CHAPTER 58
Ana
TIME HAS NO meaning once you’re in the trenches of Olympic season.
I’ve been jumpier than usual, probably a result of the major side-eye I got from three skating pairs over our Challenger series results, though none of their reactions quite matched that of Violet’s.
If you could see her face when we ran into each other in the locker room. The shake of fear would have served as a personal confidence boost if the prospect of retaliation wasn’t in the picture. Which with Violet Dupont is guaranteed after a disappointment. After you disappointed her.
Coach Sokolov also showed Troy and me more mercy than she tends to give out, just a handful of repeats of our short program and two lifts from the free skate, post-practice skating resuming quicker than usual, which typically, I’d like to squeeze as many repetitions into a session, but the jet lag’s brutal today, so it feels like an ongoing post-win gift.
“You’re going to the Gala, right?” Troy asks, while we’re rounding the boards, our blades gritting roughly into the ice as we approach the gate.
The annual Winter Gala. The gala that serves as a fundraiser for the most profitable sports in Faerieladle, a night where rich families bring their rich offspring who compete for the attention of rich investors so that their cycle of selective funding may continue.
The event also branded for the winter but held in the middle of autumn, like a damn fashion show from an outrageously expensive designer brand whose collections never align with the actual seasons.
Never attended a single one, which, to be fair, wasn’t completely my decision when the dress code never fit items remotely near my budget.
So, no I will not be attending the Winter Gala that’s meticulously designed for town members of higher rank.
Still I decide to have a little fun with my skating partner.
“Are you asking me to a dance, Troy?” I tease.
His lazy half-smirk pushes a knot to my throat.
“I know how badly you’ve dreamed of this moment since we were in middle school,” he says, giving me a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. “Sorry it took me so long to get around to it.”
I jerk my arm away with an eye roll.
Obnoxious man.
“I can’t go. I’m working that night.” Which is the truth, though if my manager Zoe knew of the invitation she’d probably shut down the diner for the night to make sure I’d go. Which is why I’m also not telling her.
“It’s one night,” Troy complains. “Can’t you just switch your schedule?”
I could.
“Nope. My manager’s pretty strict with our hours, but I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun tormenting, I mean, charming—” He rolls his eyes, “—someone else.” I repay Troy with a pat on the back, strapping my blade guards on before I approach the rink’s tunnel.
Over my shoulder, I hear him call out, “If you change your mind, let me know.”
I raise a thumb into the air as a reply, knowing that between today and a week from now, my answer won’t be changing.
_________
Did Ice Princess just change her Olympic fate?
The title of Pippa Collins’ Challenger series column is pounding in my ears ever since I left the rink, on account of the Faerieladle Waves Pod dissecting the headline printed just hours ago.
The Campus Radio team echoed Collins’ article summary that I hoped to unread, unanimously deciding that if Troy and I skate just as “flawlessly” at the Grand Prix, the Winter Gold is practically ours.
If we skate flawlessly at our first Grand Prix event.
If we skate flawlessly at our second Grand Prix event.
If we make it and then skate flawlessly at the Grand Prix Final.
So many ifs and not much time left.
Stop thinking about the outcome.
I shake myself in the pile of books and bandages, studying for midterms in the guest room before the jumble of self-loathing decided to attack my brain without warning.
The bandages, for the heel of my foot and toes that have flared up majorly again between the dryness from traveling and the heavy non-stop impact to my skin from our practices. But I’ll push through, like always.
Streaks of cold water run down my ankles, wiggling the pack of frozen carrots from beneath me that I snagged from the freezer to numb the pain.
I set the dripping plastic that was chosen out of convenience aside, lifting off the bed to return it to the kitchen before Troy wonders why he’s missing a bag of vegetables.
As soon as I reach the stairs, I reconsider the whole idea. So many stairs, my poor feet, is all I can think. Skating on blistered feet is a whole other kind of pain, but then walking over swollen, blistered feet is a—humbling experience.
One step at a time, quite literally.
Despite my pep talk, by the time I’ve returned the frozen item and reached the second floor of the apartment again, I’m now limping, smacking an arm to the wall to hold my weight and catch my breath.
Several deep inhales and exhales, while rolling my toes seriously help with the blood flow, holding in any remaining winces, I head back to my room in silence.
