Chapter 4
Nine and a Half Years Ago
At quarter ’til eight, after a dining hall breakfast, Chase walks back to Filbert Hall, entryway F, to make sure his boys are up.
“Thanks, my dude.” He cups his hands to his mouth and calls upstairs. “Let’s go, boys! Do I have to come up there?”
“We’re up!” someone grumbles from the second floor.
Chase gets his gear together, listening to the slap of flip-flops on the hallway’s tiled floor and the clunk of doors carelessly opened and shut.
He grabs his toothbrush and heads into the bathroom, where Ethan is dripping wet in a towel, and one of the other campers is bitching at him over the sound of the running shower.
“You took forever in here and now I’m going to miss breakfast! ”
In response, Chase chooses “Let It Go” for the next song and makes everybody snicker. “See you punks at the rink,” he says. “They don’t have coffee over there, do they?”
Ethan combs his hair in the mirror. “Nope. You gotta sneak it out of the dining hall.”
The shower door pops open, revealing Stephan, who’s as pale as a vampire and probably weighs only ninety pounds. “You’re not supposed to take food out with you, but everybody does it anyway.”
“Good tip. See you in fifteen.” He grabs his skate bag and shoulders it. On his way out of the building, he passes Joon-ho sitting on the steps. The boy pops to his feet. “Are you going over? Everyone else is so slow.”
“Sure. Come on.”
A flash of gratitude passes through the kid’s dark eyes, and he follows Chase down the steps. “Do you have a roommate?”
“Nope. Living it up in a single.”
“Lucky. Ethan snores.”
“Ah. Look on the bright side—snoring is better than stinky farts. My freshman roommate ate lots of dried apricots. I left the windows open even in the winter.”
Joon-ho cracks a smile. “I guess they have to give you a single or you wouldn’t work here.”
Think again. Everything about living on a college campus is worlds better than trying to live at home in Minnesota for the summer.
The all-you-can-eat hot breakfasts, for example.
It’s worlds better than trying to scare up a meal in his father’s neglected kitchen.
Chase has been more or less fending for himself since freshman year of high school.
Then there’s the sturdy lock on the dorm room door, which is worlds better than having his drunk father slam into his room at all hours with complaints and aggressions.
He even likes the extra-long twin mattress, which fits his six-foot-two frame.
“Where do you compete?” Joon-ho asks as they cross the green campus. “I never heard your name before.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I haven’t entered a skating competition since I was twelve. These days I play hockey. Coach Pat’s brother is my coach.”
Joon-ho gives him the side-eye. “Wait, you’re not even a skater?”
“All hockey players are skaters, my dude.”
“It’s not the same thing. Do you do triple jumps?”
“Not a chance,” Chase says, holding the rink door open for him.
He groans. “Then what good are you at a figure skating camp?”
“For triples? None,” Chase admits. “But I’m fast. I’m fearless. I’m as serious an athlete as you’ll ever meet. I’m also great in the weight room, if you’re into that.”
That perks the kid up. “Can you help me build muscle? It doesn’t matter how much I eat. I just stay this way.”
Chase eyes the kid’s lean frame. “More protein, for starters. And we’ll look at your workout…”
He forgets to finish the sentence, because Zoe is seated in a sun patch on the bleachers, under a skylight, her hair shining like an angel’s.
Her thick braid falls heavily over one shoulder, and she’s worrying the end of it between two fingers.
But it’s the look on her face that stops him in his tracks.
Earbuds in again, she’s listening to something.
And she’s listening with her whole soul.
Without even realizing it, he’s steering himself in her direction.
Joon-ho stops him with a tug on his elbow. “You can’t just sit with Zoe.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s Zoe,” the kid whispers with clear exasperation. “She’s, like, royalty.”
“Even royals need friends, kid.” He walks over. “Morning.”
She looks up, startled. “Hi?”
He sits down and waves Joon-ho onto the bench. “What are we starting with? My schedule says takeoff clinic. And that’s cool and everything. But I have to wonder how many layers Coach Pat wants me to take off?” He shimmies a little, like an exotic dancer.
Joon-ho puts his head in his hands. “Duuude. No.”
But Zoe’s lips quirk up at the corners. “Yeah, I’ll give you twenty bucks to ask her that question.”
“I’d do it if I thought she’d get the joke.” He unzips his bag and pulls out his skates.
“Oh my God, where did you get those?” Joon-ho asks, staring at the battered boots. There’s duct tape on one of them.
“Goodwill,” he admits. “But I sharpened the blades myself.” He also put custom footbeds into them, because he wasn’t born yesterday.
“He can’t even jump,” Joon-ho says to Zoe.
“I can too jump,” Chase argues. “I just can’t do triples. Or most doubles.”
“Then what are you even doing here?” Zoe asks.
“People keep saying that,” he says, lacing up one skate. “But I’m the only one on this bench who’s putting skates on. Are we going to warm up or what?”
Ten minutes later, all three of them are stepping out on the rink.
Chase strokes cautiously to center ice, trying to remember how figure skates are supposed to feel.
After all, that whole “toe pick” scene from The Cutting Edge is a real thing that happens to hockey skaters who try figure skates.
And the elevated heel pushes his center of gravity forward by a degree, which requires an adjustment.
On the other hand, the longer blade means a longer glide, which feels like flying.
It takes him only a minute or two to find his stride.
