Chapter Two
“Both teams have delivered outstanding routines throughout this competition.”
“Absolutely, Luke, especially with all eyes on Team USA's twenty-two year old rookie, Pippa Cartwright, paired with figure skating veteran, Evan Thomson.”
“You’re right, Jessica. Most were actually surprised he wasn’t partnered with someone with more experience, especially when, right now, every score counts toward that all important Olympic team selection in a few years.”
“The results are in…”
A 0.87-point difference—less than one point stopping us from taking home the gold in the first round of the ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating. Less than one fucking point in my first official competition for Team USA.
Sweat lines my brow, my legs are on fire, and no matter how much my head screams to stop, I can’t. Not until I’ve done one more rep. Gritting my teeth, I push, and the thigh pads pivot. My shaking legs open outward, the weight plates lifting excruciatingly slow.
“ Come. On,” I sneer. My fingers curl tight around the handles, and my back drives hard against the seat. Even the boss-ass bitch playlist currently blasting in my ears isn’t making this any easier. “You’ve got this, Pippa.”
Finally, I meet resistance, the mechanism locks, and the relief is an instant hit of endorphins. Releasing my hold, I gently let my legs come together and sag back. God, I hate the adductor machine. Whoever made it must have wanted to see people suffer and revel in their pain.
My breaths come out in harsh exhales, and I close my eyes. The voices of Fifth Harmony singing about how I’m their girl are drowned out by the commentators at Skate America , reliving their words on a loop from the coverage I’ve watched and rewatched to see where I went wrong.
Most would be happy with the silver. Most would be happy knowing there was only a narrow margin between first and second. But most aren’t me.
The upbeat tempo in my ears changes to a soft tinkling of piano keys, and my eyes snap open. Groaning, I grab my phone and turn off my alarm before it reaches the crescendo.
My legs feel like Jell-O as I swing one off the machine and bend down to collect the rest of my things. I glance at the mirror, the sweaty, red-faced version of me looking back, her gaze filled with a fierce determination I’ll fight tooth and nail to keep.
“I am Pippa Cartwright, and I deserve to fucking be here.” I stare at myself for a second longer before turning and walking across the room.
The facility gym is silent—why wouldn’t it be at five in the morning? Only a single strip of lighting on the ceiling illuminates the small section where I was working out. DJ Khaled’s “All I Do Is Win” starts to play through my headphones, and I make my way through the empty hallway and back to the locker room, feeling tall and confident and on fucking fire.
Shoving the doors open, the rubber from the mats and residual floral notes from deodorant fill my nose, the smell welcoming as I walk through. It’s neat and tidy, ready for the athletes who will soon be arriving for their allotted practice time.
I pop out my headphones when I reach my locker, then turn the dial to the padlock and open the door. The song still plays as I set them inside, grabbing my bottle and taking a long swig of my water, humming along with the muffled voices as I pull out my towel. Turning off the playlist, I strip out of my workout clothes and leave them on the floor, snatch my toiletry bag and make my way to the shower.
I sigh as I step under the hot water, the cubicle gradually filling with steam. Hanging my head, I let it rain down my back, the tension in my shoulders dissipating with each drop.
Silver is still a good result. Stop beating yourself up .
After a few minutes of standing there, the thoughts in my head start to quiet down, and I quickly wash up.
“As the U.S. Figure Skating Championships draw closer, all eyes will undoubtedly be on Pippa Cartwright, daughter of Charles Cartwright, the billionaire oil tycoon.” My hands freeze in my hair, the last of the soap suds gliding down my arms and neck, disappearing down the drain. The voice outside my stall reverberates off the tiled wall, making my skin prickle as it continues, “Many in the beloved sport have been asking the same question since she appeared on the skating circuit: Does she belong here? ”
Turning off the shower, I brace myself for who I know is on the other side of the glass door. Pushing it open, I grab the towel hanging from the hook outside and wrap it around my body before looking at the pretty brunette gazing back at me, a bright, glossy magazine in her hands. She tilts her head, a pout on her perfectly pink lips. “So, what do you think, Pippa? Do you belong here?”
She points to the headline, and my blood turns to ice.
Billionaire’s daughter yet to prove her worth for Team USA.
Even the critics don’t think second place is good enough, the sarcastic voice inside my head says.
“What do you want, Molly?” I ask with a sigh.
She closes the magazine with a flourish, leaning back against the wall in front of me. A sneer flickers across her face as she looks me up and down, and where I’m just in a towel, she’s fully dressed. “Just wanted to say good morning.”
I side-eye her, whipping my hair as I walk past, splashing her as I do. “Good morning.”
Swiping her cheek with an annoyed pout, Molly’s heels click behind me as I head toward a set of mirrors. Her sickly-sweet voice, which hides her nasty words, follows me, “You didn’t answer the question.”
