Chapter 5
five
. . .
Sunday morning arrives with the kind of gray Wisconsin sky that matches my mother’s mood perfectly. Mine too, if I’m being honest. Finn’s been busy for a couple of days now, and I didn’t know having him gone would affect me in such a way.
I lace up Hope and Glory with extra care, knowing I’m about to face a marathon session that will test every ounce of my endurance.
Mom stands rinkside in her signature black coat, clipboard in hand, stopwatch around her neck like a weapon. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe bun I’ve seen dozens of times, and her expression could freeze the Mississippi. Solid. With one glance.
“Whatever has been occupying your mind lately, leave it here,” she says.
I nod, just like the dutiful student I’ve always been.
“Three hours,” she adds as I glide onto the ice. “No breaks, no excuses, no distractions.”
That last word hits like a slap shot to the chest. Does she know about Finn?
Impossible. I’ve been careful, and it’s only been a few days since our first date anyway.
No one, not even my father, saw the kiss in his cakery, and though Briarwood sometimes functions as a small town, I’m confident my mother doesn’t know about my new boyfriend.
“Let’s start with the opening sequence,” Mom calls out.
I settle into my starting position, arms raised, but instead of hearing my routine’s music, all I can think about is the way Finn’s laugh echoed through his truck cab on Thursday night. How he walked me to my door and kissed me goodnight like I was something precious.
The opening notes should be flowing through my head, but instead I’m remembering the way his hand felt in mine at the cakery, how his eyes went soft when he looked at me.
The music begins, blaring against the ice, and I push off into my first element. Immediately, my timing is wrong, my edges sloppy. The spiral sequence that should flow like water feels choppy and uncertain.
“Stop.” Mom’s voice cuts across the ice like a blade. I do, sides heaving, and the music cuts out. “What was that?”
Her voice slaps me from across the ice. “Sorry, I’m just—”
“Unfocused.” She walks closer, her expression thunderous. “Your technique has been deteriorating all week. Your jumps lack commitment, your footwork is imprecise, and don’t even get me started on that pathetic excuse for a spiral sequence.”
Each word lands like a physical blow. “I’ve been practicing every day. The early morning sessions—”
“Are clearly not helping.” Mom stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can see the disappointment etched in every line of her face. “You’re two—weeks away from the most important competition of your life, and you’re skating like a recreational skater.”
“Oh, come on,” I bite out. “I am not.” I’m so much better than that, and I’m so sick of my mother pinning me down like this.
At the same time, I can’t believe I’ve said anything.
I usually just nod and hope Mom keeps lecturing so I can suck down enough water and catch my breath before she blows that blasted whistle again.
“What did you say?” Her voice rises, echoing off the empty arena walls. “Wasting the talent you were born with is such a shame. Throwing away everything we’ve worked for, because you can’t keep your head in the game.”
I want to defend myself again, snap back at her, tell her I’m trying my best, but the words stick in my throat.
Because she’s not entirely wrong. I have been distracted.
Every time I attempt a jump, I find myself thinking about Finn’s protective hand on my elbow when I stumbled.
Every spiral reminds me of the way he watched me skate that first morning, like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Start it again,” Mom commands. “And this time, remember that you’re training for the Olympics, not a high school talent show.”
I skate back to center ice, my legs feeling heavy with more than just physical fatigue. The next two and a half hours are pure torture. Every jump feels forced, every spin wobbly. Mom’s criticism follows me around the ice like a shadow, her voice growing sharper with each mistake.
By the time she finally releases me, my legs shake with exhaustion and my confidence whips around me like a tattered sheet in the wind.
“Same time tomorrow,” she calls as I unlace my skates, as I’m still trying to catch my breath from the last round of torture. “And Ivy? Figure out whatever is wrong and fix it. Fast.”