Chapter 23
Noelle: You've got this, sis. Remember—you're not competing with their skating. You're giving them something none of them have. Your voice! They need Princess Blanca to sing and act. That's you.
I smile despite my nerves and type back quickly.
Laura: Thanks. I feel completely out of my depth, but I'm not running away from the challenge this time.
Noelle: Proud of you. Let me know how it goes.
I close out of my messages with Noelle, my hands still shaking a little. She always makes things sound simple, like I could just breathe my way into confidence. I wish it worked like that.
I swallow hard and glance at the time.
Fifteen minutes.
I’ve only got fifteen minutes before I go out there and either make a complete fool of myself or pull off the greatest con of all time.
I take a breath. It doesn’t help. I start to put my phone away when my screen lights again. It’s reminding me of the message I’ve been avoiding since this morning.
1 New Message: Scotty
I already read it across the notification screen hours ago, left it unread, and then proceeded to do absolutely nothing.
The idea of responding to Scotty after everything that happened last night… I don’t know. It’s too much. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to think about his hands on me, his mouth on mine, the way he just declared how much he wanted me without prompting.
I just worry that we’re destined to the same fate as last year. If I respond to him before my audition, I could jinx myself again, and I can’t horrendously embarrass myself again.
Once I’ve finished, I’ll text him to let him know. Or, who knows, maybe I’ll even call him since he’s one of the only two people who actually know I’m here.
“Excuse me. You’re in my way,” a girl says before pushing me out of the way as she waltzes to the front where an assistant is managing the auditions.
There are at least thirty other girls here. All with dark hair like mine, big smiles like mine, and I have no doubt they all learned to skate when they learned to walk.
I can’t beat them on that front, but I know they can’t sing like me.
It’s all I’ve got at this point, but it might be all I need.
I adjust the sparkly blue skate dress I bought for the audition and shake my hands, trying to calm my nerves. Then I slide my feet into my skates that Scotty let me borrow, hating the fact that every time I put them on, I think of him on his knees in front of me.
‘I’d get on my knees for you anytime, Princess.’
Shit. Why does that feel like exactly what I need to calm down today?
A small smile plays across my lips because maybe I should’ve taken him to the locker room, opened my legs, and let him take me last night. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so nervous right now.
Stop it, Laura!
I’ve got to stop thinking about Scotty and everything he does to my body.
I finish tying the laces—not as perfectly as Scotty does, but good enough—and stand. My legs feel like jelly.
Number forty-six is currently pacing near the vending machine, doing what looks like visualization exercises. Her lips are moving silently, hands tracing patterns in the air like she’s running through her routine.
I should be doing that. Visualizing. Preparing.
Instead, I’m spiraling.
What if I fall during the crossovers? What if my voice cracks? What if they take one look at me and know I’m a fraud who learned to skate in a month?
“Number forty-six!”
The visualizing girl finally stops pacing and strolls to the front so casually with her skates on. Before she leaves the room, she takes a deep inhale, rolls her shoulders back, tips her chin up, and walks through the door with the kind of confidence I wish I could fake.
Shit.
Fuck.
I’m an actress. This should come easily to me.
I can deliver a monologue without blinking. I’ve played characters who can walk into a ballroom like it’s their second home, albeit always in the background, but I played those characters with confidence.
I should be able to muster some of that fake bravado right now, but apparently, all my stage presence evaporates the second I lace up my skates.
I take a step on the rubber flooring and wobble embarrassingly as I try to stand. When I’ve got my balance back, I realize the other girls are watching me with surprise.
So much for effortless confidence.
“Fake it till you make it,” I mutter under my breath, but even my pep talk feels lackluster.
I widen my stance, stretch my arms out for balance, and stare down at my skates, trying to steady myself, only to unravel when I see the number on my chest.
47.
I'm next.
The door opens.
Number forty-six emerges.
How has she finished already? I glance at the clock, and apparently, I’ve been spiraling for fifteen minutes.
Her face is flushed but she’s smiling.
My stomach drops. She’s got the part, hasn’t she? She’s probably perfect for it. I bet she did some crazy stunt move to garner the judges’ attention.
What the hell am I doing here?
I take a few steps back, my knees knocking.
“Number forty-seven!”
My throat dries out instantly.
No.
No, no, no.
