CHAPTER 19
Ana
I CAN’T REMEMBER the last time I skated just for fun.
For the longest time, my life has only revolved around competitions, medals, and fame. None of which first led me to the sport.
The more I’ve won, though, the less fun it feels, but my gut tells me it’s not the skating. Scrutiny is inevitable, something I came to terms with at an age I didn’t fully understand it yet.
Still, there is no greater feeling in the world as when your blades glide across that pale dreamscape.
I needed the reminder tonight. The feeling that everything around me was more in control.
After a ten-minute warmup, I prepare for a double axel, pushing my skates steady, looking over my shoulder, arms extended. Jump.
Curving around the edge of the rink, my momentum picks up, fooling my expectations for a triple. Maybe this once, I can do it. My arms and skates team up, doubling my speed, pushing my weight, gravity plummets me right onto my ass. Fuck.
I didn’t hit my head, though, so why is, ugh. Troy. Here?
“Should I call security?” he mocks.
“Depends on how much you plan on pissing me off.”
He saunters along the opposite edge, not saying another word to me.
Even when he’s not speaking, his mannerisms are enough to offset the focus I require for my jumps. It’s like a constant game of side-eye he’s determined to give me each time we skate past the other. And it’s making me feel dizzier than any spin.
“Shouldn’t you be at a party right now?” I finally crack once his shoulder brushes along mine for the third time as he skates away again.
“Nah, I’m good,” he replies, moving further along the ice. “Had pretty bad luck at my last one.”
I wouldn’t be surprised if Troy attends a new party every night, but the intentionally sour tone in his voice has me convinced he’s referring to the one where we formed our bet at.
“What are you doing here?” I get to the point.
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” He stops.
If anyone’s not allowed to be here at this hour, it’s me, I know that. Instead of admitting the obvious, I opt for a sigh by my own interrupted secret session. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly skating yet so I might as well do it on my own.”
“Right now?”
“It’s the only time I had today to skate.”
“You’re also here.” He stretches his bicep across his chest. “And I don’t think Fontaine will be too pleased to hear one of her athletes broke into the rink to have more time to skate than everyone else.”
The asshole knows he can get away with it. He can get away with anything.
“I have a job,” I defend. “A full class schedule to work around. You know? Actual responsibilities.”
“You’re not the only one who has responsibilities.”
“My bad. I forgot to count browsing new cars and going to the beach.”
“Didn’t know you kept tabs on my hobbies. Cute.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re cutting into my skating time.”
“You’re the one who started talking to me, dearest.”
That nickname’s going to get old real fast, but if I show it bothers me, he’s just going to amp it up even more.
It’s evident we’re both avoiding the obvious, that we don’t want to skate together outside of the arranged practices.
Still avoiding it, and with only ten minutes left, I pick up the pace to try the triple again.
We exchange the occasional glare as we skate past each other, diagonally, parallel, all the shapes.
Triple axels aren’t as common for women as they are for men, and even less for pairs.
But it’s been on my bucket list, ever since I landed and perfected my double. I know I can do it, but something goes wrong each time. Landing it, in a way, would be a reminder that there’s still potential I haven’t tapped into. That there’s more to me than I’ve given everyone else.
Gaining the speed, as I’m about to lift into the air, my confidence deflates, and I reroute for a double. After I land my axel, I immediately shift my focus onto the floor. There’s no way Larsson didn’t see. He’s too intuitive to miss my failed attempt.
The cold air mixed with my dry throat makes it harder to gain back my breathing. But then the oxygen feels like it escapes altogether.
It’s Troy. And he’s already in the air, and before I realize it, he lands a triple axel.
And perfectly. He knows I can’t land one yet.
I would be fuming by the current novelty he’s decided to flash in my face, but embarrassment fills me more than anything.
The multiple scratches to my last pair of skates was just one example of how many hours it’s took to perfect something I still can’t get right.
Stop looking at him. My eyes glance away far later than I would have liked, too busy registering the failure.
The part of me that could give him the benefit of the doubt but always chooses not to, doesn’t know why I’m disappointed to be proven right. He’s as self-centered as I’ve always known him to be.
After he lands, he skates toward me again, his eyes finding mine. I want to tell him how immature I find his latest antic to be, but the self-weary part is too busy second-guessing my own abilities.
The silence feels more like a scream when he reaches me. Misty cold air escapes his lips while I breathe it in.
“Hold your arms higher and tighter.” My brows furrow as he skates past me again and toward the entrance. “That’ll help your legs with the landing,” he adds with his back facing me, before he leaves the rink.
I will never take advice from Troy, has been my life motto for two decades now.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, though.
The last thing I’d ever admit to him is that he arguably has one of the best techniques I’ve ever seen. And the only reason I even consider applying his suggestions to the jump.
Adjusting the straps on my leotard, I take a deep breath, and try it again.
“Fucking, Larsson,” I mutter as I land.