Chapter 27
The ice stretches out before us, glittering under the bright stage lights. Laura’s hand trembles in mine as we take our first steps onto the ice. She tries to hide the nervousness, but I know her too well. I tighten my grip and lead her to the middle of the ice.
She exhales the tiniest breath, and I angle myself just enough to catch her eyes. “Ready, Princess?” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear.
She nods, but I can see the fear in her eyes. Her fingers curl more securely around mine, and her shoulders drop half an inch as she starts to focus.
“Three. Two. One.”
One of the judges’ countdown echoes around the rink, and right before the first note hits, I lean in and whisper, “Let them watch you shine.”
The opening notes of “Winter's Heart” begin to play as we glide into the starting position. My hand settles on Laura’s waist, steady, grounding, guiding her through the first pass like we’ve done a hundred times now.
Then she starts to sing.
Fuck, her voice.
It pours into the space like warm light, clear and bright, threading through the music as if the song was written just for her. I feel her body shift beneath my hand, the tremor gone, replaced by something fierce and certain.
I've heard it a hundred times in practice, but something about performing brings out a new level of emotion. Clear and strong and absolutely perfect. This is Laura on fire. This is Laura becoming every dream she’s ever chased.
The crowd leans in. I do too.
In the frozen north where snowflakes dance, I found a love I thought I'd never chance
I spin her gently, and she nails the landing. I can feel her confidence building with each note, each movement. We flow into the first crossover sequence, the one we've practiced until we could do it in our sleep.
Then disaster strikes.
Her blade catches. Not just a little stumble this time, but a full loss of balance. I see it happening in slow motion: her weight pitches forward, her arms flail, and panic flashes in her eyes.
She's going down. Hard.
I react without thinking. I dive for her, my arms locking around her waist just before she hits the ice. There’s no making this look intentional.
It's obvious.
Painfully, gut-wrenchingly obvious that she fell.
The music keeps playing but her voice has stopped. I can feel her body rigid with panic in my arms.
“It's okay,” I whisper, helping her back to her feet. “Keep going. We've got this.”
She's shaking as we resume position, and when she starts singing again, her voice wavers for just a moment before she pushes through, but the damage is done. I can see it in the judges' faces—concern, disappointment, doubt.
We keep going because we have to, but everything feels different now.
I hold her tighter than we practiced, my hand firm on her waist, my arm a barrier she can lean on if she needs it.
I don’t trust her balance anymore. Not after that.
Not with the way her breathing has gone sharp and shallow, like she’s trying not to choke on panic.
Every move becomes smaller, safer. The edges we usually carve with confidence turn into careful glides. The lifts and spins we rehearsed a hundred times shrink into simplified versions, nothing that might risk sending her down again.
It kills me, dialing back the routine we learned together, but the thought of her falling a second time? No. I won’t let it happen. Not on my watch.
I guide her into the next pass, our pace steadier than it should be, and murmur just loud enough for her to hear, “I’ve got you.”
Because right now, that’s all I can give her. And all I can hope she believes.
Through winter's cold and darkest night, You were my warmth, my guiding light
The music swells and right on cue, Erik bursts onto the ice in full Mr. Nibbles glory. He tumbles across the rink right before launching into an exaggerated martial-arts battle with the invisible Ice Troll.
The judges sit up a little straighter, clearly entertained by the addition.
It’s exactly what we planned. Comedic. Loud. Distracting in all the right ways.
But I can feel it's not enough. Erik's distraction can't erase what they've already seen.
I swallow the frustration and refocus as we reach the overhead lift. My hands find her waist, her breath steadies, and for a moment everything narrows down to the two of us again. I lift her cleanly, letting her rise above me, weight shifting gracefully as she extends into the pose.
She looks breathtaking.
And then she sings.
Her voice hits the climactic note with perfect clarity, unwavering, powerful. It rings through the arena like it’s carving a second chance out of the air itself.
My chest tightens.
She’s fighting for this.
Fighting hard even though she knows the odds are stacked against her.
