Chapter 43
When Veena said she’d turn the main floor of the Legends’ headquarters into a glittering wonderland, I assumed that was hyperbole. I’ve seen hundreds of skating rinks in my life, and they all look pretty much the same.
But when I gaze down at the lobby atrium during the jamboree cocktail hour, I realize that I’ve underestimated her.
The whole place has been transformed into an elegant reception space, with clusters of high cocktail tables draped in Legends blue and red and topped with ice sculptures.
Elaborate, glittering icicles hang from the soaring ceiling above the crowd, and uniformed servers weave through with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
There’s a snaking line of partygoers queued up for the photo booths, each one featuring a different Legends player. For an extra donation, visitors can pose for a photo with their favorite player. And the CHASE MERRITT line is one of the longest. The charity will definitely clean up tonight.
In a half hour, twelve hundred ticket holders will drift toward their seats in the rink.
When I was in there for our dress rehearsal earlier, the transformation had already begun.
The metal bleachers have been covered with plush temporary seating in deep red velvet, each seat bearing a cushion with an embroidered Legends logo.
And at one end of the rink, an elevated stage has been constructed, with a DJ booth and enough space for a live seven-piece band plus our special guest vocalist. The tunnel where players usually enter has been transformed into a glittering archway framed with thousands of tiny white lights.
Even the penalty boxes have been reimagined as VIP viewing areas.
It’s really impressive. I’m proud to be part of the Legends family tonight, even if I’m viewing the whole thing through a filter of unease. It’s been almost two weeks since Nolan Sharp handed me a job offer, and I still can’t decide how I feel about it.
I haven’t told Chase, either. I’m just not ready.
From the railing, I take one more lingering look at the party.
There’s Chase, wearing a Legends jersey and posing with a fan.
It’s too far away for me to see his smile, but I can picture it.
It’s becoming almost impossible to imagine a future without him.
I want it so much. But I don’t want to make him choose me, either.
I’m so confused. And I don’t have anyone to discuss it with.
Walking away, I head for the women’s bathroom near the staff locker corridor. It’s empty, as I knew it would be, and I get to work. The first order of business is changing into my skating costume, a sleek little black number with a halter neck.
With the dress on, I carefully style my hair into a bun, just the way I wore it in our ten-year-old video. Then I do a heavy makeup job because the lights will wash me out. Red lipstick. Glittery eye shadow. Rouged cheeks.
When I’m done, I stare at myself in the mirror. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen this version of myself—the ice princess look. Sleek hair, maximum makeup, lots of skin showing.
You have to wear a short skirt, Aiden the snake said. I don’t make the rules. He wasn’t wrong. Throughout the history of figure skating, women who tried to challenge the status quo were rarely successful.
When I was a girl, though, I couldn’t see any of this. The aesthetic rules of skating were just a pre-existing condition that I lived with. And I planned to dominate skating anyway. Everyone said I would.
And then I did. Sort of. But then I convinced myself I hadn’t, with the help of my ex and my domineering mother.
Things are better now, mostly because I’ve held my boundaries. After several ignored calls and a few terse text exchanges, I made it clear that I’ll no longer tolerate her opinions about my perfectly valid life choices.
The door opens behind me. “Wowzers!”
I whirl around to spot Darcy coming through the door in a sleek green evening gown. “You look amazing!”
“That’s my line!” She grins. “Is the team doctor on call tonight? Because we’re going to have to resuscitate Chase once he sees you in that.”
“Don’t even joke about doctors tonight,” I complain. “My greatest nightmare is Chase injuring himself in this circus.”
“He won’t,” she scoffs. “You are such a worrywart lately! This is a damn party, and I insist that you enjoy it.”
“Sure. Right after I’m done being the main dish?” I give myself another glance in the mirror.
“Well, yeah,” she says. “No pressure.”
“Can you help me with these damn eyelashes?” I ask, pointing at the set I purchased at her direction. “The idea of gluing something to my face is scary.”
“I got you,” she says, grabbing the package. “Sit on the sofa thing.”
I sit on the sofa thing and wait patiently while she leans over me.
“You look incredible,” she says in a serious voice.
“And I know this is a lot. But you are a big deal, Zoe. You’re very important to me as a friend, and I know you volunteered for this under duress.
But please understand that you have superpowers that the rest of us can only dream of.
