Chapter 3
It’s freezing outside. Of course it is. This is Boston in the middle of winter.
Piles of dirty slush line the street at the end of our driveway, and every breath I take is echoed out into the air, freezing as soon as it passes my lips.
The sun is barely a glimmer on the horizon, and the early morning has that surreal quality to it that never goes away, even if you’re normally up at this hour.
Which I am.
Except usually, I’m already at the rink, warming up for our first training session of the day. Instead, I’m on the sidewalk, rocking back and forth from toe to heel, trying to keep my legs from freezing beneath the thin leggings I pulled on this morning, not realizing how long this would take.
Dad and Elisa are leaving for Beijing.
If it were any other competition, they’d simply get in a car and go to the airport, but things aren’t that simple, not when it’s the Olympics and not when there’s a camera crew around.
A bunch of fans are across the street holding signs and stuffed animals, the same kind they throw on the ice after a successful routine, and some local news crews are set up near them.
The cameraman is directing the driver of the biggest limousine I’ve ever seen on how he wants the car to pull up into his shot.
Dad and Elisa are still back in the house because apparently they need to emerge out the door precisely when the car pulls up.
“How much longer?” Maria whines next to me, feverishly rubbing her hands over her arms. “I’m going to get sick standing out here for so long. My throat is already sore.”
I don’t answer her. It’s maybe the tenth time she’s asked, and I still have no idea, though I kind of want to ask how she makes it through training if the cold makes her sick.
Then, finally, things seem to be moving in the right direction.
The limo driver circles back to the end of the street.
The director stands out of the shot and signals the crowd to start cheering, then he gives a thumbs-up toward the house.
Right on cue, Elisa and Dad come out the door, each rolling a suitcase behind them with one hand and waving to the fans and the cameras with the other, smiles plastered wide and white across their faces.
“Looks like I got here just in time,” a voice mutters, coming up beside me. “I went to the rink and you weren’t there.”
“Please do not ruin this shot,” I grind out from between my teeth, clenched together in a smile, not looking up at Brayden. I lift a hand to my mouth, trying to blow some warmth into it. “We’ve been out here for an hour already.”
“An hour?” he says, louder than I’d like, while he grabs one of my hands and rubs it between his, the feeling in it returning after a few seconds.
Elisa and Dad have made it to the end of the driveway now, but walk right by us, like they’re supposed to, across the street to the fans, where they’ll pose for pictures for a minute while the documentary crew gets the shots they need of their adoring public.
Brayden switches to my other hand as the car pulls up and the limo driver hops out and loads up the suitcases, half of which are already in his trunk.
“So this is total bullshit?” Brayden asks, huffing out a laugh.
There’s finally feeling in all my fingers, so I pull my hand away. “Yep.”
“I can’t believe so many people showed up!
” Elisa says, jogging back across the street to us, her arms full of stuffed animals.
“Brayden, you got out of bed early just to say goodbye?” He opens his mouth to say that he’s always up at this hour to train, but she doesn’t give him the chance.
“Adriana, can you take these?” She shoves the toys into my arms. “I promised I’d send them all autographed pictures, so could you get their info after we leave? ”
“Sure,” I say, shifting my grip on a pastel pink elephant that’s threatening to topple out of my arms and into the slushy mess at my feet.
“Give me those,” Brayden says, taking them from me, while Elisa turns to wave at the fans who are cheering Dad as he retreats toward us.
A man with a steady cam on his shoulder accompanied by another with a boom mic held high over our heads approaches from the same angle the other camera is filming.
“This is it,” Elisa says. “Wish me luck!”
“You’re gonna kick ass,” Maria says as they hug, her potential sore throat completely forgotten now that Elisa is in front of her. “I’m going to miss you so much. Bring me back something from China.”
Elisa laughs, pulling away. “I’ll bring you back a gold medal, how’s that?”
“Good luck,” I say as she turns to me, and we hug tightly. “We’ll be watching.”
I squeeze her one more time before I let go and sniff, trying to pretend it’s because of how cold it is outside. We might not be that close anymore, but I am really proud of what she’s accomplished. Mom would have been too. I kind of want to tell her that, but I can’t quite find the words.
