Chapter 37 Ivy
IVY
If I didn’t love Kayla already, I definitely do now; she gave me what can only be described as miracle sleeping pills.
They knocked me out for most of the fourteen-hour flight from New York to Tokyo.
One minute I was curled up in my business class seat my sponsor paid for, the next I was waking up somewhere over the Pacific with dry lips and a crick in my neck.
Or it might’ve been the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion from saying goodbye to Teddy and watching him cry.
I’ve seen a lot of things in all my years of working as a nurse—tears, pain, rage, and grief in every possible form.
But nothing prepared me for his sadness.
Seeing him so upset shattered me. I wanted to stay so badly.
I wanted to climb into the bed with him and pull the blankets over both of us.
I wanted to wrap myself around him until we couldn’t tell where he ended and I began, but I couldn’t.
Even now, curled up in a Nagano hotel room with Dean passed out in the bed next to mine and our gear stacked neatly by the door, I keep reaching for my phone. My fingers itch to text him, to ask him if he feels as awful as I do. But it won’t do either of us any good.
Instead, I open a new message thread and text the person who’s always been my safe space.
Ivy
Landed safe, jet lag already kicking my ass. The room is nice though and Dean still snores like Dad. I’ll call tomorrow when I’m less tired.
Her reply comes within minutes. It’s past midnight here, but morning back home.
Mamma Campbell
Thanks for checking in, sweetheart. How are you really doing?
I stare at her message for a long time. I could lie and say I’m excited, that it feels good to be back on the Circuit. But it would only be half the truth.
Ivy
I feel hollow. Like I’ve forgotten something behind.
Let me correct that…someone behind.
Mamma Campbell
You’re allowed to miss him, my sweet Ivy. But remember, New York and him will wait for you.
Her words don’t erase the ache of leaving, yet remind me that distance isn’t permanent. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes and I swipe them away.
Ivy
Love you
Mamma Campbell
Love you more!
Setting the phone down on the nightstand, I shut my eyes and try to sleep, but the vivid memory of his arms around me lingers like a phantom touch. All I can do is hold my breath and hope that when the season ends, we’ll both still be there, waiting for each other on the other side.
Jet lag has me wide awake at six. I pull on my workout gear and head down to the hotel gym for a treadmill jog.
Most of the Circuit is still asleep, judging by the ghostly quiet of the weight room.
This morning I have the place to myself except for Thierry, who nodded once from the bike when I walked in.
After a forty-five minute jog, I shower and get dressed in my compression tights, long-sleeve base layer, and the fleece lined with sponsor logos.
The restaurant is buzzing by the time I wander in. The buffet stretches along one wall, serving a blend of Western breakfast and traditional Japanese fare. There’s murmur coming from tables filled with racers, coaches, support staff, and media crew.
Dean gives me a lazy salute from the breakfast bar where he’s constructing a tower of toast and peanut butter. His freshly bleached hair is sticking out in seven directions, and he looks like he hasn’t slept since we left New York, even if he snored loudly the entire night.
“Morning,” I greet him and grab a tray.
“You look awake,” he says, sounding annoyed. “That’s suspicious.”
“I went for a jog.”
“Aren’t you jet-lagged at all?”
“In all honesty, I might crash before dinner,” I admit, spooning warm porridge into a bowl. “You eating anything besides carbs?”
“Don’t disrespect the toast tower,” Dean lifts his plate like it’s a trophy, showing off the ridiculous stack of bread with a grin that dares me to argue.
Max slides into view with a yawn so loud it earns him a glare from an older couple nearby. “I’ll never understand you morning people,” he mumbles.
“You’re just weak, brother dearest,” I tease sweetly, handing him a pair of tongs as he eyes the eggs. “Where’d you leave Kayla?”
“She’s getting ready in our room, drinking one of those protein shakes for breakfast.”
We fall into a familiar rhythm shaped by years of early mornings and unspoken routines growing up together. I grab a bit of everything onto my plate, enjoying trying new things.
At quarter to eight, the three of us stand outside with gear bags slung over our shoulders, waiting for the shuttle.
The hotel courtyard is a swirl of languages and excited energy.
There are a total of forty athletes this season—twenty women and twenty men—representing a dozen countries, all of us gearing up for the start of the mandatory Ice Cross preseason training camp held at the 1998 Winter Olympics location.
Kayla spots us and jogs over, practically bouncing with excitement. Her puffer jacket is half-zipped over her red, white and blue warmup suit, her signature yellow-lens sunglasses pushed up on her forehead.
“There she is!” she exclaims.
I hug my friend tightly. “Damn, you look like you’re about to sprint up a mountain for fun!”
“I am the mountain,” she deadpans, then nudges me. “Sleep okay?”
“Better than expected.”
“Have you heard the rumors about this year’s wildcard entry yet?”
The Global Ice Cross Authority can award up to two additional wildcard entries for athletes who show potential but did not meet qualifications on time.
