Chapter 26
Calder
I'm walking through the airport with the team after an away game when Arabella appears suddenly across one of the overhead sports screens near the terminal bar.
White competition dress. Hair slicked back tightly.
Sharp arena lighting reflecting against ice.
My entire body reacts before thought catches up.
I stop walking, the movement so abrupt the defenseman behind me almost walks directly into my shoulder.
"Jesus, man."
I barely hear him. Because Arabella is skating across the screen like gravity works differently for her than it does for everybody else.
The footage only lasts maybe fifteen seconds. Still enough to wreck me completely. The commentators talk over highlights from qualifying skates while airport noise blurs uselessly around me.
"…one of the standout performers heading into the free skate… Vale looks exceptionally composed under pressure…"
Composed. The word twists painfully through my chest. Because I know exactly what that composure costs her.
I start walking again before anybody notices I stopped breathing for a second.
I tell myself I'm not going looking for coverage after that. Then spend the entire flight home checking scores anyway. Not articles. Not interviews. Just results, like somehow that makes it less emotionally dangerous.
Arabella places second in the short program. Relief first. Then pride, so sharp it almost hurts. I stare at the screen too long before locking my phone and shoving it face down against the tray table.
A teammate across the aisle notices. "That your skater?
" My chest tightens. Not your ex. Not Arabella.
Your skater. The possessive phrasing settles somewhere deep and instinctive before I can stop it.
"We're not together anymore," I say flatly.
The words sound wrong every single time I say them out loud.
My teammate grimaces. "Right. Sorry." I nod once. Look back out the window.
The conversation should end there. Instead he says: "She's unreal though."
"Yeah." The word comes out before I decide to say it. Because she is. I spent months watching Arabella privately, training with her, seeing every exhausted, stubborn, relentless piece underneath the polished performances. The rest of the world only gets fragments. I got all of her.
I lock my phone again. Shove it back into my pocket.
The free skate airs two nights later in the hotel lounge before our game.
I tell myself I'm only there because the entire team is, that leaving would look worse, transparent. The lie lasts maybe thirty seconds. Because the second Arabella appears on screen, everything else in the room disappears anyway.
The broadcast opens on her standing near the boards waiting for scores from the skater before her.
Dark blue dress. Hair braided tightly back.
Mouth pressed into that calm concentrated line she gets when she's nervous but refusing to show it publicly.
My chest tightens. I know exactly what she's doing right now: controlling her breathing, loosening tension in her shoulders, keeping her left ankle moving slightly so it doesn't stiffen before warmup.
Tiny things nobody else would notice, because I spent months learning the architecture of her under pressure.
One of the rookies whistles softly.
"She's insane."
Another guy nods toward the screen.
"Figure skating always looks fake to me. Like there's no way actual humans can do that."
Arabella pushes onto the ice and the entire room quiets slightly without meaning to.
Even the guys half-looking at their phones start watching properly once she starts moving.
She doesn't skate like somebody performing.
She skates like somebody surviving through movement.
The commentators start talking over the opening choreography.
"Vale has become known this season for her exceptional emotional control under pressure—"
My jaw tightens. Emotional control. They say it like it came naturally. They didn't see the panic attacks after bad practices. The perfectionism. The way she used to destroy herself internally after mistakes nobody else even noticed. One teammate glances toward me.
"You okay, man?"
I realize too late I'm gripping the edge of my chair hard enough that my knuckles ache.
"Fine."
Arabella lands the opening combination perfectly.
The room reacts immediately, holy shit, how does she rotate that fast, she makes it look easy.
The pride is almost unbearable. Because they're right, she is extraordinary, and the worst part is I already know she's skating cautiously tonight.
Her timing is slightly tighter than usual.
Less emotional risk in the transitions. Protecting stamina for the second half.
Nobody else in the room notices. I do. Because apparently I still know her body language better than my own emotional limits.
"She's tough as hell," somebody says behind me. "The pressure at those events would destroy me."
The defensive response rises so fast I answer before thinking.
"You have no idea."
The room goes slightly quieter afterward, not dramatically, just enough that I realize how sharp I sounded. A teammate beside me studies me for half a second too long.
The program builds toward the final jumping pass.
Arabella looks exhausted now, still fighting for every landing anyway.
My chest physically hurts watching it. Because I know exactly how much pain she can skate through before anybody notices.
I know which expressions mean she's struggling, which shoulder tension means her ankle hurts, which breaths mean she's mentally hanging on by threads.
The rest of the world sees an incredible athlete.
I see Arabella.
My Arabella.
Arabella finishes the program. The room erupts, even teammates who barely cared five minutes ago clapping at the television. The commentators start praising her artistry, resilience, composure.
The scores haven't come up yet. Arabella stands at the boards breathing hard while coaches talk quietly beside her. The camera stays close enough that I can see the exhaustion in her face. Not weakness. Physical depletion, the kind that comes after pushing past fear and pain simultaneously.
Then: "She's gorgeous," one of the younger forwards says casually from the couch behind me. Something sharp moves through me. Another teammate laughs lightly. "Dude, she's ridiculously out of Hayes' league." The room chuckles. My body goes completely still.
"She's not some girl from Instagram," I say flatly.
The room quiets slightly. Not fully. Just enough. One teammate lifts an eyebrow. "I didn't say she was." But I hear it now, the edge in my own voice, the protectiveness, too fast, too personal.
The scoreboard flashes. First place.
The room reacts, holy shit, she won, damn, and applause breaks out loosely around the lounge. Before I can stop myself, I'm already standing. Relief crashes through my body so hard my knees almost feel weak for a second.
Arabella's expression on screen shifts from concentration to disbelief slowly. Then she smiles. Actually smiles. Bright enough that my chest aches watching it. There she is. The real version underneath all the composure.
The room keeps talking around me, commentators praising her, teammates discussing the pressure, somebody joking that figure skating suddenly became worth watching.
I barely hear any of it. Because all I can think is: she did it.
Pride and grief hit simultaneously hard enough to make breathing difficult.
One teammate studies me from the couch for a long second. Then quietly: "You still have feelings for her."
Not a question. The room goes still enough that I finally look away from the screen. Nobody's teasing now. Nobody laughing. Because apparently my face gave everything away long before I realized it.
I should deny it.
Instead I look back toward the television where Arabella stands crying quietly during the medal ceremony while arena lights reflect off gold around her throat. I'm too exhausted to lie about it anymore.
"Yeah," I say roughly.