Chapter 23 #2
The rink is silent because my voice booms through it.
Then the choreography kicks in.
I shift my weight, push forward into my first glide, and the ice beneath me suddenly feels less like a stage and more like a warning. The wobble in my knees returns, sharper than before, and the confidence in my voice flickers as my blades scrape forward.
Singing while skating.
Skating while singing.
Why did anyone think this was a good idea?
I keep going, but the moment I try to do a crossover, the panic that had been simmering breaks wide open in my chest.
Only my legs are shaking so badly that even a simple glide feels unstable. I extend my arms, trying for a slow, graceful spin—something smooth, something safe—but my balance is completely off.
I wobble.
I overcorrect.
And—
My skate catches.
There’s a split second where time stretches thin and useless, where I’m aware of every tiny detail: the sharp slice of my blade snagging, the tilt of my body, the gasp from the judges, the song still playing the high note I should be hitting instead of yelping.
I hit the ice hard.
The impact knocks the air from my lungs and my microphone skitters across the ice, screeching with feedback that echoes through the cold, empty space.
I lie there, cheek pressed to the ice, the cold burning into my skin.
I don’t open my eyes.
I can’t, because I know exactly what I’ll see.
Disappointment. The same expression I’ve seen on casting directors’ faces more times than I want to admit, but somehow, it’s worse now. It’s not just their disappointment I feel…it’s mine.
All that work.
All that practice.
All that hope.
For nothing.
“Can someone please check if Ms. Conners is all right?”
Before I know it, there are people on the ice—production assistants in sneakers with rubber guards—hurrying toward me, crouching down and speaking slowly as if I’m a wounded animal that might bolt if they say the wrong thing.
“I'm fine,” I manage, though my voice is barely a whisper.
They help me up anyway, their hands gentle but firm. I plant my skates on the ice and dust off my dress with trembling fingers, pretending that fixes the monumental embarrassment I just endured.
Pull it together.
Just get through the next thirty seconds without crying.
That’s all you have to do.
The judges are huddled together, microphones angled away, whispering to each other. I can’t hear them, but my brain fills in the blanks easily enough.
She can't skate. Why did she even audition?
My chest tightens.
Then I skate slowly back to the microphone stand and focus on the spot just above their heads so I don’t have to see whatever expression is waiting for me. Pity. Confusion. Mild horror. Take your pick.
“Sorry about that little misstep,” I say, forcing a bright smile that feels like it might crack my face in half. “I think there was… something on the ice.”
A weak joke. A pathetic attempt at dignity.
No one laughs.
I clasp my hands behind my back so no one sees them shake. I keep my shoulders square, chin up, pretending I’m not dying inside as I wait for them to dismiss me.
Any second now.
The sting of embarrassment crawls under my skin, settling in my ribs, my throat, my spine.
I know what’s coming. I’ve felt it a hundred times.
Rejection.
Another no. Another almost. Another reminder that I’m not enough—not talented enough, not graceful enough, not skilled enough to win the things I actually want.
Maybe I should just take the L.
Maybe that’s all I’m ever going to get.
The central judge clears her throat. “Bear with us, Miss Conners. We're just having a discussion.”
“Sure.” I try to sound upbeat, but there’s a crack in my voice I can’t hide. It betrays every ounce of humiliation buzzing under my skin.
Not wanting my pitiful crying to be heard on the mic, I move back a little. That’s when I notice there are other people in the rink. Their soft chatter carries through the cold arena, and my stomach lurches violently.
Will this end up online?
Will I be the next “girl eats ice” meme?
Will everyone see me fall on my ass in front of a panel of judges I desperately wanted to impress?
“Okay, Ms. Conners,” the middle judge starts. “We've had a quick discussion and you are by far the best vocalist we've auditioned for this role. For any role, frankly. Your voice is magical and works perfectly with Princess Blanca.”
“Thank you.” It comes out small, shaky, because the compliment hits somewhere painfully soft inside me.
“Your skating skills could be improved,” another judge adds, and I nod immediately.
“Agreed. If I get through this audition, I will continue to build my skill up.”
“Thank you,” the middle judge continues, “but I don’t think we’d be able to continue with you as a solo act.”
My shoulders slump and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I knew it. I fucking knew it, but I'm still disappointed.
“Do you have a skate partner?” she asks.
I lean close to the microphone. “A skate partner?”
“Yes,” she says, smiling kindly. “Your look and your voice are fantastic for the role, and we would like you to continue—with a partner who could play Prince Alaric.”
I stare at her like she’s speaking another language.
“Prince Alaric?” I echo, because my brain has stopped processing information and is now just repeating nouns like a parrot.
The judge nods again, patient, as if this is all very normal and not a complete emotional whiplash. “Correct. We could potentially change Princess Blanca’s set so she’s partnered with Prince Alaric. We think if you had someone who can support you on the ice, your voice would shine.”
“You’d change the set?”
“Potentially. If you can find someone who supports you on the ice well.”
A partner role means pair skating. Lifts. Spins. All the things I definitely cannot do.
“Um, un—”
Before I can finish, a voice cuts through the murmurs in the audience.
“I'm her partner.”
I freeze.
Scotty?
No. There’s no way he’s here.
He’s not—he wouldn’t—
I turn slowly, my heart stopping completely.
Scotty stands three rows up, half-shadowed by the dim house lights, wearing a Covey Crushers hoodie. His cheeks are flushed, his hair’s a mess. He was supposed to be at practice. How is he here?
“I'm her skating partner and coach,” he says, stepping down the rows toward the ice to address the judges directly. “I have fifteen years of skating experience in a mix of figure skating and hockey. I would be more than happy to audition with Laura.”
My jaw nearly hits the rink.
He… what?
He’s volunteering?
For me?
The judges lean toward each other, conferring in urgent whispers.
Finally, the middle judge straightens. “Okay, Miss Conners. We’ll put you through the first round, but we expect an improvement in your skating performance with a partner.”
“And that’s exactly what you’ll get,” Scotty says, his voice steady, sure, and protective.
He looks at me, just for a second, and something in me shatters and comes together all at once.
“Thank you,” I manage, even though my voice cracks. I push off and skate toward the exit—quickly, carefully, trying not to fall again now that the entire universe seems to be watching.
My legs are trembling so hard I’m not sure if it’s from adrenaline or the fact that Scotty Hendricks just walked into my audition…
…and claimed me.