I’m not ready. I don’t even know what “ready” feels like right now. All I know is my legs are shaking inside these damn skates, and every confident bone in my body has apparently taken a leave of absence.
“Number forty-seven!”
The other girls in the room are looking at me now. They all know it’s me they’re calling. The number is branded across my chest. Bet they’re hoping I’ll chicken out and that will be one less girl they need to compete with for the role.
I can do this.
I take a shaky half-step forward, then stop. My feet don’t feel like they’re attached to my body anymore. My knees knock together, and for a terrifying second, I think I might actually be sick.
You can’t do this.
You’re going to fall.
You’re going to ruin it.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Noelle’s voice filters through the noise.
You’re giving them what no one else can. Your voice.
I inhale once. It’s thin and shaky, but it’s air.
I force my feet to move, one slow glide toward the open doorway. My heart is hammering, my vision tightening at the edges, but I move anyway.
Because if I run now… I’ll run forever.
I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and pretend—just for a second—that I’m one of those ballroom-walking background characters I’ve always played.
Pretend I belong.
I grab my water bottle and my bag and head to the front.
The production assistant holding the clipboard smiles. “Are you Laura Conners?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me.”
I push a breath out through my nose, step into the room…
…and pray I don’t fall on my ass in front of the judges.
I'm going to throw up.
The thought hits so hard my stomach clenches. I force out a shaky breath, grab the boards, and step onto the ice.
The second my blades hit the surface, I lose my balance and my brain goes into overdrive.
Knees bent.
Weight centered.
Don’t lock your ankles.
Push, don’t stomp.
Glide, don’t walk.
Trust your edges.
Breathe.
Scotty’s voice threads through every single instruction, stronger than my own thoughts. Calm. Steady. Confident in me in a way I’ve never been in myself.
I hear him so clearly it doesn’t feel like memory—it feels like he’s right here beside me, matching my stride, keeping me from tipping over. Like his hand is hovering just above my back, ready to catch me if I fall.
I picture the way he stood behind me yesterday, his chest warm against my sweater, his hands guiding my hips, his fingers curling around mine as he said, “You’ve got it. Trust your body.”
My body doesn’t feel trustworthy right now.
It feels like a panic factory running on fumes and terror, but Scotty’s voice stays with me, circling my mind with every tiny correction, every gentle cue he drilled into me.
Somehow, with all of that noise and fear rattling in my chest, I move.
I do a basic lap around the rink, letting my muscles remember the movements. Forward strokes. A simple two-foot glide. My body starts to relax, muscle memory taking over.
This is fine. I can do this.
I try a forward crossover and surprisingly, it’s clean. I try another, and it’s better.
Shit. I'm actually doing this.
One of the judges signals me to the microphone in the middle of the rink. I head straight for it. Slowly, of course.
“Name, please,” she asks.
My legs are trembling as I stand in the middle of the ice, the cold seeping up my skirt and spreading through my spine.
I clear my throat and lean toward the mic.
“Hi. I’m Laura Conners, and I'll be auditioning for Princess Blanca.”
My voice sounds soft to my own ears, but at least it doesn’t crack.
“Great,” one of the judges says. “We’ve got your information right here. Do you know the choreography to the song ‘Mr. Nibbles and Me?’ We sent it out with the audition confirmation.”
“Yes, I do.” Again, my voice cracks a little, because yeah, I know it. Actually doing it is a completely different story.
“Great. So then you know it starts with thirty seconds of singing and then you need to move across the ice. We usually suggest you focus on the moves required in the choreo, but if you have any special technical skills, we would also like to see those.”
“Perfect.”
It isn’t.
It’s absolutely not, but I say it anyway.
All I have to do is wow them with my voice. Dazzle them straight out of noticing I can barely spin without turning into a human toppling domino.
This is it.
Come on, Laura. You can do this. You have to do this.
I try to discreetly shake out my hands, then blow out a slow breath, but nothing calms my nerves enough to stop my knees from knocking.
The opening notes float through the rink, and I remove the microphone from the stand.
Okay.
Okay, this I can do.
I close my eyes, inhale, and let the first line roll out of me.
My voice comes out strong. It’s clear, grounded, familiar. It feels like stepping onto a stage in shoes that fit, slipping into a skin I recognize. This is my territory. This is the part of the audition that doesn’t terrify me.
For a few seconds, it’s perfect.