CHAPTER 35
Troy
“IF YOU brING up Rachel one more time, I’m pushing you into that fountain,” Conrad chides at Brennan.
Rachel was Brennan’s high school sweetheart who he broke up with last summer when he had to move to New York for volleyball and grad school.
Rachel’s actually the one who broke up with him.
Said the long-distance wouldn’t work for her, to everyone’s surprise.
Which, hey, I won’t judge. It must be hard being in another state from your partner.
Brennan hasn’t exactly been taking it well, though, still finding any excuse to bring up his ex in our conversations.
I guess that’s what happens when you’re attached to the hip with someone for almost a decade.
Take this morning, for example, while we’re grabbing breakfast at Steve’s—the coffee shop down the street from the rink—Brennan’s brought up his ex, again, to Conrad’s huge discontent. Conrad’s not a morning person, but he was never a Rachel person, either.
“When you have a girlfriend one day, fifty years from now,” Brennan mocks, “and she rips your heart out, I’ll be right here to comfort you, too.” He pats Conrad’s back with a smile now lifting his face. “I can’t wait to shit on your skate, today, bro.”
Conrad rolls his eyes.
Brennan’s joining us at the rink today, since afterward we’re browsing for party supplies for Andre’s birthday party that’s next weekend.
The theme being: pool party. Super original for this time of year.
Occasionally, our friend group also visits one another during our respective practices.
We aim to attend each other’s competitions and games, but with the timing growing less manageable in recent years, we’ve opted for practices sometimes.
Once we reach the rink, Brennan stops to chat with Xavier, while Conrad and I make a run for the men’s locker room to change.
As Conrad and I head toward the ice, he turns to me, more annoyed than he was at the coffee shop earlier.
“Eloise’s pissing me off,” he groans. “She never has my protein bars in stock. Has like twenty other kinds, but never mine.”
“Man, that’s rough,” I jest. “If I were you, I’d write a serious letter to our snack supplier.”
“You think this is funny?” I chuckle at his overt seriousness. “First, it’s the protein bars, tomorrow it’ll be the compression tape. She keeps ordering unnecessary shit. Next time you need new laces, don’t worry, we have plenty of baseball caps with ice skate logos on them.”
“Okay…so you gonna have a duel with her to resolve this issue, or what?”
“I was thinking, you could ask your girlfriend to talk to her.”
My girlfriend?
My brows furrow at Conrad, when I notice him staring straight ahead. Staring at Ana.
I roll my eyes.
“Sorry. You’re on your own.” I pat his back as he grumpily strolls off to the ice where the other singles skaters are practicing today.
_________
I start walking toward Ana, who’s sitting on the bench outside the rink’s skate shop, already in her workout apparel.
As I approach her, I notice how she’s ripping the crust off her peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, the same way she’s done since kindergarten.
A comment I paid her with back then resurfaces in my mind.
The crust has all the vitamins, gibbles, I had said to her during recess. “Gibbles” being my first nickname for Ana. There was no reasoning behind it, it just sounded right at the time.
Because you’re a nutritionist? she had snapped at me.
Actually, I am, I had confidently dished back, at the wise age of seven.
The reminder of our conversation strikes up inspiration for right now.
“You know, all the vitamins are in the crust,” I tell Ana, as I plop down onto the bench across from her.
She glares up at me.
“How interesting,” she says, holding my gaze, while she rips off the last edge of crust left on her sandwich.
I laugh.
“You know, that wasn’t even true.”
“What isn’t true?” I take one of the pieces of crust and drop it into my mouth, curious.
“What you said before. About crust having all the vitamins.”
Amusement takes over my expression. “You mean, you went and fact-checked me when we were in elementary school?”
“Well, yeah. That’s what you do when you’re in constant communication with a moron.”
I choke on the half-chewed piece of bread still in my mouth.
“Ready to go skate, gibbles?” She licks the strawberry jam off her thumb, cooly, as she lifts up from the bench.
I sit there. Wide-eyed that she remembers. She remembers the nickname, and for a second, it feels like I’m levitating.
