CHAPTER 50
Ana
I’M BLAMING MAJOR sleep deprivation on the reckless decision I’m about to make.
I stride past a sweaty Emi and Sasha in the rink’s lobby, while making my way toward the reserved private room in the back of the building near the coaches’ offices. Not even halfway there, and I fall into step with Troy.
“What if you have someone over?” I blurt.
“Excuse me?” He swings his head to face me, waiting for the missing context.
“At your apartment,” I clarify. “If I stay with you. What if you have a girl over?”
He smirks, and all I hear is,
Ah...
“Then I’d say ‘you’re welcome’ for the show.” He wraps an arm around me to really sell the horrid vision.
“I’m serious.” I shrug him off. “What if I have someone over?”
He grimaces. “Then I’d cover my ears with tinfoil and get a barf bag. Are we done with the twenty questions?”
“That’s not how you play—never mind.” I exhale deeply, regretting this before the words even land. “Okay, I accept your offer.”
His eyes gleam with both curiosity and arrogance. “Why the sudden change of heart? You weren’t too enthusiastic about the idea before.”
I’m still not…
“Did you mull it over and realize you’d have a higher chance of seeing me naked if we shared an apartment for a bit?”
“No, jackass. I walked in—actually Eloise’s dad walked in on me organizing my calendar, while he was naked.”
A laugh rips from Troy’s throat. “What?”
“Yeah.”
“So, what did you think?”
He gestures like I should know the answer to his stupid question.
Realization dawns on me.
“You’re gross.”
“What?” He lifts his shoulders in defense.
“I’m not commenting on my friend’s dad’s penis.”
“Ana, sucking the fun out of everything as usual,” he relents, swaying his head with distaste. “So…you’re staying with me, then?”
“I guess.”
He scoffs.
“Don’t be weird about it.”
“I’m not.”
Troy follows me into the vacant room as we begin to stretch before our coaches arrive.
He clasps onto an ankle, folding his calve against a hamstring, while I drop to the floor.
Sprawling my legs into a split position, I angle my chest forward until my nose is only an inch from the ground.
“So, how much would I owe you each month for rent? My shifts have been all over the place lately, but I just got some extra hours so I’ll have a better idea of what I’ll have by the end of this month—”
“Ana.”
“And the repairs should be done in less than two months, I think—”
“Ana.”
“I would’ve paid you upfront, but I just paid the deposit that I had saved up for my long program costume, so I’ll just need a few months to pay you back—”
“Ana.” Troy cuts off my rant, the firmness of his voice startling me. I peel my chest off the floor and meet his gaze.
“What?”
“I’m not charging you to stay with me.”
“Why?”
He quirks a brow at me. “You want me to?”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s no big deal, really. You’d do the same for me.”
My brows knit together. “Would I?”
“Probably not, but it seemed like the polite thing to say.”
I scoff out a laugh, rising to my feet. “You think you’re polite?”
“I can be.” He leans forward. With two fingers, he traps the loose wave that dangles off my shoulder, twirling through its ends. “Sometimes.”
I swallow. And still feel my heartbeat hammering at the base of my throat when he removes his hand. “Thank you.”
“Yeah.” Troy slips away to search through the pile of foam rollers in the corner, selecting a long, cylinder-shaped one.
He lowers himself to his knees, sliding the giant lodge behind his hamstrings.
My ankle crosses over the other at the sight of his palms engraving against the cushioned floor, the veins along his arms doing a stellar job at boasting his intimidating strength.
He lets out a puff of exertion, and my legs squeeze before a thought suddenly occurs to me.
“Wait,” I announce, my throat considerably drier. “I have a cat.”
He’s mid-stretch at the reveal. “You have a cat?”
“A kitten, actually. Would it be alright if I brought her? If it’s a problem, I can see if Naomi wouldn’t mind keeping her for a bit.” I grab my own roller, stretching my quads over the steady foam.
“You can bring your cat, Petrov,” he accepts. “But I draw the line at flamingos.”
I laugh at the familiar reference, turning over my shoulder.
He must feel my eyes on him because Troy twists his neck to meet my gaze.
A bolt of static electricity rips across my chest. But it’s because of the gesture, his generosity.
Not about him. That’s what I remind myself.
He’s the same person who took advantage of the same resources he’s extending me with now.
The same person who made me bawl my eyes out in high school over those things. At the reminder, the spark fizzles.
Sokolov strolls into the room, putting a pin on the momentary distraction. Troy and I shift away from each other.
“I will work with you both in here, and then you will train on the ice with Rina.”
Coach Sokolov rarely precedes with a greeting of any sort—you’re lucky if you get a full grin and not just a half-smile from her—today appearing to be no exception.
Troy and I nod as she continues, “We’ll start with a double twist lift so that you’re ready to do a triple on the ice.”
