CHAPTER 44
Ana
THERE’S A FIFTY percent chance we won’t get what we want.
Troy and my hopes are high, but our skating fates currently lie in the hands of Elena Sokolov and Rina Yamamoto.
I’ve been running on a mix of adrenaline and doubt all morning, while Troy and I wait in the rink’s hallway outside of Coach Sokolov’s office.
She’s currently on a call, and afterward, we’ll have the chance to receive the outcome we want: to convince our coaches that we’re ready for their evaluation of our ice dance routine (aka, we can finally move onto preparation for our figure skating Olympic routines).
Growing impatient, I lean against Sokolov’s office door, pressing my cheeks against the cold mahogany to discern whether or not she’s almost done.
When my brows furrow in frustration, Troy sidles up to me, standing by my side.
“Ana, we got this,” he says, confident. “I brought us a secret weapon.” I drop my gaze to the paper bag he’s stretched open for me.
Inside, there’s two plastic tubs of flaky puff pastries glazed with crushed pistachios. “Coach loves Baklava.”
“Yeah, like a few store-bought desserts is going to do anything,” I sigh out.
“Store-bought?” Troy jolts back, raising his brows. “That might be the biggest insult you’ve ever given me, Petrov. I made these.”
I furrow my brows at him, disbelieving. He made these? As in, Troy Larsson knows how to bake?
Troy could have a point about the dessert. With every woman going all googly-eyed over him, what makes Coach Sokolov any different? I doubt that she’d be the one woman immune from this guy’s irritating magnetism.
Sokolov’s door cracks open, and she finally ushers us inside.
“Elena,” Troy drawls, giving our co-coach an extra charm-infused smile. He places the tubs of gooey desserts on her front desk before he takes his seat beside me.
Coach Sokolov eyes the pastries, full poker-face, every second drawing more unease from my nerves. Then she sets them aside, folding her arms to her chest, leaning tight against the steel of her desk.
“What did you need?” she says.
No, hi. No, nothing.
Her omission of a greeting intensifies my nerves, making me rethink our entire request.
“Troy and I,” I begin, cautiously, “have been practicing our ice dance nonstop, and we feel pretty good with where we’re at. We were wondering if you and Coach Yamamoto might consider starting our official training sooner?”
“Is that it?” Coach Sokolov drags her gaze slowly from me then to Troy, and then back to me.
Confusion fills me more than anything as Troy responds, “Well, yeah. So what do you say?”
“No.”
No?
“No?” I repeat out loud.
“Yes, no,” she affirms.
“But,” Troy trails off, startled, “I thought you liked Baklava.”
“I do.” Coach Sokolov pops the lid off one of the plastic tubs, taking a bite of the flaky pastry. My temple only creases further. “It hasn’t been two months yet,” she reminds, her voice stern.
“But Coach—” I try to persuade.
“It hasn’t been two months yet. Now, I am busy, and you have practice to continue.” She taps her palms together, brushing off the sugar and flakes. “Thank you for the Baklava.”
Troy’s eyes strain, trying his best not to glare at her. Our shoulders both slumped, we leave our unbudging coach’s office in silent frustration.
_________
Our ice dance instructor’s duties are done. Every other skater at this rink who’s potentially expected to perform at the upcoming Winter Olympic is making progress with their routines. Meanwhile, Troy and I are still stuck skating the unnecessary routine we’ve practically memorized by now.
Colette’s last day was yesterday, the day after The Fourth of July.
Two hours into practice, and Troy and I are in desperate need of a recharge.
We part ways for our 15-minute break, while I unlace my skates to massage the soles of my feet.
My whole body tends to flare up the more anxious I feel—like after that highly disappointing convo we had not too long ago with one of our coaches.
Slumping on the bottom row of the rink’s bleachers, I lift a leg, pressing the ball of my knee to my chest. My fingers curl around my toes that are poking out from my ripped beige tights, letting out a gasp of relief as the budding tension there releases.
I whine from the sting when I realize my fingers are applying too much pressure into my heels.
Slipping my hands up my skirt, I wipe off the blood against the inside of the silk.
“Wait…No…Were you two just ice dancing?”
My hands jump out of the fabric at the sound of Tatiana’s sharp voice from behind me.
Embarrassment creeps over my skin as she strolls around, until she’s facing me. The confidence dripping from the platinum blonde’s berry pout evaporates my own the longer she stares at me. Waiting for me to respond.
“It’s just temporary,” I push out, feeling pressured to say something.
“You two are so fucked.” Tatiana lifts her hands to her hair, tightening the grip of her sleek ponytail.
“And I thought with Troy, you had I guess, somewhat of a chance on winning again, but now? Wow. At least you’re helping me secure the Bronze, Ana.
Thanks.” Her icy blonde hair drops back to her shoulders in one strident swoosh before she prances off, smiling.
The only positive outcome about the rink’s recent expansion that Violet’s mother, Sylvie, orchestrated with the help of The Academy’s director, Fontaine, is the added privacy it allowed skaters to have from one another and from the hockey team.
There’s a ton more ice here now. Most rinks have to share the ice with each other, including with the public who visit the rink for their leisurely pleasure.
