Chapter 2
TWO
SIERRA
MY HEAD HITS the ice, and I hear the crack of my skull before my vision darkens.
My mom’s panicked scream pierces through the chaos, her voice blending with a cacophony of noise surrounding me. My skates feel like they’re made of lead as I lie motionless on the ice, my entire body numb. The world blips in and out. I hear the relentless high-pitched wail of an ambulance.
“Sierra.” I’m jerked out of the darkness of my nightmare, like I broke through the surface of a frozen pond. My breaths come in wheezy, shallow bursts, trapped under the weight of the red-splattered memories.
“Sierra.” The familiar lilt of a voice pulls me back, followed by a cool touch on my neck, pushing me into a sitting position. “You’re okay, it’s over now. You’re safe.”
You’re safe.
Those words echo, muffled by the ringing in my ears that’s louder than the sirens that were just there. I pry my eyes open, sit up in bed, and find my desk lamp casting a soft yellow glow in my room.
Scarlett sits beside me, cherry-red hair pulled into two loose braids as she presses an ice pack to the back of my neck.
The dampness sends an icy drop of water down my spine and draws me out of my head.
I hug my knees to my chest, my comforter rising with the movement until I rest my head on my knees.
“Sorry,” I whisper, trying to focus on my breathing.
Breathing. It’s something so automatic, yet I need a reminder to do it. It’s pathetic.
I’ve woken up like this every night since we moved to campus three days ago. I usually snap out of it alone, but tonight Scarlett probably heard me through the crappy dorm walls.
She hands me a glass of water, and with a shaky hand, I take it and gulp it down. It travels through me like a cold shock, loosening my rigid posture.
Her charm bracelet jingles as she rubs my back. “Stressed for today?”
Hartford, Connecticut, is home to Dalton University, and I’ve lived in this town my whole life. My first skate was in the university’s arena. And when Dalton’s figure skating program became eligible with the International Skating Union, I knew I’d attend.
Today is my first official day back on the ice since the accident.
After six weeks at Hartford General last year, it feels like a lifetime ago, and it is in the skating world.
Crash mats, the gym, Pilates, ballet, swimming—you name it, I’ve been doing it.
A part of me knows that all the preparation for returning to the ice is a distraction, but I can’t run anymore.
Before the rink became cruel and unforgiving, it was home, and I’ve been away for too long.
“Probably just my body preparing me to get yelled at by Lidia for two hours,” I say.
“If anyone can do it, it’s you, Si. But I’d hate for you to put that much pressure on your body after everything. You should have some fun too. This can’t be good for your recovery.”
“It’s been over a year. I’m recovered.”
Scarlett raises her brows, and I fall back onto my bed. My knitting needles, which I stuck into a ball of yellow yarn earlier, roll by my feet.
“Seriously, I feel great. I just want to go back to how things were.” When I could do what I wanted without my brain stopping me. When I wasn’t scared.
“Good, because the girls across the hall asked if we wanted to carpool to the party.”
I almost groan. There’s the notorious welcome week party at Beta Phi sorority.
Scarlett’s ex-sorority. My best friend is the last person you’d expect to join the Dalton Panhellenic community with her tattoos and bright-colored hair, but she made a damn good sister.
I know that because when she withdrew, her sisters sent me messages begging me to get her to rejoin.
Scarlett took some online classes that semester, sitting with me while I mindlessly watched The Weather Channel in the hospital room.
Some days, I’d beg her to leave, to stop letting me drag her down, but she never listened.
Not even when I said things to her out of anger that I regret to this day.
Scarlett never left me. She was there, parked outside each therapy session.
It was on those drives home that we talked about returning to campus and living in a dorm together for our senior year.
So far, that means water-stained ceilings and contracting athlete’s foot in the communal showers.
“It’s a neon party and they always have great drinks,” she says, really selling it now.
“Only if I get to borrow your white skirt,” I concede.
She lights up instantly, and it’s contagious. It’s the first time she’s looked at me with real excitement since the gloomy overcoat that blanketed last year. I have to do this for her.
