Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
DYLAN
SHE’S FREAKING OUT. Or, at least, I think she is.
Sierra is in a corner when she takes three steps, pivots, takes three more, then pivots again. Those movements have been on repeat for the past sixteen minutes. I spot Scarlett on one side of the rink with a small sign that reads LUTZ BE REAL, SIERRA she lets me unfurl her palm, seeing the faint nail marks and a faded smiley face. I draw over it, darkening the edges.
Sierra lets out an amused breath. “Lidia probably said that so you’d stop talking to her. I do this as a warm-up, to center myself.”
I drop her hand just as one of the crew members rushes past us to Lidia, signaling that we’re up after the Russian team who just killed their free skate.
Sierra takes my hand. “This is it,” she says.
“Well, technically we have one more and then the final.”
She rolls her eyes, but her hand stays fixed in mine. Neither of us lets go even for a second. Not even as she checks her skates for the third time or when she brushes away the pink on her cheeks. I have a feeling she needs this grounding touch, and I want to give it to her.
“You ready, Romanova?” I ask.
I put her hand on my chest, the steady thrum of my heart against her palm. She doesn’t hesitate as she takes my hand to do the same. It’s in moments like these where I see her. Not for the darkness she thinks surrounds her, but for the girl that glows. Like a firefly.
“Ready.”
One synchronized nod, and we’re off.
In hockey, there’s six of us on the ice, and the focal point of the game is the puck. Figure skating is different. I never really focused on how many people were out in the crowd, that was a normal occurrence for me since I was a kid, but right now the attention is homed in on us.
Now, that still doesn’t bother me. I couldn’t care less about what these people think, but seeing the way Sierra blinks rapidly, eyes darting to the crowd and the twinkling lights until the spotlight turns on, I know I’ll do everything I can to execute this to perfection.
The music starts, “Lay All Your Love on Me” by ABBA, and in an instant, I see the version of her that won an Olympic gold, the one she’s been chasing.
Poised and perfect. If she thinks I’m cocky, she needs to see this side of her.
It’s untouchable. Anyone else, and I’m sure they’d be out of their element, but I feed off her energy.
This performance is point heavy, packed with jumps, spins, steps, and lifts.
In our opening sequence, I stay just outside the reach of the light, waiting.
Sierra spread-eagles into a deep outside edge, arms extending like she’s seeing the world for the first time.
I push forward and just as she turns, I take her hand to show Flynn entering Rapunzel’s world.
We skate in unison, our strokes powerful, building speed so we can enter a double axel, our right knees swinging up and around mid-rotation, crossing loosely like a pretzel before we land in sync. We slow down to move into our first major element—a triple twist.
I catch her easily, but Sierra lands a second too early.
That’s when I see the first crack. She glides backward, allowing me to catch her waist for the first lift.
Our step sequence follows—mirrored three turns, quick mohawks, deep edge changes.
We weave around each other, keeping close without touching, eyes locked.
Then she grabs my hand, and we push into a throw triple loop.
She grips my fingers before I send her flying.
The air is silent as she rotates, one, two, three revolutions.
My breath stalls until her blade touches down.
It’s solid. No hesitation. No break in momentum.
It’s almost perfect, but I notice the tremor in her hand. I try to meet her gaze, to understand what she’s thinking, but then she stumbles on the second jump combination.
Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and the next modified lift comes too soon. She hesitates, bailing halfway and landing awkwardly on the ice, panic written on her face. She’s locked inside her head now, her movements robotic, her steps trialing behind, a half second late.
“Look at me.” The noise in the rink swallows my voice, but I know she hears it.
When she doesn’t look, I take her hand and hold tight.
The space between us is charged, a hairbreadth apart, but it might as well be miles.
We finish with a sit spin as the last note of the music fades into polite applause, but her gaze doesn’t meet mine, not even when we glide to the bench to wait for our scores.
As expected, our scores are low. None of our lifts had the technical depth to score big, but that wasn’t the goal; Lidia wanted us to do just enough to qualify. But Sierra, she’s drowning in it. Her silence, her shoulders curling inward, how she can’t look at me—it’s all wrong.
“Sierra—”
She flinches away from my touch. Lidia gives me a look, like I should drop it, let her just simmer in this self-deprecating garbage routine she puts herself through. It pisses me off.
“You don’t get to do this with me,” I say, voice low.
Her head dips, and she blinks rapidly, like she’s trying to drive away the tears. There’s something so fragile about it, the way her walls crack but don’t crumble. How she looks so young and vulnerable.
I lift her chin, making her face me, but her eyes stay fixed on the floor. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as stubborn as she is. There’s a cut of desperation in me that needs to see her eyes, needs to know this isn’t going to get locked in her head.
My lips just barely graze her ear. “You are not going to cry,” I say roughly. “Don’t give that to them. Nobody deserves your tears.”
When I pull back, there’s a flicker in her eyes. Green, like sunlight filtering through leaves after a storm. It’s a tiny spark, but it’s enough.
“You hear me?” I press, my voice softer now, almost pleading.
She swallows hard as she nods. Slowly, she blinks, letting the tears retreat without falling. Her spine straightens, her jaw tightens, and her usual confidence covers the cracks. I know it’s not real, but it’s enough for her to hold it together.
That is, until Justin Petrov and Julia Romero take the ice.
Sierra’s eyes lock onto them like a predator’s to prey, but there’s no fight in her stance, just tension coiling tighter with every perfectly synchronized movement.
Like they’re on another level. Strong, fast, and abnormally perfect.
The two minutes and forty seconds feel longer than any hockey game I’ve played, the kind of time that makes you aware of every heartbeat.
Then their scores go up. Higher than ours.
My gaze snaps to Sierra just as she goes still. Her shoulders hitch, like she’s been struck, and I swear I can see her unraveling, piece by agonizing piece. I know it’s already too late. Because we just barely made third place.