Chapter 21 Raven
RAVEN
In the few seconds between finding my mark on the ice and the music beginning, everything quiets.
It’s like that moment right after you inhale, when your lungs are full but you haven’t yet released that energy.
It’s all potential. There’s a serenity to it, but it isn’t calm.
My insides vibrate with adrenaline and nerves, deeply aware of every eye on me.
I nod, and then the song starts.
Everything falls away, and it’s just me, my body, the music. The familiar feel of my blades cutting into the ice.
I twist and turn, picking up speed as I glide across the rink from one side to the other, taking up space that I don’t in any other area of my life.
Out here, I’m free. My crossovers and spirals are clean and sharp as I work up to the more complicated moves.
I land my salchow perfectly and move quickly into a camel spin.
Every now and then, something magical happens out on the ice, and you just know you’re nailing it. This is one of those times. Each move is sure and steady. My heart beats fast but certain.
This is my show. I’m in control, and I’m going to win.
I dance from one complex move to another, and I know I’m racking up technical points left and right.
The music shifts, and this is my moment.
If I’m going to do the triple axel, it has to be now.
I’ve only landed it perfectly in practice twice, but Coach’s admonishments ring in my ears.
I want to stick to a double, something tried and true that I know I can ace.
But I don’t want to face her disappointment like last time.
I take the risk. My body spins. Once. Twice. Three times.
My landing falters. My foot goes out from under me, shoulder crashing down to the ice. The crowd gasps, loud even over the music, which keeps playing, each beat a move I’m missing.
Struggling to get to my feet, pain shoots through my ankle, and it buckles under me.
I try again, this time more carefully, and manage to stand, but when I try to skate, to pick up my routine and finish, a burning sensation stops me in my tracks.
Medical professionals are already running out onto the ice, but I can’t let it end like this.
I force myself to move, tears streaming down my face.
I will finish. Even if I’m not leaving here with a medal, I’ll leave with my dignity.
The music swells toward the end of the song.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and skate.
Normally, I’d do a toe loop here, but I adjust, opting for a simple spin instead.
The rink twists and twirls around me, the pain adding to the dizziness I don’t usually feel.
The cheers of the crowd swell, encouraging me on. I use a move I hadn’t planned, sliding on my knees to avoid putting weight on my ankle. When I’m roughly in the center of the ice, I stop with a spin, and contort my body into a backbend before striking my final pose.
There’s a beat of silence before the crowd cheers. One beat when the failure crushes me, all my dreams of Olympic glory ground to dust.
With wet cheeks, I force a smile and wave. Then I’m ushered off the ice by medical professionals, one on each side to keep my weight off my right ankle. I’m sure it’s only a minor sprain, but it hurts like hell.
Still, knowing I just blew my shot is worse. I disappointed everyone. My family. My team. My friends. And all those omegas out there, hoping to be where I am someday.
Unfortunately, the self-loathing that creeps into my soul like icy tendrils isn’t a new feeling. It’s the story I’ve heard from everyone around me for most of my life. I’m not good enough.