CHAPTER 45
Troy
I’M GONE FIFTEEN minutes, and Ana has decided to shit on me for the things I thought we’d moved past. She thinks I’m happy wasting my damn time on a discipline that isn’t the one I’ve spent my entire life busting my ass for?
Maybe I’m more pissed, knowing she thinks that low of me, where any girl is fair game to me.
Bringing up Violet as if it’s somehow my fault that I didn’t want to sleep with her? My anger deepens at the rewind of her words.
I extend my hand toward Ana, tense. She takes it sharply as our eyes meet in roughness.
Two sets of three-turns complete, I let go of her, preparing the start of our first lift.
I hook an arm around the back of her knee, lunging her tightly toward me, before rotating her around my waist twice.
Her skates finally reach the ice again in a single crisp outward turn as we both shift around.
Several ice dance elements later, we meet, nose-to-nose.
Lips dangerously close, chests sliding along the other.
Any previous ring of lust during this routine is replaced with sole intensity.
We both sense it. That was our strongest skate yet.
“Nicely done.”
Breaths still heaving, Ana and I dart over our shoulders to the sound of Coach Yamamoto’s voice. She’s sitting at the bottom of the bleachers right by the gate, clapping.
We skate over to where she’s seated.
“Tomorrow. At 8 am,” she announces. “We will start your routines.”
“But Coach Sokolov said we have to wait longer,” I say, shocked.
“See you both at 8 am tomorrow.” Coach Yamamoto pays us a soft smile before she lifts to her feet and disappears into the tunnel.
I take a seat on the bleachers, strapping my blade guards on. Ana looks at me, perplexed, but also apologetic.
“Finally,” she deflects. “We can finally move on.”
“Thanks to me,” I say.
“Thanks to you?” she gawks out, the remorse on her face disappearing.
“Yes. That’s what I just said.” I lift back to my feet and start walking backwards. “Although, your foot work was a lot better today than most days. Good work, Ana.”
_________
Our coaches are already on the center of the ice the following morning, standing firm in their skates.
The intimidation on their faces is palpable even from the gate Ana and I just stepped over.
They’re also wearing their signature wardrobes.
Yamamoto in her deep green puffer jacket and brown bell bottoms. Sokolov in her onyx faux fur coat and tapered black pants.
Once we skate over to them, Coach Sokolov cuts the salutations, and announces, “You’re going to do an ABBA medley for your short program.”
How original. Everyone and their mother skates to ABBA. It’s a well-known fact in the figure skating community, especially for pairs. I know better than to argue about this, though. We’re already on thin ice with our coaches, and I’m not about to fuck with our progress over the music selection.
“What songs?” I ask.
“‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight), which will then transition into ‘The Winner Takes it All.’”
“The Winter Takes it All” was my mother’s favorite song from the band. A solemn weight starts to push down on my chest. It gradually dissolves, knowing how much she would’ve loved to have a front row seat in this skate.
“What about for our long program?” Ana asks.
“We’ll leave that up to you two to decide,” Coach Yamamoto chimes in.
“We have structured everything for you to stay organized and catch up with the time we’ve lost,” Sokolov explains.
“We know you’ve both grown restless these past few days, but this experience was good for you.
Now you know there’s no time left to waste.
If it happens again, it will cost you both.
Now go and warm up. Then we will begin with death spirals and camel spins. ”
Warmups are quiet and extremely loud at the same time.
For each remark Ana and I spare the other from, we make up for in testing glances.
Challenging which one of us will be the first who loses their chill.
Ending with twizzles, our matched pursed lips threaten to crack open with a jab if we don’t step away from each other.
I expected the brief peace between us to dissolve in seconds. It’s how it’s always been for Ana and me. An explosion of emotions, not capable of being tamed even by our strong-willed coaches.
Hand-in-hand, we glide toward the center of the ice, prepping for the entry with crossovers.
Anchoring a skate into the white block of steel, I extend my arm toward Ana.
She projects her free leg outward, arching her body into my pivot point.
But when her head doesn’t reach the level of her skating knee, confusion takes over.
I’ve teased her frame during this element before, but it was always mild.
Now her frame is, I hate to say it, sloppy.
I want to say something, but I’m also the last person who Ana likes receiving criticism from.
I hold my weight tighter to help compensate for the balance she’s losing so that she doesn’t slip from my grip.
When her body is upright again, I carefully say, “Try and arch your back more next time.”
Her brows raise in defense. “Why? The spiral was fine.”
“It was okay. Your back wasn’t low enough.”
“But you were perfect, right?”
“I never said that.”
“It’s how you sound.”
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with patience. “I was holding you tighter than I should’ve, and that could cause us an accident in the middle of the routine,” I level. “If you just lower your back a little, the spiral will be great.”
Her gaze drops from mine. “Fine. Let’s do it again.”
Ana skates off, already setting up the next spiral with more crossovers. Confusion fills me when I sense a slight hurt over her face, one she’d usually replace with an insult or five. When I join her, she turns toward me, so determined, I question if I was seeing things a second ago.
I extend my hand for Ana to take, and she lifts her fingers before she rests them along my palm. My eyes dart to her hand, feeling it start to tremble. I peel my gaze back to her face, my heart speeding with trepidation. When she detects my concern, she jerks her hand away.
“Uh, I gotta go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” she yells over her shoulder, racing toward the gate before I have a chance to stop her.
Once she leaves, the one thought that shouts in my mind is about her scar. If this is related to it. A flurry of panic and paranoia springs back to my chest.
_________
The following day’s practice is heavy on the foot work. Which means it helps take the edge off our muscles in prep for the lifts we’re working on tomorrow. But thanks to the second deal that Ana and I struck together—per her request—we have an extra hour of practice after practice ends.
That practice is now.
We skate to the center of the ice, beginning the opening choreography of the performance that we learned just hours ago.
I wrap an arm around her lower back, just above the trace of her burgundy leotard, feeling her skin shift beneath my touch.
With my other, I clasp her hand with mine.
Her fingers start trembling again. Ana’s eyes pop open in fear, her chest rising, before I smooth them over with the pad of my thumb until her skin relaxes.
“I’m fine,” she slip out, dropping her gaze to our hands.
“You don’t look fine,” I say cautiously.
Her eyes shoot back up at me, firm. “I’m fine.”