“Of course, but for the record, you could wear that sweats and old T-shirt combo and still look hot.” She clicks off the lamp but pauses at the door to wink.
I laugh, but it does nothing to temper the sliver of anxiety that crawls up my throat.
“THIS RINK IS your bitch,” I tell myself, staring into my car’s rearview mirror.
My breathing exercise doesn’t loosen my white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.
I’ve been in my car for thirty minutes, watching the hockey team exit the arena like a creep.
The music playing in my car fuels my momentum, and before I can change my mind, I sling my gym bag over my shoulder and hop out.
In and out, Sierra. Dark nostalgia coats me like tar at the sight of the arena. I swallow around the thick lump in my throat, taking a hesitant step forward, then retreating two steps back. If someone were watching, they’d think I’ve lost my mind. Sometimes it feels like I have.
My feet stay rooted as I try to fight the flood of memories pulling me back to last year. But the effort is useless; they always claw their way back.
Then the doors screech open. The guy who steps out is so large he crowds the whole entrance.
He seems like he’s lost in his own world, but when he spots me, he holds the door open.
He’s big, broad-shouldered, probably a hockey player, judging from his massive gear bag.
His brown wavy hair is disheveled like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times.
He’s the type of NCAA hockey player you’d see all over social media, with countless fan accounts and a shiny NHL contract cushioning him.
Nerves aside, I waited in my car to avoid this exact interaction, but it’s a blessing because now I have to go inside. After a few whispered affirmations, I realize he’s still watching me, brown eyes tracing my lips. He looks at me like I’m casting spells.
“Are you going inside?” he asks in a deep, rumbly voice. He holds the door wider as if I’m having issues hearing. The sight of the blue hallway makes my heart pound like a ticking time bomb, threatening to curl me into the fetal position. God, that would be embarrassing.
“If I let go, the door’s going to lock,” he says, softer now.
I blink.
“I don’t bite, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His lips slant into a lazy smirk. “Promise.”
He says it like he wants me to find out whether that’s true. The old Sierra would’ve had a snarky retort for the cocky hockey player, but I haven’t been her for a long time. I slide past him and step inside the rink.
“Have fun,” he remarks casually, leaving his words to linger like an echo.
I head to the locker room, lace up my skates, and lean against the locker, murmuring affirmations. It’s not long before I start drifting.
The blood-soaked memories hold me hostage again. My mom’s tear-streaked face and her desperate calls for me over and over—
“Devushka.”
I jolt awake, and my head bangs against the locker. The rush of cold air and the smell of chlorine surround me all at once, and I look up to find Coach Lidia Orlov. Dark brown hair, arched brows, and lips pressed into a thin line of worry.
Crap. It’s happening again. After this morning, I tried all my calming techniques. Breathing, counting, EFT tapping, and knitting. But the latter’s overkill now that I’ve knit enough scarves to keep a small family warm.
“If this is too much for today, we can try again next week,” Lidia says.
Her pity is a sharp knife to my gut. It’s that same damn look everyone’s been giving me since the accident.
Like I’ve become some fragile thing. Too weak to be what I once was.
Apparently, you can’t crack your head open on the ice and fall on your partner’s skate to suffer a collapsed lung without people treating you differently.
“I’m ready. I just didn’t get much sleep last night.” Or any night, but I don’t tell her that. I can’t have another person give up on me.
“How’s this?” Lidia taps her forehead, still scrutinizing me.
My brain? Oh, just a complete fucking mess. “Sharper than a computer,” I say instead. If that computer was dropped and smashed into tiny bits. Then scattered across Connecticut waiting for me to find them and piece it back together.
With that, I slap on my skate guards and fling myself off the bench, tugging at my tights and feeling the familiar weight of my anklet.
I don’t know why I still wear it, because my ex-partner got it for me.
But it’s a good luck charm, and the one time I forgot it on his hotel bedside table, it was the day I fell. Go figure.
The ice should fear you. My aggressive outlook on today’s skating session is thanks to propranolol. That pink pill I swallowed this morning is the only reason my legs haven’t buckled. My chest is barely in a vise, and I haven’t spiraled. I won’t. Not today.
