CHAPTER 68
Troy
WHERE THE HELL is Ana?
The SaskTel Centre is ready for our Grand Prix debut, while my partner is nowhere to be found.
Scurrying along the tunnel, past the locker rooms, a bunch of faces I don’t recognize rush out from the ladies side.
Snow continues to flurry against the glass windows, coiling up my stress as I search for Ana.
Then I see it. A glimpse of low shoulders, peeking from the corner of a chair, slouched, outside what looks to be the custodian’s office.
“Ana?” I ask, my voice borderline frantic from the heavy sprinting through the massive arena.
She shoots her posture up, her hands smoothing over the transparent lavender skirt of her costume.
“Let’s go.”
That’s all she says.
“What do you mean?” I ask, wondering if she thinks I’m stupid or selfish to ignore her sudden disappearance. “Where were you?”
“It doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”
It. Does. Matter.
But we’re late as is, so dropping any further questions will have to go on pause.
Avoiding my eyes, Ana and I move through the hallway to return back to the ice, the silence between us more deafening than the chatter from the fans filling up the rink.
_________
We placed first.
Even with the sudden, unexplainable switch from Ana before hitting the tunnel, once the opening note of “Once Upon a December” melted over the ice, like a frightening puppet, her back straightened, her eyes sharpened, and a soft grin carved the edges of her mouth as she dropped her hand in mine to lead us with our long program.
The change in her behavior was chilling to behold, her swift return to a calmer version delaying the poking question.
After we’ve moved through Canadian customs and reached our plane’s terminal, I drop my duffel bag on the ground as we wait to board, turning to face her.
“What happened earlier?” I ask softly, easing into the question.
“Nothing happened,” she lies, again, this time with a reassuring tap to my shoulder, unaware it does nothing to reassure me.
A carefree, very out-of-character lift from her chair, Ana swaps seats, sliding between Coach Yamamoto and Coach Sokolov (who’s aggressively yelling something into her phone in Russian), before beginning to chatter with Yamamoto, as if all of that would somehow convince me that everything is good with her.
It's spooky to witness, not recognizing someone you’ve known for what feels like your whole life.