“And what about you, Brayden, will you be watching?” Elisa asks as Dad and Maria hug quickly, but I don’t hear what he says, and Dad shifts his attention to me. I want to ask him about what I heard last night. I want to know just how bad it’s gotten. But the words stick in my throat.
“Take care of this place and your sister,” he says, “and listen to Camille.”
“I will, I promise,” I say, and then they’re in the car, like the director wanted, with the fans still cheering and waving, leaving us at the curb as the limo disappears into the distance.
The crowd is still hovering around, probably to make sure I get their contact info, but the camera crew is packing up around us and it suddenly hits me that they’re leaving too.
Kellynch has been a zoo of activity for months with our usual lessons and the show and all the Olympic hype, but now it’ll just be Maria and me at the house, with Camille checking in to make sure we don’t burn the place down.
It won’t last. By this afternoon we’ll be invaded by the NFSC’s Junior World Championships team and their coaches. That’s this afternoon, though—for now, I want to relish the quiet.
“Um, where should I put these?” Brayden asks, and when I turn to him, he’s still holding about a dozen stuffed animals, and the unfortunate pink elephant is on the ground.
There’s also a gigantic red lipstick stain on his cheek that extends, barely, to the corner of his mouth.
I bend down, pick up the elephant, and balance it at the top of the pile.
“Go put them inside. I’m gonna go get contact info from those people and then maybe, if Camille doesn’t kill us for being late, we can actually train.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
· · ·
“One more lap,” Camille commands from her spot up against the boards. “Thirty minutes late, thirty laps.”
Thirty laps of the rink wouldn’t be so bad, normally, but it’s thirty laps where Brayden and I have to be perfectly in sync, and this early in the morning after a party last night and standing outside in the cold for so long, it’s been a struggle.
Camille’s one of the people I’m closest to in this world, but when we get on the ice, she goes into a different mode, morphing from my sweet, understanding godmother into the best coach in the world of ice dance.
“Well, at least we’re warm now,” Brayden says under his breath, our strides matching perfectly as we make the final turn in our last lap.
“For sure,” I agree, and we come to a stop in front of Camille, who nods in approval.
“What time was the flight?” she asks as we both grab for our water bottles and try to steady our breathing.
My gaze flies up toward the far wall of the rink, past the rows of banners that proclaim in bold lettering all the champions who have trained at Kellynch for the last thirty years. The clock reads after eight.
“They should be taking off in a little bit.”
“At least our Olympics will be in Milan,” Brayden says. “No twenty-hour flight for us. And Italy’s only a six-hour time difference, like Paris.”
“One competition at a time, Mr. Elliot,” Camille admonishes. “Let’s not jinx it.”
“C’mon, Camille, you don’t believe in jinxes.”
“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean we should take anything for granted.
You two have come a long way in the last two years, but you have even further to go before you stand on top of that Olympic podium, and the first step there is winning these World Championships.
To get started today, I want a full run-through of both programs so we can identify any trouble spots before the rest of the team arrives, especially Freddie O’Connell and Riley Monroe.
They may be your teammates, but they are also your competition, and I don’t want to give them a confidence boost by picking apart your weak spots while they’re here to see it. ”
We stare at her silently.
“What?”
“So inspiring, Camille,” I say, shaking my head but grinning.
“Truly,” Brayden quips. “A speech worthy of a Super Bowl locker room or, you know, at least a training montage set to rousing music.”
Rolling her eyes, she matches my grin. “Shut up, the both of you, and get going.”
Brayden slides his hand into mine and grips it firmly as we turn and skate out to the center of the ice.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Let’s do this.”
Less than an hour later my breath comes hard and fast as our music cuts off in the rink’s speakers.
It’s our third run-through and by far our best free dance of the morning.
The key for the next month is to make our first attempt our best, because that’s what it’s going to take to win gold in Paris and put us on track for the Olympics.
“Better, much better. You’re both still losing steam at the end of the twizzles,” Camille calls out from a few yards away. “You’re losing steam in unison, so there’s at least that, but if only one of you fixes it, it’ll be a mess. And, Adriana, expression.”