I even called the campus sport clinic pharmacy to get a refill since mine is on an as-needed basis. And clearly, it’s needed. But as much as I need the pill, I can’t stop seeing it as a crutch. Something the old me never would have taken.
“Just do what you’re comfortable with,” Lidia says once I’m on the ice. The woman is known to be as cold as a Russian winter, but now she’s babying me. The ice won’t bite, Sierra. Lidia’s old voice is still loud in my head. With this pace, the Zamboni will run you over.
My first lap is confident, or at least I pretend it is.
But the moment I attempt a toe loop, everything crumbles.
My landing is shaky and novice, nothing like a former Olympian’s.
My next jump barely gets any air, a shitty attempt that tightens that knot in my stomach and makes the back of my eyelids sting. Don’t cry.
An hour or so slips by in a haze of amateur footwork and personifying Bambi on ice all while I force myself not to let the frustrated tears fall. My first practice back, and all the promises I’ve made to Lidia have already begun to rip at the seams.
To my surprise, she doesn’t look angry. Not even a little. “It’s a good start. Nothing a few practices won’t fix. Since your hiatus”—calling it that sounds better than near-death experience, I suppose—“I’ve been working on some solo per—”
“I’m doing pairs.” I’ve been doing pairs since I left singles at sixteen. Four years ago. I am not going back.
Lidia cocks her head. “I didn’t know you had a new partner.”
Yeah, so, the thing about nearly career-ending freak accidents is that nobody wants to pair with you. After my ex-partner, Justin Petrov, dropped me like a hot potato—literally and figuratively—I’ve become damaged goods to the skating community.
When I switched to pairs, I chose Justin because he was good, and only associated with people who could cater to that. I’ve never changed myself for anyone, but for him I had.
“I don’t,” I say, and her face contorts. “But I’ve been looking!”
Though my online search has only yielded creepy men trying to lure me into their basements and skaters down to hook up but not partner with me. I knew skaters were superstitious, but I’m a damn curse now.
“Remember Champs Camp? So many of those skaters were interested in pairing with me. Can’t you contact their coaches?” Champs Camp is for the top-ranked senior-level skaters in the country.
Lidia blinks rapidly. She only does that when she has bad news. “Sierra, finding a new partner this late is near impossible. We can’t rely on a couple of skaters from six years ago. Dalton requires skaters to be registered well before their first performance to qualify for any USFS events.”
“Trust me, I know. I’ve been looking on my own too, but I need your help,” I plead. “I can’t give up. Besides, we don’t need someone permanent. If I can just score high enough to qualify for the Grand Prix, then we can find someone new for next year.”
“The Grand Prix? How on earth do you expect to do that?” Her eyes widen.
“You’d barely have time to train. The routines, the lifts, the chemistry.
It takes months, sometimes years, to perfect.
Your partner needs to have the same schedule to train.
It’s not just about you. It’s about trust and understanding each other’s movements.
Building that kind of partnership in such a short time is already difficult. ”
“I’ve thought about this for months, Lidia. In the hospital, during PT, EMDR therapy, at the gym. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for this dream.” My therapist, Dr. Toor, said the best way to overcome this hurdle is to jump over it. I’m determined to do that.
“This won’t be like your past training. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“I have to be,” I say, my voice cracking. “I need to prove that I can still do this. Please, Lidia.” I sound desperate, but it gets her to nod. A ribbon of victory unfurls in my chest. I’ll do it this time; I’ll finally be enough.
“Anyone else and I wouldn’t even consider this.” She shakes her head when I beam. “And you can’t be picky—”
“I won’t. Promise!” I rush out. “You won’t regret it.”
“I know,” she says. “Now do that routine again. This time with power.”
The tiny victory must have put a pep in my step, because this time the ice feels a smidge less daunting.
My moves are still shit, and my heart still hammers like it’s going to give out, but the possibility of getting to that final and showing everyone I’m not a curse dangles in front of me like a carrot on a string.