So forgive us for wanting to see them once in a while. We can’t really help ourselves.”
“Stop,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “If you make me cry, I have to do all this makeup over again.”
“Hold still,” she admonishes me. “There. Now look.”
I peek in the mirror once again and see the kind of ice princess that people are paying a grand to watch. “This is going to be a damned spectacle.”
“You know it. Now you get some stretching in, and I’ll text you when they’re down to the last ten-minute hockey game.”
I’m alone upstairs just long enough to get nervous, so when Darcy texts me, it’s a relief.
I carry my figure skates down the back stairs and enter the tunnel.
It’s cluttered with Legends players who are trying to watch the final hockey act—a three-on-three game played in bubble suits.
And it must be funny, because the audience is howling with laughter.
“There she is!” Darcy shouts over the chaos. “Over here, babe! I brought you a chair.”
The players part like the sea for me, several of them turning around to take me in.
“Hot damn,” DeLuca says with a wink. “You look like a million bucks for charity.”
“Where’s Chase?” someone else asks. “How’s he gonna top that? I want to see some leg.”
Everybody laughs.
I take my seat and quickly lace up my figure skates. Then I stand up and bounce my knees, trying to stay warm.
“Where’s Chase?” I ask. “Aren’t we on soon?”
“He just went to change his— Oh, there he is!”
I see a flash of sparkly blue, and then a smiling Chase maneuvers through the tunnel in our direction. Or he tries to. His teammates keep stopping him.
“Holy shit, you sexy beast!” O’Connell says with a laugh. “Selfie?”
“Can I borrow that shirt when you’re done with it?” someone else asks. “I’ll only need it for two minutes. That’s how long it would take me to score in a nightclub if I’m wearing that.”
“Nah, four minutes at least,” someone else chirps. “Unless you borrow his face, too.”
Luckily there’s a howl of laughter in the tunnel, because it covers the groan Chase lets out when he arrives at my side. “God, you look amazing,” he says under his breath. “Fuck, that dress.”
“You can do that later,” Darcy says. “First you have to earn it.”
Then time sort of speeds up, as it always does right before a big performance. Maybe there’s no gold medal on the line tonight, but I still want to do my best.
“You okay?” Chase whispers as the announcer introduces our act and the vocalist. “You’ve been quiet today.”
“Just concentrating,” I say. And I am. Except I’m also thinking the same thoughts I had ten years ago—after tonight, there won’t be any reason to figure skate with Chase again. And if the Legends don’t suddenly make him an offer, the offer he deserves, I might not see him at all.
“OLYMPIC SILVER MEDALIST ZOE CARSON AND OUR OWN CHASE MERRITT!” the announcer calls.
The rink goes dark, and the crowd hushes in that whispery way it always does, with the heady silence of anticipation. Chase puts a hand on my lower back, and together we step forward and then glide out onto a rink lit only by the EXIT signs.
At center ice, Chase offers his hand, palm up, and I take it. Then his thumb massages the back of my hand, as if we were merely standing around waiting for the walk light on Eighth Avenue.
I love him so much that it almost hurts to breathe.
The lights come up on the bandstand first, and I see our vocalist, guitar braced in her hands. She’s beaming as she puts her hands to her instrument. And when the first notes of the song emerge from her strings, I get the kind of goose bumps that come only from live music.
“Here we go,” Chase whispers as the lights come up on us, our costumes shimmering. The crowd shouts its approval. And on the next chord, it’s time to move. Before I’m even aware that I’m doing it, my legs are pushing back in our first crossovers, my stride in sync with Chase’s.
As the lyrics wash over us, our bodies remember what to do. When we hit the first arabesque together, our arms swinging with the rhythm, it feels like flying. And the crowd screams again, as if we’re all reliving the same happy dream together.
We hit the next glide, and the next, and it’s magic.
Chase is on fire, hitting all his marks and finding my hand unerringly every time we link up.
As our bodies intertwine for the angsty octopus spin, I catch a glimpse of his face—focused but joyful, exactly like I remember it from our first performance.
More spins. And then we’re flying again, carving gracious lines into the ice, holding nothing back. I squeeze his hand to cue my jump. But when I launch, so does he! That rascal does a single toe loop in sync with my double. But we both land cleanly, and the crowd goes wild.
“You rule breaker,” I say as we dance through the next footwork section. “What’s with the jump?”
He just winks.