In your arms, I found my home Never again to be alone
At least her voice never faltered again. That part is flawless.
Erik takes his dramatic bow and exits, leaving us for the final sequence. Laura's looking at me with desperate eyes, silently begging me to fix this, but there's nothing I can do except make sure we finish strong.
I guide her through the remaining moves with extra support, making every lift and spin as smooth as possible. When we reach the final pose—her arched over my arm, our faces close—I can see the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.
“You were beautiful,” I whisper. “Your voice was perfect.”
And I’m so madly in love with you I just want to make this better.
I can’t say it because the music ends. We hold the pose for a beat before I help her stand.
There’s scattered applause from the production team, but it's polite and feels obligatory.
The judges are already writing on their clipboards, and none of them look happy.
I keep my arm around Laura's waist as we wait for their feedback. She's barely breathing, her whole body tense.
“Laura Conners, Scotty Hendricks, and Erik Steele,” the head judge says, glancing at her notes. She looks up at us, and my stomach sinks at her expression. “Miss Conners, your voice is absolutely incredible. Exactly what we're looking for in Princess Blanca.”
Laura's grip on my hand tightens with hope.
“However…” The judge pauses, and I know what's coming.
“The skating is a significant concern. That fall was hard, and even without it, your technical skills aren't at the level we need for this production.
We're doing intricate choreography at high speeds. We need someone who can handle those requirements safely.”
“I can improve,” Laura says quickly, her voice cracking. “Give me more time, I'll practice every day—”
“I understand that.” The judge's expression softens with genuine regret. “And I believe you would improve, but we're opening in six weeks. We need someone who's already at that skill level.”
Another judge chimes in. “The addition of Mr. Nibbles was creative, and Mr. Hendricks, your skating is obviously exceptional, but ultimately, this is Princess Blanca's part, and we can't build the production around accommodating skill limitations.”
My jaw clenches. They're right—I know they're right—but watching Laura's face crumble is killing me.
“We appreciate you coming in today,” the head judge says. “We'll be making our final decisions by the end of the week, but I wanted to be honest with you about where we stand.”
Translation: Don't hold your breath.
“Thank you for the opportunity,” I manage to say, because Laura looks like she might start crying right here.
We skate off the ice and the second we're through the doors, Laura's composure shatters. She doesn't collapse against the wall like after her first audition—this time she just stands there, staring at nothing, tears streaming silently down her face.
“Laura—” I start.
“I fell.” Her voice is hollow. “I fell and ruined everything.”
“Your voice was perfect—”
“It doesn't matter!” She finally looks at me, and the devastation in her eyes guts me. “They said it themselves. I'm not good enough. I'll never be good enough.”
“That's not true—”
“Yes, it is, Scotty!” She's crying harder now. “I had one chance. One. And I fucked it up because I can't skate. Because I thought a month of practice could make up for years of inexperience.” She laughs bitterly. “God, I'm so stupid.”
“You're not stupid.” I reach for her, but she steps back.
“I need to get out of this costume.” Her voice breaks. “I need to go home.”
“Laura, please—”
“I just need some space right now, okay?” She's already heading toward the locker room.
“As you wish, Princess,” I say, watching her leave.
Erik appears from around the corner, still in his Mr. Nibbles costume, his usual grin replaced with concern. “Hey, I—”
“Not now, Erik,” I say quietly, watching Laura disappear through the locker room door.
He stands next to me, both of us staring at the closed door. “That bad?”
“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair. “That bad.”
“Fuck.” He's quiet for a moment. “Her voice though, man. That was—”
“I know.” My throat is tight. “She was incredible. But it wasn't enough.”
We stand there in silence, and I replay the audition in my head, searching for what I could have done differently. How I could have prevented the fall, supported her better, made this work.
But there's no changing what happened.
Laura didn't get the role.
And I don't know how to fix this.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don't check it. Whatever it is, it can wait.
Right now, all I can think about is the girl crying in the locker room, and how I promised her I'd catch her if she fell.
I did catch her.
But it wasn't enough to save her dream.