Usually, they’re returning champions who unexpectedly underperformed in the qualifying rounds or top-ranked athletes from other winter sports who want to try Ice Cross.
“No, I haven’t heard anything yet. What’s happening?” I ask.
“So, Lewis Farrington tried to get into the Circuit now that he can’t play hockey in the League.”
My blood freezes at the mention of the asshole. “No fucking way. He should never be allowed to play another sport again. Not after what he did to Teddy!”
“That was my reaction too. Apparently he wanted a fresh start, but got denied.”
“A fresh start?” My voice comes out colder than the ice in the track. “That’s such bullshit.”
She lowers her voice when she says, “Word is, the GICA was split on letting him in. Half the board thought it’d bring publicity, the other half said it’s a disaster waiting to happen.
And because Ice Cross isn’t technically a contact sport, they actually considered it.
The vote was close—six against, four for. So, no, he won’t be joining.”
The relief rushes through me so fast I’m dizzy. At least six people on that board had the sense to see his true colors and not let him anywhere near our beloved sport. “Thank fuck for that.”
“Tell me about it. Now—”
Her sentence gets cut off when Leni Vogel steps out of the hotel.
Tall and poised, the Austrian looks like she’s arriving at a press conference instead of a training day.
Her blond hair is French-braided tight to her scalp, not a strand out of place.
She’s the reigning champion and podiumed at every race last season.
Behind her is Coralie Marchand, wrapped in dark gray outerwear with matching earmuffs and a high ponytail looking straight out of a shampoo commercial.
She’s smiling widely, laughing at something Leni whispers to her.
Don’t be fooled though, Coralie might dress like she’s late for brunch in Paris, but she’s one of my biggest competitors.
Then there’s Mira Rautakorpi next to her husband, Jere, as they walk across the lot in their matching team Finland jackets. Mira’s long brown hair is coiled into a perfect bun. She doesn’t talk much, but when she’s on the track, she flies. She and Kayla tied for third overall last season.
We all exchange respectful nods. That’s the vibe with most of the top women. We’re not enemies, but not best friends either. Well, if you don’t count my friendship with Kayla.
“The apex predator has arrived,” she mutters under her breath, straightening her spine as Leni walks past.
“Don’t provoke her,” I whisper jokingly. “She’ll eat us for a second breakfast.”
“Oh how I wish she was a hobbit instead of the power house she is.”
I glance over at the men’s group gathering across the lot. There are too many faces to take in at once, but a few stand out right away, my brothers included.
Thierry Perrin looks like he walked off the set of a GQ shoot and onto the track by accident.
He’s tan, tall, and built like someone who knows exactly how fast he is.
His salt-and-pepper buzzcut is annoyingly flattering, and his husky laugh carries across the space.
The French-speaking Canadian is a three-time champion who allegedly retired two seasons ago but here he is again.
Jere Rautakorpi is a complete contrast—a stereotypical Finn, if you will.
He doesn’t waste energy on conversation or showing off.
He’s all sharp lines and efficiency, known for perfect landings and no-nonsense attitude.
Mira once told me he skate-sharpens while meditating.
I’m still not sure if she was joking or not.
The rest of the roster blurs. Some faces I’ve trained with, others I only know from finish line photos and online brackets. But there’s no mistaking the atmosphere: high stakes and higher expectations.
We board the shuttle, the training track looming in the distance like an icy serpent carved into the mountainside. It’s the usual preseason venue, but the energy is different this year.
In the window’s reflection, I catch my expression, part excitement and part nerves. Here we go again.
My first run of the day is rough. I misjudge a turn and overcorrect, scraping my elbow against the padding.
Ahead of me, Leni glides through the course without a single stumble, slicing through it with surgical precision.
Right behind her, Mira is a cannonball. Kayla and Coralie are in the next group.
We only do practice together, otherwise every event consists of single runs. It was changed around ten years ago after two athletes were seriously injured when they crashed in the middle of the track.
I end up coming in seventh after the first practice rounds. It’s not too bad, but not the best either. The sting of frustration settles inside me, but I force myself to shake it off. This is why we practice and work out the kinks before it matters.
After lunch, we go for afternoon drills. My body starts to sync up better by the third round. I stop overthinking, gaining nearly four seconds on my time. The ice feels different under my blades now, less like an enemy I’m battling and more like an extension of myself.
Kayla bumps her shoulder into mine at the bottom. “There she is.”
“Wait, was I missing?” I ask, confused.
My friend laughs. “Only in the beginning, but you were found somewhere between the first and final runs.”
By the end of the day, I’m sore, scraped, and more sure of myself than I was twelve hours ago.
We all are. That’s what this magical place does; it tests you, shakes the jet lag out of your bones and reminds you why you came.
Even with the bruises forming under my pads and the ache burning in my thighs, I feel stronger than I did yesterday.
Most importantly, I feel like I belong here. And we’re only getting started. This season is going to be a hell of a ride.