still buzzing in my limbs. I should feel triumphant. Overwhelmed. Something.
Instead, I just feel… empty.
The competition is over. And suddenly, all I can think about is Ethan.
The music starts, and immediately, I see the difference between my style and Nina’s. She doesn’t attack the ice. She invites it in.
Where I cut through the rink with power, she moves like the music belongs to her. There’s no force, no sharp edges—just breath, just glide, just something effortless in the way she lets herself be part of the performance.
She doesn’t skate to hit every beat. She skates to feel it.
Her arms extend, fingers tracing unseen lines in the air, every movement deliberate, but never forced. Where my movements are clean and exact, hers are soft, expressive, open. Her face changes with the music, her body leans into every note, and for a moment, I swear I almost forget I’m watching a competition.
She’s not just performing. She’s telling a story.
She moves through the footwork sequence, her blade carving smooth, flowing arcs, her weight shifting effortlessly between edges. She’s light, floating across the ice like she’s not bound by gravity the way the rest of us are.
Her step sequence is hypnotic—deep edges, fluid turns, arms drifting seamlessly through each motion. It’s mesmerizing. Every gesture, every glance, every breath seems like it belongs in the music.
The jumps come, but they don’t define the program. They don’t own the routine the way they do in mine.
They’re woven in, almost secondary to the performance itself.
I’m not watching technique. I’m watching Nina.
And for the first time, I wonder if that’s what I’ve been missing.
Her final spin unravels like a ribbon, slow and controlled before extending into her finishing pose—arms reaching toward the sky, a smile breaking across her face, the last note lingering in the air.
She skates off, her expression glowing, her joy undeniable. Drew is already reaching for her, pulling her into a hug before she even catches her breath.
It wasn’t the most difficult program. It wasn’t packed with the hardest jumps. But it was Nina. And it was unforgettable.
She looks to the monitors, waiting for her scores. The numbers flash. The crowd roars yet again. It’s incredible. Her highest score yet.
Nina lets out a joyful laugh, practically throwing herself into Drew’s arms, kissing him before hugging her parents. She’s glowing, soaking in every moment, letting herself celebrate.
She deserves this.
I should be celebrating too. I should feel something. But my eyes scan the crowd, searching for someone who isn’t here. I feel the absence of him like a weight in my chest, heavier than it should be, heavier than I want it to be.
Nina must notice, because she turns, catches me staring. Without waiting for an invitation, she comes over to me, arms crossed, watching me carefully. “He couldn’t come.”
I frown, my stomach twisting. “What?”
“He wanted to. He was supposed to.” She exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. “But… Margo filed for full custody.”
The words hit like a slap. My breath catches. “What?”
“Yeah,” she nods, her voice tight. “Court hearings, meetings with Ryan—he has to stay with CC.”
I stare at her, my heart hammering, my chest suddenly too tight.
She studies my reaction, then tilts her head. “He makes the same face you are now.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t—”
“I know you miss him,” she cuts in, and something in her voice shifts. Softer. Sure.
I shake my head, but it’s weak. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
She steps closer, her eyes locked onto mine, unshaken. “Val, I don’t think you understand something.”
My voice is hoarse. “What?”
She exhales, like she can’t believe she has to spell it out. “You’re it for him.”
My stomach clenches.
“He loves you, Val,” she says simply, no hesitation, no doubt. “I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. Not even Margo.”
I stiffen at the name, but Nina doesn’t stop.
"I used to think my brother was just… done with love after everything she put him through. That he’d never let himself feel anything for someone again.”
She gives a small, humorless laugh. “And then you walked into his life.”
I press my lips together, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
"I’ve watched him, you know?" Nina’s voice is almost amused, almost fond. “Every time you’re in the room, he’s tuned into you. Even when you’re not talking. Even when you’re across the rink, not even looking at him, not even thinking about him—he’s always thinking about you.” She shakes her head. “I swear, Val, I’ve never seen my brother like this.”
I drop my gaze, my pulse loud in my ears. “It’s complicated, Nina.”
“No,” she says, her voice firm. “It was complicated. Before. When Margo was lurking, when you were running, when you both pretended it didn’t mean anything. But not anymore. Now? It’s simple. He loves you. He wants you. He has always wanted you. And the only person who doesn’t see it—is you.”
I hate to say it. But deep down, I already know she’s right.
The final scores are in. Zara takes third, Nina second, and I’m first. The arena erupts with cheers, the sound crashing around me, but it barely registers. People are celebrating. Nina goes back to Drew, his arms already wrapped around her, holding her tight.
But I don’t feel like celebrating.
Because Nina’s words won’t leave my head. Ethan loves me.
I knew it before she said it, but hearing it out loud—hearing it from someone who has seen it, who has felt it, who knows him better than anyone—makes it real in a way I can’t ignore.
And I love him.
I’ve loved him for longer than I’ve let myself admit.
I knew he was technically still married. I knew Margo was refusing to sign the papers. And still, when things got hard—when he needed me the most—I left. I blocked him. Not because of anything he did, but because I was selfish. Because it was easier to run than to stand beside him and fight.
Nina had every right to blame me. To yell at me. To cut me out of her life.
But she didn’t.
She encouraged me. She told me the truth. And now, I can’t ignore it.
I look over at the edge of the rink. My parents are there, standing next to Grant and Hannah, all four of them smiling, proud, watching me like I’ve just accomplished something incredible.
But this isn’t the moment that matters.
This isn’t the thing that makes my heart race.
Because I already know what I need to do.
I’m done running.
It’s time to go home.
It’s time to tell Ethan that I love him.