Still, with the number of skaters that train here across all levels, we’re bound to share the ice more often than not. I’d share the rink with almost anyone if that meant I would never, ever run into a member of the Icy Trio again.
Tatiana finding out that Troy and I aren’t practicing our skating discipline is even worse than when Violet questioned why Troy and I hadn’t hit the ice together yet.
Now the girls can put the embarrassing puzzle together: Troy and Ana haven’t been at the rink as much lately, since they were practicing ice dance choreography at the rec center.
I almost wish we were still rehearsing at the studio.
That would at least delay the girls’ inevitable insults.
Thanks to Tatiana’s interruption, there’s just seven minutes left in my break.
Scrambling, I try and quickly finish my stretches.
This way, I have a few minutes to rehydrate and grab a quick snack.
Lifting an arm, I flex it over my head, creating a moon-like shape.
I lean into my side to really loosen the muscles along my waist, when the weight of another skater’s presence fills the corner of the bleachers.
In the same position, I poke my head forward to detect the most recent passerby. Antonio. He’s emerging from the rink’s tunnel, flicking his gaze on me, a curved half-smile glazed across his lips.
“Ana, lookin’ good,” he smooths out, his eyes slyly lingering over to my bare collarbone.
My heartrate speeds anxiously. There’s that brush of flattery again, that makes me feel…
sexy. It quickly morphs into shame, remembering the stories I’ve heard about him and his friends.
Like that one singles skater, Bella Hughes, who dropped out of The Academy last year, after Antonio and Nathan (allegedly) shared nude pictures of her with the rest of the male skaters at our rink and even with the Hummingbirds.
I felt awful for Bella. Tatiana and Natalia berated her ruthlessly behind her back when the figure skater left, calling her weak.
But that wasn’t fair. Bella’s privacy was violated, and I couldn’t imagine ever showing my face here again, knowing every single guy at the rink had seen a naked photo of me without my consent.
Bunching my shoulders together, I push the tight straps of my black leotard higher to cover my slight cleavage, feeling a sudden chilled exposure.
_________
After munching on a packet of stale trail mix in the lobby, I return back to the rink.
One thorough scan of the bleachers, and still no sign of Troy yet.
I peel off my blade guards and step onto the ice, immediately mesmerized by Sasha and Marc practicing before me.
Marc confidently throws his partner into the air.
Tight, crossed arms and ankles, impressive height, two mid-air lighting-speed rotations, and Sasha’s skates glide back onto the pale surface.
A smooth outward turn shaping a corner of the boards, Sasha gives me a small, cordial grin on the heels of their throw jump. It takes me a decent moment to smile back, stunned by how utterly flawless her landing was.
Wow. Fucked. We are so fucked.
Violet and Ethan are for sure placing at the upcoming Winter Games in Milan. If not first, then second.
Canadian superstars, Celeste Walsh and Aaron Donovan are also for sure placing. If not second, then third.
That leaves Tatiana and Nathan. If they win the Bronze for pairs figure skating, then that would mean Troy and I wouldn’t even reach the podium.
I picture the outcome. Really envision the probability of that happening.
It’s mid-July, and we haven’t even started a single element.
Meanwhile, Sasha and Marc are already out here impressing with technically outstanding pairs jumps.
Sasha and Marc aren’t expected to qualify for the Games due to their lower-than anticipated rankings at Worlds earlier this March.
But there’s still more competitions left.
The Grand Prix in December alone is reason enough to panic by Troy and my stagnant progress.
My breathing grows jagged, and I shut my eyes immediately to focus on each inhale, each exhale. Breathe in. At the sound of Troy’s voice, my eyes drop open. Breathe out.
“You’re late,” I say.
“Sorry, I was finishing up a call,” he says.
“I don’t care,” I snap. “You’re late. And we’re behind.”
Troy pauses to look at me, trying to determine what happened during the 15 minutes while he was gone to warrant my sudden pissy mood.
“Uh, is everything good?” he finally musters, skeptical.
“Good?” My eyes widen in frustration. “Does this look good to you? You and me not practicing a single pairs jump, when it’s almost August.”
“No, it doesn’t. I’m just as pissed about that as you are.”
“I knew we should’ve asked Rina instead.”
“We already discussed that. If Elena didn’t approve, Rina couldn’t do anything.”
“Okay, yes, but maybe Rina could’ve tried to convince Elena,” I reason. “Better than we clearly could.”
“No one can convince Elena on anything. Hence, why I spent my entire evening last night baking those desserts for her, hoping it would help.”
My mind is speeding, blocking out Troy’s words. “You know, none of this would’ve happened if it wasn’t for you.”
I spot the hurt that appears in his eyes. Troy straightens his posture, matching the serious tone I’ve had since he returned. “Our situation is just as much my fault as it is yours.”
“Really? Because Ethan and I were doing just fine before your partner screwed everything up. Now we’re in this mess because of the one time you decided to reject a hook-up, it just happened to be with the girl who’s determined to ruin us both.”
Anger spreads over Troy’s face, his jaw tight.
“You’re cutting into our practice,” he says, skating away to the starting position of our ice dance.