EPILOGUE, ACT I
Ana
“SHE’LL BE HERE.”
“Babe, I don’t think she’s coming,” Troy says, bringing my attention back toward the ice.
I guess I was wrong to think she’d show up, even with the major disqualification from Worlds, she’s not banned from the rink, but with the invasive cameras and microphones attached to the outside of this building since Milan, I can’t exactly blame her either.
I’d be terrified to ever step foot in here again too.
But if anyone would do that—make the frightening level of impossible, possible—it would be her.
Except, as all our academy’s skaters start crowding the lobby and locker rooms, there’s still no trace of the blonde.
Sighing out, a greater level of disappointment I’d expected hits me, then conflicting me all over again—because stacks of pages and pages still tucked in my room are there to remind me that I should be happy that she’s out.
That she’s no longer here.
A sudden medley of voices shouts from the rink’s doors, the entrance we’ve all grown to expect these past several weeks since the shocking turn of events.
Except Sasha’s mouth has dropped, and Trusova’s never done that in the ten years that I’ve known her.
But it’s not just Sasha.
Emi.
Scott.
Chloe.
Isabella.
Marc.
Antonio.
Nathan.
Haru.
Peter.
Dylan.
Katya.
Max.
But especially,
Tatiana.
Sheerin.
And Natalia.
When I notice, I turn to Troy before both of us link around our shoulders until we catch sight of the famous golden strands.
Every jaw in the rink remains on the floor, but I smile.
I knew it.