He pumps past the other skaters, whips his body into reverse, and then glides neatly into back crossovers.
He takes a deep breath of chilly rink air and pictures his mom chasing him, a big smile on her face, her hand-knitted scarf flying in the breeze.
That’s it, Chasey! Now try it on your lazy leg, too.
He switches sides a couple of times until that feels natural.
And then, what the hell, he throws a toe loop and lands it cleanly.
It feels like time travel, with his mom’s voice reminding him to keep a soft knee and extend his arms. Hot pretzels from the concession stand. Cocoa with tiny marshmallows.
He glides to a stop and finds both Zoe and his pack of boys watching him. “Is that all you’ve got?” Ethan asks. “A single?”
It totally is, but Chase smiles. “Just warming up, kid.”
“He looked hot doing it,” Joon-ho mumbles.
Zoe lets out a startled laugh, and when he turns his head, he catches her following their conversation.
She looks away.
“Listen,” Joon-ho says. “Just don’t offer to demonstrate.”
“Why not?” he asks, wondering how he can make Zoe laugh again.
“Dude,” Ethan says. “Just don’t. She’ll eviscerate you.”
The coach’s whistle blows, and all conversation ceases. Immediately. He’s kind of impressed.
“Good morning,” Coach Pat says briskly. “We have ninety minutes to cover all six takeoffs. We’ll start with the toe loop and work our way up. Who’s going to demonstrate first?”
There’s a deep silence. He would have expected all the bunheads to raise their hands, eager to impress the head coach. But instead, they’re all shifty-eyed and silent. Even Melanie, who’s sneaking glances at him.
He raises his hand in the air.
“Uh-oh,” mutters Ethan.
Sister Walsh—that’s how Chase thinks of her in his head, because she’s his coach’s sister and kinda stern, like the nuns from his grade school—turns reluctantly in his direction.
“Since everyone besides Coach Merritt lacks bravery, I suppose we’ll start with him.
And with that unhinged toe loop I saw from him a few minutes ago. ”
Oh, she’s one of those—the kind of coach who thinks that belittling people makes you powerful. Chase still grins, because he’s had a lot of experience with people like her, and he just isn’t scared. “Mold me, Coach Pat. Fix my evil ways.”
There’s a nervous titter from all around him. But Sister Walsh only frowns. “Fine. What are the rules of a toe loop, Hotshot?”
“Um…” It’s been a decade since he was taught this, and he’s probably going to bungle it. “Plant the toe pick of your nondominant foot behind your body. Fling yourself upward from the other leg. Then make yourself small and twirly for a whole rotation, until you land it like a badass.”
He hears a few giggles, but they’re quickly snuffed out by a glare from the coach.
“Woeful answer, Coach Merritt,” she says, her expression dead serious. “A toe loop requires a precise entrance from a back outside edge, with the free leg initiating the takeoff. The rotation needs to be controlled, not flung, and you must land on the same back outside edge. Watch.”
Grasping the wall, the coach demonstrates a proper takeoff technique. And every pair of eyes in the room is trained on her skates, with some of the younger kids wiggling to the front so they can see.
Chase pays attention, too. He knows he’s not off the hot seat, and he’s too competitive to let Sister Walsh make him look like a fool.
He’s always thought of figure skating as joyful, though, at least compared to hockey’s violence. But there’s surprisingly little joy in this room.
“That’s what I want to see,” Sister Walsh finishes. “A deep plant of the nondominant foot, and then a takeoff that leads with the heel. Coach Merritt will show us an improvement now.”
He almost snorts. Coach Merritt thinks you need to get laid. But he gamely moves to center ice. He skates backward for a moment and then holds his breath as he plants his left toe pick behind him.
Lucky for him, hockey requires precision, too, and he’s had a lifetime of practicing maneuvers on ice. Leading with his right heel, he jumps neatly, managing a full rotation. And as his mother always reminded him to do, he keeps his knee soft, his chest up, and his arms spread as he lands cleanly.
There’s a wild cheer from the audience of tweens and teens. Joon-ho does a wolf whistle.
The coach’s face remains grumpy. “Much improved,” she says when the noise quiets. “Now tell us which jump combinations work off a toe loop.”
Uh-oh. “Well, lots. Flips and lutzes, probably. But I never learned any toe loop combinations. Only the salchow combos.”
“I have to wonder why not,” Sister Walsh says primly. “Linking two toe loops together would have improved your technique.”
“Because she died, ma’am,” he says. “My mom. On the Fourth of July when I was twelve.”
There’s a very awkward silence, which he finds absolutely satisfying. “Oh,” she says eventually, as if this would never have occurred to her.
He doesn’t blame her, though. At age twelve, the possibility hadn’t occurred to him, either. On that rainy summer evening—after the fireworks display—she left the house to visit a friend, and she never made it home. Her old bald tires hydroplaned on a curve, and she hit a tree.
“She died instantly,” a police officer told him that night, as if that would be a comfort. He still dreams about that night sometimes—a fist pounding on the door, and the blue and red cruiser lights flashing from the driveway when his father pulled it open.
“She didn’t suffer,” the officer said. But Chase has suffered every day since. He still hates the Fourth of July. And he never put on his figure skates again.
When he glances toward Zoe again, he forgets to be sad, though. Because she’s watching him with a Mona Lisa smile on her pretty mouth and fascination in her big brown eyes.