It’s that quiet, except for the occasional squeak over the mahogany wooden floors from my steps, not a sound fills the hallway, the stairwell—anywhere.
Reaching my doorway, I start wondering if Troy left, despite arriving to the complex together earlier.
I would’ve heard him if he had left, but he’s just so damn quiet, still more quiet than I would’ve expected from him.
These unimportant thoughts are suddenly taking up very critical space in my head, roaming back in the opposite direction toward his room.
When I reach the tall, white door, I press the side of my ear against it carefully.
I barely have the chance to detect anything before the door swings open, and I shoot right into Troy’s arms.
Fucking perfect. Ugh.
“Can I help you?” he teases, folding his arms across his chest as if he finds the current situation amusing.
I abruptly push myself off his grip.
“No, I was just going downstairs,” I say calmly.
“Yeah, cause that was obvious.” He scoffs. “You’re a terrible liar, Petrov.”
“No, really, I was.” I clear my voice. “I am.” I start to turn around when his voice turns full-on patronizing.
“Your face was pressed against my door because you were going downstairs?”
Yup, that is how ridiculous I sound.
“Well, I was on my way downstairs,” I rephrase, “but was wondering if you were even here. Since there’s never any sounds coming from your room.”
“You want to hear me make sounds?”
“What? Ew, no. I wasn’t talking sexually.”
“Neither was I.” His eyes narrow with humor.
The pain is now undetectable, though my entire skin feels blazing hot instead. “Whatever,” I say, trying to play it off with nonchalance, heading back to the stairs that I so don’t fucking want to go back down. “I’m gonna go, and you can do whatever it is that you were doing.”
“Make sure to have a cold glass of water, Ana.” I snap around to find his sly grin. “Your cheeks look pretty red.”
Before he can see me huff, Troy slips back into his room, shutting his door.
After several, long seconds of standing at the top of the staircase, hoping that he doesn’t fly it back open to catch me in my giant lie, I take my chances, finally returning to my room.
My phone buzzes, at the top of my notifications, a bunch of new ones from Naomi, the very first one forcing pressure back into my chest:
Naomi: Don’t forget, winter formal decorations are
tonight! Are you still picking me up at 7?
Me: Yes! I’m getting ready now
Except, I did not remember, relief flooding through me at her reminder, deciding to leave that detail out.
Postponing is no longer an option, not when I had to cancel our last scheduled date for the decoration shopping, not when Naomi has enough people in her life who keep disappointing her; I can’t be one of them.
Even if that means pausing my studies for a major physics exam I have tomorrow morning to browse at décor for a silly high school dance that’s not for another few months.
_________
“Have you seen the news?” Elle plops down on the rink’s bench across from me and Conrad, her eyes wide in so much shock you’d think a new member of the Royal Family just announced their engagement.
“What news?” I ask, lifting my attention from the pile of cram-sesh notes for my first midterm that’s this morning. Conrad briefly glances up at Elle with crinkled brows and disinterest, dropping his eyes back down to his phone.
Elle takes advantage of the fact that the singles skater’s attention isn’t on us, flashing him a scowl without his awareness.
Didn’t know the two of them had a feud, but that’s to be expected here; give it enough time, and everyone will find a problem with someone.
“The articles that just came out,” Elle replies. “There were a bunch of posts too.”
My shoulders tense. “Yeah, Pippa likes me again, apparently.”
She shakes her head with a confident smile that makes me nervous. “No, about you and Troy.” The nerves all freeze in place. “Everyone thinks you’re dating now.”
Oh, those articles. I spotted the dozens of posts on social media over the weekend following our skate, half praising the idea, the other pile armed with threats against me, my friends, and family if I were to as much as kiss the precious Troy Larsson on the mouth.
But it’s more of the same, for years the Campus Radio, fans, and the press were also convinced that Violet and Troy were secretly dating, which, along with (most) of the other rink rumors, ended up being untrue.
“That’s absurd,” I say, heat closing up my lungs, though, at the memories still lingering from Germany.
How connected Troy and I skated at the competition, how he didn’t let go of my hand on the podium—which (I know) was for show—how he enticed me with on-paper innocent words outside our hotel rooms, when we both knew what he meant and would be thrilled to find out that the weak attempt to give my body what it so desperately has been craving only hollowed it more.