CHAPTER 116
Ana
FOUR MINUTES. YOU have four minutes to make it count.
Years of gut-wrenching hard work reduced to just four minutes.
Four minutes to convince a panel of judges that you deserve the most covetable title in the world.
Staring out at the sea of fans from center ice, the skaters exhausted but still dazzling in a prism of sequins and kismet, the hand in mine who’d never let go, a kind of gratitude I’d been blinded from sinks into my veins.
Who I’m dedicating this free skate to.
And I begin to list each one by one:
This is for all the girls who ever felt cheated.
For the girls who couldn’t skate but so desperately wanted to.
For the girls who were ever bullied to quit the sport.
For the girls who were ever told they wouldn’t make it.
This one’s for the girls who are in love with the game.
Four minutes, breathe in, four minutes to make it count, breathe out, I see my friends—Donya, Elle, Naomi—and family—my mom and my dad—and the fans and critics in the stands.
Reminding myself to block out the competition, the trolls, and my pulse that’s soaring with adrenaline. Breathe in, for once I feel in the moment, picturing Lake Faerieladle and a pair of crisp figure skates where I enjoyed this. Breathe out, Troy’s eyes warm my chest, knowing we got this.
I hear the music.
It’s time.
Now…
Enjoy it.
_________
“Up is Down” fills the arena, the violin melting around the ice as Troy and my arms break from an infinity pose, slinging away from the other like he’s the bow and I’m the archer, twirling me around, the gemstones—the treasure that’s divided us—lining the rim of my skating costume leading us into a set of crossovers.
On each turn, drifting back to the other, an intensity hides behind anger, gliding in small diagonals, sliding with enough force when the drum pitches loud like it’s time for our—quad—twist lift.
One rotation.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Our hands held tight, our arms reconnect so quick, a blink later, my outer leg springs high as he skates so fast my back meets his chest when powerful hands grab hold of my electric purple waist, launching me through the air for our triple throw lutz before our gazes latch onto each other.
Deeper now, the music is roaring, spiraling our blades across the ice uniting for our double Salchows.
As the music flows onto the next, and “Will and Elizabeth” takes over, one glance of longing at Troy, playing our parts, I raise my inner leg for him to give me a small twirl, pushing his arms out of the way as we disconnect, leave each other, sail onto the ice like we could never have the other, and the begrudging triple toe loop that follows only proves that.
But neither of us can let go, not when we know how we looked at the other when the other was facing the opposite way, and turning around, facing each other again, he lifts me like a glass statue he wants to try and keep in place but at the next jump, the next few rotations aren’t enough to hold the other steady.
Though we try, as the infinity shapes our hands together again, swirling me around to lift me high enough above his head, somewhere in the overhead lift, some moment where my back arches and I finally let go, just one hand, and he can’t bear the loss, resting me down, frustrated by this—our fate—lifting me into a star that he rotates across his head, my hand around the back of his neck.
The guitar pricks along the ice as the notes in “Angelica” build, our spins growing in intensity, twisting into a quick sit spin, turning swift to get enough inertia, enough hope to meet the angular momentum needed to rise back up as seamless as a ribbon.
And then we stop.
For just a moment.
Not to breathe, there’s no time for that, not when “Drink Up Me Hearties Yo Ho” fills the entire ice and stands with the classic main theme, Troy pulling my weight so firm like he worries I will escape and he’ll be stuck on this frozen sea all by himself.
And I won’t allow it. Our arms, our weight facing in opposite direction only to draw back, claw through each relentless current when my silhouette frames his from the front, one hand over my stomach from behind, the other over my skating hand, our legs anchored through our camel spin.
But there’s one wave, one pesky flow of water that pushes both of us down, my hand twisting over his face to hold onto my skate, protecting me, as he shields me from the raging waters, saving me from the drown as our knees hook around the other, my face falling right into his chest.
And he holds me there, before he moves us through the chilled, frozen waters, this time when the violin crescendos, “One Day” soothing our tired limbs and hearts.
A crossover, two more, when the water—still rapid—sees a change in its tide, my leg knowing its safe and calm to reach for that arabesque, Troy’s face embracing my lower back, wrapping a strong arm around my bent thigh from the back, lifting me, his face against my pointed leg, my forearm holding his extended leg.
Peace between the two of us feels close on the horizon, our hearts, our souls maybe having a chance—just maybe—even with the tsunami we skate right into, the death spiral isn’t, it doesn’t look like it’s enough to tear us apart.
The music picks up.
My vision becomes a block of icy, scratched blue, spotting the anchor of Troy’s toe pick, holding me as the storm tries to swallow us both, but…
The violins begin to scream, the drums push us back together.
Weathering the troubled, cold waters, we swing our arms in ferocity away from each other, out into the crowd, demanding fate that there is no one other than us, twisting our arms so fast, so high in the air, the shore looks visible from the crest of the axel lasso lift, Troy balancing my entire weight in just one hand right below my hips, his other swayed out into the crowd in a sign of victory, rotating me in the air with the catch of his embrace.
And when the room stills, and the music drops, with a pull of my outer leg, his weight on one knee, he tugs me right back up and into the ocean of his arms.
Then we both just about collapse onto the ice.
Holy fuck.
We. Just. Did. That.
_________
The crowds cheer us on, the stands still buzzing, shaking the whole arena as Troy and I join our coaches in the waiting area to hear our scores.
Our final scores.
I feel Troy’s hand slip past the slit of my dress, along my bare back, goose bumps sparkling all over by the touch.
Beaming—that we did it, we finished strong together, feeling confident and safe to include the quad twist lift. The lift that we somehow managed to perfect two weeks ago without the pressures of this competition, just two figure skaters honing their craft.
My heart in my throat and my nerves bursting at every corner of my skin, the pride I’m feeling bounces all over.
Because that was the best fucking routine of my whole life.
Troy extends his hands to mine, holding both of ours, my knees trembling in adrenaline and anxiousness as we await the score for our free skate.
_________
“No, it’s not enough!” an announcer says, breaking the news from just behind the judges panel. “So close, but they won the Silver.”
A second commentator immediately summarizes, “Silver medalists, Ana Petrov and Troy Larsson!”
Troy’s eyes dart at me—the guy who I know would never want to be anything but first place—waiting in anticipation for my reaction before he decides to show me his.
To see if I’m content with this outcome. Our outcome. The one we worked months together to train for.
I’m on fucking cloud nine, right now, I fucking did it!!
That was my reaction after I won the Gold eight years ago.
That should’ve been my medal. She didn’t deserve it. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.
That was my reaction after I won the Silver four years ago.
And now:
I’m so fucking proud of you and me.
That’s all I can think.
Okay, maybe there’s also a hint of me wishing we won the whole damn thing, but that’s the doing of my own bias. On how much I loved the tweaks we made for our long program. I’ve never been more proud of anything I’ve skated in my entire career on the ice.
So I squeeze Troy’s hand fiercely. “I’m so fucking proud of you and me,” I repeat out loud now, my forehead leaned against his.
“Yeah?” His smile tickles against my cheeks.
“Yeah.”
“So am I.”
He kisses my cheek as we sway toward the crowds hollering at the victories.
The desire to win will always be in my blood, I think.
Even when it was fueled by reasons that were not so wise. But that fire, it’s still in me. Regardless that we didn’t win this time around.
Because this isn’t the end for me, and this isn’t the end for him. That I know.