She reaches into her bag, revealing a small portable speaker. It’s not long before the chilled room floods with classical music. Though, not our song for this routine, nor do off-ice practices typically involve a background track, Coach Sokolov always says,
“This will set the mood.”
Yeah, that.
She smacks a palm against her other as if snapping us out of any thoughts that won’t assist in nailing a twist lift. “Focus on hand placement. Your hold must be razor-sharp. Okay. Begin.”
JTRRC.
Jump. Throw. Release. Rotate. Catch.
I recite the sequence in my head. Without the momentum from the ice, a series of vertical and deep squat jumps help me prep for the hop needed for the entry.
Feeling my pair and our coach silently score my movements, Troy rolls back his shoulders, awaiting the throw.
He extends out his arms, offering me the support of his body.
Mine does its best to replicate a Lutz jump sans toe-pick as Troy’s hands find their way on either side of my waist, lifting me up.
When my eyes land on his from above, it hardly register that I’m now on the same team as my rival.
That my focus is anywhere other than on this element we’re performing.
These movements are lighting quick. Yet, I have enough time to kill, glossing in his eyes searching for an unknown feeling.
The moment breaks. It’s that quick, after all.
A different kind of perspiration takes root when my hands settle over his, digging into his wrists to propel myself higher.
He absorbs my force, taking every ounce of pressure I give him until I’m at maximum height.
That’s when he releases me to twist freely in the air, one rotation, two, and a breath later, his fingers bolt tight enough along the same spot on my waist, catching me on the descent.
Close, very close, but our bodies don’t touch, the way they’re not supposed to—thank God they’re not supposed to touch in this one.
“Not bad,” our coach judges. “But I’ve seen much better.”
Believe or not, those words are constructive criticism when delivered from Elena Sokolov’s voice.
“Your legs must be tighter during the rotation, Ana.” I nod, the expectation in her tone motivating me going into our second attempt. “And Troy, I want your instincts to be even sharper. That way, if Ana makes a mistake, it won’t be as noticeable for judges to detect.”
I meet Troy’s gaze as he nods in response to our coach’s comment.
My face leaps away from his, too embarrassed to swallow the pity that’s sure to be singing from his eyes.
A twist lift was never my weak link. Same goes for a variety of other elements that once were a piece of cake for me.
But my body isn’t the same now, my mind even farther from recognition, not that any of this matters to the panel of vipers who’ll decide our fates come February. I’m just going to have to work harder.
Returning to our starting positions, we repeat the twist lift until I spot my sweat meld into Troy’s skin.
Olympic season has barely begun, and I already feel my fatigue kicking in.
At least I nailed the twist portion of our lift now, my legs tucked to the hilt after a seventh try.
Three more than I’d hoped to complete. But that’s the skating biz for you.
Without overexertion, good luck reaching that coveted Olympic podium.
Sokolov scans her phone, focused, while Troy and I recover with two bottles of room temperature water, electrolytes added in mine, drinking up quickly to make it to the ice on time for the second half of practice with our other coach.
As we’re approaching the exit, the reminder of the element I spotted through the rink’s glass after running into Sasha and Emi earlier pushes my curiosity.
The triple twist lift—to be exact—that I spotted Katya and Max showcasing is what tips me to ask the risky thought.
“Can we try a quad?” I direct to both of them.
Both walking ahead, Troy’s face mirrors Sokolov’s bewildered expression, as they turn over their shoulders to face me. As if I just suggested we perform something as absurd as a backflip on the ice.
“A quadruple twist lift?” Troy criticizes, his brows raised.
“I’m afraid that’s too risky,” our coach mirrors.
“Well, our double is solid now, and our teams have had the highest triple this year,” I point out. “Plus, it’s allowed in the Games.”
A fact they’re both aware of. The skater who broke her nose at the last Games attempting the highly daring and rare element with her partner is another fact I’d bet they’re both recalling at my request.
“Troy?” Sokolov says.
Of course, she decides to consult with the man.
Troy looks at me with this expression that’s hard to read. Confused, a little? Impressed, maybe. But he ultimately shakes his head.
“I don’t think it makes sense. We don’t need it. We can still win without it.”
“But we’ll have a better chance to win with it.”
“Or…fuck up the chance we already have.”
“Are you scared that you’ll mess it up?”
Something changes in his eyes, and now I see what’s usually in those green orbs. Pure, fiery challenge.
“You can’t even land your triple axel yet, and now you’re proposing we do a quad lift?” His subtle laugh is pure condescension. “It’s better we don’t. I admire the ambition, though, dearest.”
Cocky moron doesn’t know that I did land my triple axel. Still not sharing this information with him, though.
For a twist lift, a double is great, a triple, impressive.
But a quad? That’s sure to get the crowds, judges, and press buzzing.
Pushing the boundaries, cultivating artistry that’s timeless but also fresh, is essential and the only way an older athlete can keep up with the “young,” 23 being ancient in our sport.
So a double is fine, a triple, good. But good isn’t good enough anymore.