_________
Ana
Colette’s already waiting for us by the gate when Troy and I enter the rink.
“I’m excited to finally see this routine come to life!” Colette cheers our way, as we slip off our blade guards.
I, too, am excited. Mostly nervous, though.
Per our coaches orders, we weren’t allowed to skate this routine until our ice dance instructor gave us the green light.
While both rebels at heart, even we understood, this time, we were at a deadlock.
To keep our coaches and our sanity, we obeyed this once.
Which means, the nerves are spinning in my stomach at the moment, unsure how all the lifts and moves we’ve honed for the past few weeks will translate on the ice now.
Once we’re standing on center ice, Colette says, “Okay, today and tomorrow we’re mostly going to work on your foot work and try and squeeze in a few lifts. Then the rest of the week, we will practice everything together. Edge work is everything in ice dancing, so really try and perfect this today.”
Troy and I nod in agreement.
“Great. I’ll go start the music.” Colette skates off toward the bleachers.
“I hope we can move on from this routine soon,” I tell Troy. “It feels like it’s never-ending.”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll be done in no time. I’ve been told my edge work’s incredible.”
I scoff, shaking my head.
Leave it to Troy Larsson to make a common skating term sound like a sexual innuendo.
Troy and I skate to our starting positions as Colette returns.
When we finally begin, we’re, well…
We’re a mess.
Sloppy foot work. Skating off-beat to the music. And loose tango movements that were sharp in the studio. Our edge work sucks.
“Shit, this is brutal,” I grit out. Just an hour in, and my hands are wrapped around my knees while I’m hunched over.
I pick up on Troy’s deep breathing. “If this is karma for when I said ice dancing’s easy, I have learned my lesson already,” he mutters toward the rink’s high ceiling.
Two hours later and seemingly a thousand laps around the rink, noticeable improvements are made to our entire form.
The foot work’s getting easier, allowing our focus to shift over to our posture.
That’s where I start to struggle again. Troy helps out, pressing his weight tighter to me.
Even with the additional support from his body, the muscles along my right hip start burning.
Before Troy notices me clutch my belly, our practice comes to an end for the day. After a quick goodbye, I sail off the ice calmly as I sprint to the women’s locker room.
_________
Warm compresses to my lower stomach combined with the deep breathing techniques that I’ve memorized for my anxiety, and I manage to collect myself decently enough to enter the rink’s public view again.
I reach the double-ended hallway, bumping into Naomi, my ears suddenly picking up on the eerie sound of my ice dancing instructor’s voice that’s echoing from the opposite side of the pathway.
Pulling Naomi aside so that we’re out of sight, I notice a man walk up to Colette. I’ve never seen him before. That prickling of suspicion returns about our instructor that crept onto me the other day.
“Who are we hiding from?” Naomi asks, confusion lifting her brows.
“That’s Colette. Our instructor I was telling you about,” I explain. “Do you know who that guy is?”
“Nope. Never seen him before.” Naomi studies the skeptical look on my expression. “Maybe it’s just her brother, or her boyfriend. Or a new staff member here.”
Those are all logical guesses. But that bitter taste in my mouth only grows as they move further away from us before they disappear from view altogether.
“Where are you going?” Naomi asks me as I walk toward their direction.
“To see where they’re going,” I say.
She takes a deep breath, curiosity and nerves jumping in her eyes.
“I feel like we need Elle for moments like these because someone needs to remind us to not make stupid decisions.” She sighs before marching ahead of me. “Let’s go.”
When we reach the intersection of the adjoining hallways, Naomi and I take a guess toward the pathway they must’ve followed.
A door creaks open before we jump out of view again.
It’s the supply closet. And Colette and the guy come out of it, the guy’s curly dark blonde hair now disheveled as Colette fixes the bust of her leotard.
He wipes off her red lipstick stain from his cheek, revealing a spot that looks like it could be a birthmark from afar.
“So, it was her lover, then…” Naomi snorts, patting my back comfortingly. “See, you have nothing to worry about.”
The nerves tensing at my spine all settle at the irrational fear I was worrying over. I really am losing it.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I say.
There’s nothing to worry about.