CHAPTER 46
Ana
THE DEATH SPIRAL was the final skating element Ethan and I nailed right before our infamous overhead lift that gifted me with intensive hip surgery.
The spiral is the same element Troy and I were going to repeat any minute now. If my muscles had just reacted a bit sooner, Troy wouldn’t have caught a glimpse of me shaking like a weak little duckling yesterday. And now today.
Stephanie’s voicemail from earlier this morning could probably have something to do with why I’m currently heaving over a white faucet in the women’s locker room, excusing myself for another bathroom break just twenty minutes into our personal hour of practice.
Hi Ana, it’s Stephanie. I’m calling from—
That’s all I got.
I stopped listening after that. There was no use in listening to the rest of it. Not when I practically have the remainder of the script memorized by now.
Between the voicemail and the skating element, it was enough to tip me over the edge. Literally.
I tap sprinkles of water across my cheeks and temple to prevent the panic from filtering throughout the rest of my body.
Music tends to also help soothe me in my unprecedented outbursts of panic.
I reach for my locker, rummaging through my gym bag for the device.
Once I find my phone, I unlock the screen to a message notification from another unknown number, this eerie pattern only continuing each year into the sport.
There’s no written message this time, instead a single link.
Normally I’d never click on a random link sent from a clearly scam number. But the article preview taunts me with what lies on the other end of me stupidly clicking on this URL.
I do it.
_________
Reaching back to the rink, I skate toward Troy, my mind still twisted in regret for clicking on that damn article.
I had no business fishing for shit, but I did.
Turns out it was a short clip taken from the Faerieladle official sports channel.
The video loops in my head, all its impaling words, as I glide over to Troy.
Commentator #1: That’s why there’s barely any tall female skaters. Look at the greats. They’re mostly short. Ana’s weight is bigger since PyeongChang, so that’s why her posture is even worse now. No hate, though, it’s just a tall girl problem. But that’s why figure skating isn’t a tall girl sport.
Commentator #2: Please, you’re acting like the girl is six foot. She’s five eight.
Commentator #3: In figure skating, she might as well be
six foot...
Commentator #2: No, the reason she’s not as good lately isn’t because of her height. Or her weight. There’s just way more talented skaters now. You can’t lag behind. You gotta stay hungry for it, and she just doesn’t have IT anymore, you know?
Commentator #1: Don’t forget, she’s 23. She’s getting way too old for skating real soon.
“Ana, your shoulders.”
Troy’s voice cuts through my mental rerun of the damning flashbacks from the podcast.
“Yeah? What else?” I snap without thought. “Tell me, what else am I doing wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s just—”
“My shoulders? That’s all?” It’s like I can’t stop.
“‘Cause it feels like you have a problem with every move I make.” I take a step back with anger, too frustrated to have any logical handle on my emotions right now.
“Have you ever considered saying something positive about my skating, Troy? Or does it really make you that happy shitting on everything I do, huh?”
His brows furrow abruptly. “Ana, I didn’t—”
“I think we should cut today’s practice short.”
“Ana.”
I skate away, plagued in a world of my own.
_________
I have never felt guilty about my behavior around Troy, not once. But I feel bad for snapping at him during yesterday’s practice. Though, it did feel like he keeps picking on me for the smallest of details.
The overhead lift went smoothly when our coaches were around, but it doesn’t kill the nerves that are poking at me knowing we’re going to keep practicing it on our own now.
Combining a few elements we’ve already learned, Troy and I skate past the boards, our hands rotating as our legs shift. A camel spin later, we set up the lift with twizzles. As our speed picks up, I push onto his tight shoulder blades before he hoists me up into the air.
That electrifying feeling of steadily levitating like this evaporates the second my eyes spot the ice. It’s the same sinking gut feeling you get being at a high altitude and looking down, feeling disoriented enough to where you sense you are falling, when you aren’t in fact,
No, I am fall—
I feel myself lunging forward, my voice so startled it cuts off any sound from falling off my lips. For a split second I see my body faceplanting right onto the ice, before I feel a strong weight plunge beneath me.
My entire body shakes, my breathing erratic as I try and push the air back into my lungs. It doesn’t register to me that Troy took the fall for me until I feel his strong weight below.
Kneeled down on the ice, he doesn’t let go of his tight grip around my shoulders from behind me. I cautiously turn, glancing up. I meet his eyes that look like all they’re waiting to see is if I’m okay.
“What happened to accidentally letting me fall?” I say lightheartedly, trying to brush off the knotted tension.
His gaze is honest, without humor. “I would never let you fall, Ana.”
My whole heart stills, I think.
Troy lifts me back up and starts patting off the slushes of ice from his pants.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my pulse still thudding.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“My ass might be sore tomorrow. But other than that, everything’s good.”
I give a soft smile. “Okay, good. Thank you. For not letting me fall.”
He just looks at me. I hate that I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
“Your layback spin,” Troy says. “It’s the best in the game.”
“What?”
“You told me all I do is complain about how you skate.” His gaze drops to mine, catching me off guard. “Your layback spin is perfection. It was perfect when we were kids. And it still is. No one does it like you.”
My heart patters.
I can’t remember a time I was at a loss for words around Troy, but I am right now. Still staring at him, I realize I haven’t replied yet.
“Uh, thanks,” I say.
“Later, Petrov.”