CHAPTER 72
Ana
WE’RE GOING TO Milan.
Not for the Winter Olympics, not yet at least.
I woke up to a dm and email from THE Dior team, inviting Troy and me for a photoshoot, and a piece of news that still hasn’t registered yet—an ambassador partnership.
So I thought it was a total scam. Some bot trying to mess with me.
But no, Troy also got the memo for the photoshoot, the one where we were invited for pictures in our skating costumes and another in Dior’s Winter Collection for 2027.
With Troy’s partnership with the brand for years now, I don’t think the news hit him quite the same.
The way it’s temporarily turned me into a mess.
I’ve been scrambling all morning trying to gather a set of clothing that will be worthy of appreciation from the major fashion house, then remember most of my clothes are from discounted stores or thrifted, so I sigh into my suitcase as I finish packing.
Because the shoot is this weekend.
_________
“Ana, darling, you look exceptional! Elle este manifique!” our fashion advisor turns to her seamstress, beaming.
Charlotte—the advisor who welcomed us into the Dior headquarters in Milan this afternoon—has offered us nothing but support since we arrived.
The Dior iconic Cannage, the dresses on display, the pieces you only ever see celebrities and the rest of the rich people flaunting in—it’s all nothing short of exceptional for the fashion capital of the world.
This isn’t reality, I remind myself while moving through the dazzling store.
With fabrics that reek with lavishness, it’s hard not to be a little affected by it all.
“You must come back for our Spring 2027 collection,” Charlotte tells Troy and me, “Antoine, please bring Ana one of our limited Dior Cannage.”
A smile on Troy’s lips and the translation unravels.
That’s after the Olympics.
She wants me back?
After the Olympics.
My stomach flutters with excitement.
Remembering the times I never cared about these frivolities—times like just a couple of days ago—since their invitation and the opportunity, the strange embrace from such a popular, powerful group of people brings light to the idea that I can manage this all.
But the darkness lingers over my chest, the one that’s programmed me to never take kindness and generosity at face value.
Everything is a transaction.
That if Troy wasn’t my skating partner, this opportunity would have never fallen into my lap even with our rivaling level of medals and trophies.
They don’t weigh the same. They never have.
While mentally debating all this, a gorgeous cocktail dress bumps right into my shoulder. Well, I walk into a mannequin wearing a white mini dress with crystal embroidered spaghetti straps and a pattern of a few stars sinched around the waist.
“You have good taste,” Charlotte says under her breath—which I know translates into that’s very expensive—passing by me with a knowing glance.
Because then she looks at Troy like she expects him to buy it for me, and it all makes me feel like a charity case, so I quickly drop my hands from the shiny fabric before he sees me daydreaming at the piece of couture.
_________
Being back at the rink again feels foreign.
Seeing the images from our first photoshoot feels flat out unreal.
As with every decision that you make as a known athlete in the public eye, you get the perks of the opportunities and then the consequences.
For a brief, chirpy second a sense of accomplishment came with the sponsorship, but the discourse from fans, where the accolade was compared to Violet’s with rivaling fashion house Chanel—and then torn into shreds—the glitter faded. Quick.
Troy and I are returning to practice, when Daisy Rossi runs straight into his arms, the two of them embracing in a warm hug.
“See you at practice tomorrow, Troy!” the little skater yells at Troy before she bolts off again.
“Practice?” I ask, extremely confused by their exchange.
“Yeah,” he says, very normally. “I train a few skaters here.”
That makes my whole body shoot back in surprise. “Since when do you train other skaters?”
“Since high school, I think? Why?”
Since high school?
How didn’t I notice?
The shock stays with me even after practice when I run into Violet and her friends in the locker room, all giggling, and fortunately for me—not realizing that I’ve entered, thanks to my intentionally quiet steps.
Then I hear all of it.
“I can’t believe he hasn’t dropped her yet,” Natalia says.
“Guys love sluts,” Tatiana says. “She’s probably a total slut.”
“Troy’s constantly around a bunch of them,” Sheerin adds. “I’m sure he’ll find one soon that’s at least pretty enough.”
The pain that shards through my neck wasn’t ready to hear Violet speak.
“I know Troy,” she says very convincingly. “He’s just using her. I mean, who else was he going to skate with, Eloise?”
That breaks them all into a laughing fit. An anger that’s been building in me—for nine years to be exact—almost, it fucking almost sprints my weight right up toward them.
Instead, I rush out the room, forgetting the reason why I even entered in the first place, hearing all the additional voices from the Web screeching into my ears like lifeless leeches from ghostly rink stands.
You’re Troy Larsson and you choose her?
At least there’s hope for the rest of us...
Ugly girls finally have a chance, yay
Aren’t injuries like super common in ice skating?
Why is Ana never injured??
Guys, they’re not even dating. I saw Troy with another girl at a restaurant last weekend
And then the Faerieladle Waves Pod adding fuel to the rumor:
Tessa: Troy Larsson apparently was spotted shopping for a special someone at Celine’s last Friday before he grabbed dinner with Astrid Olsen
And I wipe my tears with the back of my sleeves, heading to my car for a series of lectures scheduled for the rest of the day.