CHAPTER 4 #2
Rummaging through my gym bag, keeping a foot of distance between me and the locker—that’s how fucking disgusting the odor is—I spot the culprit. Nestled at the bottom of the bag is a giant, rancid head of garlic. I gag, immediately tossing it into the trash.
Then I fill Naomi in about the bet Troy and I made on our way out, my leotard and skirt now smelling like a rotten fettucine Bolognese.
Before I head out to the ice, we make a stop at Faerieladle Shack, the rink’s Pro Shop where Naomi works alongside Eloise Montgomery. Naomi’s hours range from 3-7 pm on weekdays, but she’s practically at the rink as much as I am, some days even more.
Eloise is also part of The Academy and one of my three friends, though Naomi is more like family.
Eloise and I have never been that close, and neither are Naomi and her, but she’s the only other girl here who didn’t give us the whole I’ll ruin your life if you cross me vibe.
We all get along, and it’s nice to have more than one friend at the rink.
Our small friend group is completed by Donya Amani, the first person who befriended me after the second day of my adolescence that haunted me, and she’s stood by me ever since.
Donya and I are close in different ways than Naomi and me.
Unlike Eloise, who recently turned 21 and Naomi, who’s 17, Donya and I are the same age, at 23.
While she moved back to Connecticut after high school, we’ve kept the sort of friendship where you could go months without hearing from the other, and not a conversation would feel altered once reconnected.
Except for our own weekly FaceTimes, even without the geographic barrier, we wouldn’t see Donya as often as we’d like since she skates for Dupont’s top rival, Aadland Academy.
Despite their high technical scores, she and her skating pair, Bradley, have never made it to the Olympics.
Bradley’s got the skill, and Donya’s always had the kind of elegance that’s hard not to leave you mesmerized when she glides onto the ice.
But she couldn’t be bothered with the competitive aspect of our discipline, what her coach claims is her Achilles’ heel.
Eloise shares the same sentiment, except she’s in singles and has far less intricacy in her routines.
I’d never tell her what Violet’s clique have demeaned her with, and I quote, that loser only skates here because her dad is loaded, her parents bought her way in, as if Violet’s squad didn’t do exactly the same.
Eloise’s eyes pop up as we enter the skate shop. She hands me a square invoice from behind the counter. “I ordered the dress you wanted, Ana.”
“Thanks, Elle.” I unfold the beige slip, while she begins unboxing a package filled with an assortment of crystal-adorned costumes.
“I tried to get it for $3000, but the designer wouldn’t go lower than $4200.”
Shit. That’s fine. I’ll just add some more shifts at the diner and ask my physics professor for extra TA credits next semester.
Everything is under control.
I swallow down the sour taste of worry before it tries to resurface. “That’s okay. I’ll have the payment soon. When’s it arriving again?”
“I think in August. The beading is going to take some more time to perfect.”
“Okay, cool. Thank you.” I give her a loose hug while Naomi turns on the register.
Eloise peers over her shoulder, crinkling her brows. “What’s that smell?”
“Naomi.” Her and I exchange a knowing glance.
“I gotchu.”
As she starts filling her in, I finally leave for practice.
Placing the folded piece of paper in the bra of my navy leotard, I catch Violet’s friends—the Icy Trio, as I like to call them—still in the lounge area.
Natalia’s brushing through her voluptuous brunette waves, while Sheerin tightens Tatiana’s platinum blonde hair that’s now perfectly sleek in a Chanel hair tie embellished with pearls.
And probably half a foot high above her head.
I watch as Tatiana reapplies a soft shade of mauve across her pouty lips, the rouge most likely more expensive than my leotard, skirt, and beige tights combined.
Then Sheerin hands Natalia the keys to her new white BMW that she slips into her workout bag, another designer, this time I’m guessing, Hermès.
They each pull out their figure skates, so in sync it resembles sorcery. I peer down at my own pair of Edea skates, the boot that took me a year to save up for, an average shopping spree for them.
That’s what they don’t tell you about figure skating. The last thing you’re going to think of is that the sport you’ll fall in love with will be one where you have to pay more than a mortgage for.
As with anything, it pays to win.
The Gold medal sweeps in a cushion of brand partnerships, promo, paid events, and seemingly endless opportunities.
The second they pour in, the clock starts ticking in the direction of your understudy, who’s impatiently waiting to dethrone you.
Because it’s expected—more often aspired—for you to fall.
The trigger leads the unraveling, and in my case, it was an injury.
Even if I wanted to erase what happened, the scar that’s imprinted on my right hip won’t let me forget the horrifying afternoon two years ago when I was practicing for the World Championships with Ethan. When I slipped from Ethan’s arms and crashed right onto the cold ice at Lake Faerieladle.
It was my fault, though. I should’ve been more focused.
I should’ve known that no company would care what happened to me.
Companies who no longer wanted to work with second place.
The string of deals I had in what felt like a mere second.
One by one, I watched them fall faster than I did.
Sharp dominoes of the ghost of my performances past.
You see, sponsorships arrive in floods when you’re placing, but disappear as soon as you slip. Second isn’t first. And an injury doesn’t get you to first.
The same way The Academy uses everything else against you, wealth is no exception. If I forget, there’s always Natalia, Tatiana, Sheerin, or Violet to remind me that my competition costumes, gear, etc. will never amount to theirs.
The current trio’s attention, luckily, isn’t drawn to me right now. I manage to stride past them and to the entrance of the rink without a remark, watching the trail of their gazes fall directly on…of course.
Troy.
Dressed in all black, his thermal and fitted pants sculps the muscles he also enjoys flashing in my face. Tall. Toned. And softly tanned. I’ve never met a girl who doesn’t drool all over the idiot, sadly.
Naomi’s right. The other skaters would be jealous.
Except, that would mean attraction for Larsson, which I might be the only one who doesn’t feel.
He’s obnoxious at best. I’ll give him the whole bad-boy-but-also-charming thing, and sure, his height gives him an edge, and yeah, his features are a bit of a showstopper.
A mix between emerald and jade green eyes, long, full lashes, medium brown hair that always has an unruly strand dangling against his temple, and framed by a chiseled jaw and cheek bones, one soft dimple prepared to piss me off without fail.
But those aren’t the only variables that make the women swoon.
Troy Larsson has the frame of a hockey player with the leanness of a figure skater. Broader shoulders, long legs, and a frustratingly pristine posture strengthened by his tight abs.
It’s actually a Larsson thing.
The Larsson Brothers, half Greek, half Swedish, always turn heads when they enter a room.
Everyone, including me, thought Troy would play hockey, the way his older and younger brother do.
Why he didn’t, is still a mystery to me.
He seems close to his brothers. Though, when we were little, I’d see his late mom at plenty of skating competitions, his dad, not once, not that I recall.
Mrs. Larsson passed away young from an unexpected allergic reaction to medicine.
The details, I never heard. If she was sick, how long for, or if it all tragically happened from the common cold.
Oddly, no one—including sports reporters—have pressed on about it.
That was the only time I tried to set aside our differences and extend an olive branch, if you will, toning down the insults when I found out about the news, even giving a verbal condolence the next time I ran into him at the rink.
But, Troy, per usual, was a complete jerk. It’s who he is, and who he’s always been.
So Naomi might think the new skating situation with Troy is perfect. She’s overall enthusiastic about things. But it’s only a matter of time that one of us cracks, breaking under the pressure of our ongoing rivalry.
Except, it won’t be me.