Searching in my bag for my brush, I pull it out, trying to ignore Molly as I glide it through my wet hair. But she’s relentless, staring at me until I ask, “What question?”
She grins, an evil smirk of triumph. “Do you belong here?”
If my skin wasn’t so hot from the shower, it would be on fire now. Swallowing, I tilt my head back and let my eyes drift shut, picturing that podium win where Team USA chose me . The gold medal glinting off the rink’s lights, the cameras flashing, the smile on my dad’s and stepmom’s faces. The joy felt knowing my mom would be proud of me.
“No less than you do, Molly,” I deadpan.
She huffs disbelievingly. “Except I got here on merit, Pippa. Not daddy’s money.”
Using the edge of the towel, I clear a spot on the fogged-up mirror and rummage around my toiletry bag for my moisturizer.
“See, you’re not even denying it,” she goads.
She’s baiting me. I know she is, yet it doesn’t stop me from glaring at her reflection. Drawing a deep breath, I gather as much restraint as possible, stopping myself from snapping. “I worked my ass off to get my place on this team, just like everyone else. If you’ve got an issue with that, maybe you should speak to the selection committee.”
“Do you really believe that?” she asks, standing so close behind me that I can almost feel her shirt against the back of my bare arms. I pause with my fingers covered in cream halfway to my face, narrowing my eyes until she takes the hint and steps back. It’s not by much, but enough that her breath doesn’t tickle my shoulder. “Because no one buys that for a second.”
Slamming the little pot onto the counter, I whirl around so we’re nose to nose. “What is your problem?”
“You,” she spits, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised she answered me. Molly’s always been one of those people who’s never openly said how she feels about me, but has made it very clear in her actions that we will never be besties. “You saunter in here like you’re the best damn skater since Michelle Kwan—”
I gasp, mockingly smacking my hand to my chest. “You really think so?”
“You don’t deserve to be Evan’s partner,” she snarls, a vein in her neck pulsing.
“And what? You think you do?”
“Yes,” she states, her hands on her hips. “Because we would have won the first round in the Grand Prix if he was paired with me. And no matter how many extra hours you put into training, you’ll never be the type of partner he needs. He doesn’t need some self-proclaimed Ice Princess. He needs—”
“Is that why you’re here?” I cut her off. Self-proclaimed? Is she joking? “Are you hoping that if you hang around, Evan might see you and think you’re a better fit for him?” I move toward her, disdain dripping from my words as I ask, “What would your partner say if he found out you were trying to replace him?”
“Zach would be doing the same thing if he wasn’t paired with me. This is a cutthroat industry, Pippa. Only the strongest survive. And we need to do whatever it takes to make sure we come out on top...” She leans closer. “And win.”
Slapping the magazine into my chest, she spins abruptly, her long hair flying into my face as she walks away, leaving me alone.
My hands shake as I turn it around to look at the front cover. I cringe when I’m met with an unflattering image of myself filling the entire thing. My face is screwed up as the wind whips around me, my equipment bag slung over my shoulder as I leave the rink, my nose red and dry from a goddamn cold I was getting over.
The headline draws me in again, and a white-hot rage fills my blood. If I hadn’t been born a Cartwright, if I had been born a regular girl with a passion and faster feet on ice than most farm team hockey players, they wouldn’t have questioned my ability.
Tearing the front page, I scrunch it in my hand and toss it and the rest of the magazine in the trash before snatching up my bag on the way back to the changing room. The buzz from my morning workout has well and truly gone now, replaced by self-doubt and the overwhelming need to prove everyone wrong.
I reach my locker, yanking it open and tugging out my clean clothes for practice. Throwing them onto a bench behind me, I grab my discarded ones and shove them and my toiletry bag inside with a snarl.
You don’t deserve to be Evan’s partner.
Slamming the door, I pound my fist against it, the sound of metal banging metal resounding through the room. My palm stings as I drop my hand and rest my forehead onto the cool door.
“You don’t skate for them,” I whisper into the quiet. “You skate for yourself.”
No matter how many times I try to tell myself that, it doesn’t stop the murmurs, the articles, and the constant skepticism from people who deem themselves experts in the sport from following me to each competition. Their constant comparison to those they think have worked harder—tried harder—than me to get to where I am like a weight, threatening to pull me down into darkness.
But they don’t know the countless hours I spend at the rink, the days that start before the sun’s up, the endless nights that break into morning, the bloodied and swollen feet, the cuts and bruises from falling on the ice. Each one makes me stronger, more determined to be the best, to step out from the vast shadow that my last name casts.
With a growl, I push the pity party for one aside and straighten. Dropping my towel, I quickly get dressed in the Team USA tracksuit and sit on the bench to lace up my skates, the movements as practiced and as perfect as if I were on the ice.
I take a deep, steadying breath as I stand. I am Pippa Cartwright, and I deserve to fucking be here.