Chapter 20
Nine and a Half Years Ago
Zoe is standing at center ice, with the rink in total darkness. She can’t see anything except the red EXIT signs spaced around the arena. The only sound is the low rustle of spectators shifting on the bleachers. And an errant cough somewhere in the back.
The darkness should be disorienting, like a dream or an out-of-body experience. But it’s not, because she’s holding Chase’s hand, broad and steady under hers.
Nothing about this moment is ordinary. Skating competitions never use dramatic lighting—that’s only for exhibitions like this.
More crucially, every other performance of her life has begun with lonely scrutiny—posing at center ice all by herself, hoping her smile doesn’t look too fake, and trying to remember not to tug at the skirt of her skating costume.
It never starts this way—holding the hand of the most attractive boy she’s ever met, his thumb stroking idly over the back of her hand.
As if they were walking casually down the campus path to lunch.
And when the spotlight suddenly illuminates the two of them, the smile she’s wearing isn’t fake at all.
Then the first guitar chord reverberates over the sound system, and there’s no more time to think. She squeezes Chase’s hand, and they push off together into a backward crossover, cutting an arc across the surface of the ice.
After three powerful strokes, they drop hands and freeze together in the same position—one leg extended into an arabesque, the other arm tick-tocking with the mournful beat of the music.
Zoe learned a lot creating this program.
For example, with just one skater, this opening sequence would be dull.
But their natural synchronization elevates the quirky little glide into something much more eye-catching.
As the guitar slides into the next chord, they change position, picking up the beat as it ricochets inside her chest.
Pairs skating is much more interesting than Zoe ever thought. The synchrony is a challenge but also a boon. The visual shapes that two people can make are bigger and more interesting than one body alone.
She had no idea.
The vocal line comes in on a haunting baritone.
Zoe arcs quickly around Chase, catching him on the other side, their hands joined as they segue into a different, more twisted series of arabesques.
The ice is almost shockingly bright in the spotlight’s glare, making it impossible to see anything outside the circular beam.
It feels like one of those sci-fi movies where the astronaut goes winging into the blackness of space. And in practice, Zoe worried that the effect would be too disorienting for Chase, who’d skated only in brightly lit arenas.
“It’s fine,” he said with a shrug of his muscular shoulders. “I’ve got the whole routine memorized based on the hockey markings anyway. We do our first jumps at the blue line, and we do the twisty spiral of doom on the face-off circle.”
So she kept the spotlight, which makes it feel as though the two of them are alone in the world.
And they basically are. It’s four minutes of intense collaboration, profound trust, and adrenaline.
Changing her angle again, she reaches back for Chase’s hand and finds it waiting for her, his fingers closing reliably over hers.
They straighten into a tango hold, which lasts approximately half a second. But it’s enough time for their gazes to catch. They’re eye to eye for a single beat of her heart, and Chase gives her a hot smile that runs through her veins like honey.
She releases his hand and they each take a stride apart, setting up for the side-by-side camel spins. She can see Chase checking their relative positions so they’ll have enough room to spin without kicking each other in the head. He’s working just as hard as she is, if not harder.
And that was why she could hardly fall asleep after one of their practices. He’s doing this for her. Just because she asked him to and because it’s fun. Not for any other reason. And she’s so, so grateful.
Martina said, Skate for joy, not points. And now Zoe is. Even if it’s not exactly the kind of joy Martina had in mind.
There’s a jump sequence next. Hers are doubles; his are singles. But they still look fantastic together, and Chase lands his like a pro. She can see the gleam of sweat on his neck. When she kisses that spot later, he’ll taste salty.
Never before in her life has she known the taste of someone else’s skin. Until now, she’s never wanted to.
Here comes the section Chase calls the spin cycle.
He’s invented a fun name for every skill.
She rotates around him until they come face-to-face.
After her too-short glance into his ocean eyes, they lunge into a pair camel spin—with Zoe clasping Chase’s ankle, and Chase clasping Zoe’s.
From there, he grabs her right hand and her right foot at the same time and yanks her into the air.
Still spinning, she flies like a backward Superman around and around.
There is no one on the planet she’d trust to do this except for him.
They’d practiced it on the lawn first, until they were both breathless and laughing.
And all for a ten-second skill. Before she knows it, he’s setting her down again, and they’re doing the angsty octopus, another pair spin, this one in a crouched position.
Four minutes fly by at warp speed. As Zoe clasps his hand for the last set of crossovers, it’s just hitting her that it’s over after tonight.
No more planning. No more practicing together.
She’s become used to sitting in bed, composing missives like I’ve been thinking about the second jump sequence…
Now what, though?
This idea is so distressing that she almost forgets to shift her weight heading into a bit of showy footwork. But Chase is right there, offering his hand, bending into the lunge just like she showed him.
The last thirty seconds go by much too fast. This is really it. They’ve done it, and there will be applause. And for once in Zoe’s life, that’s entirely beside the point. In four short weeks Chase will climb into his truck, kiss her goodbye, and drive back to the Midwest without her.
Suddenly the instrumentation dies away, and Chris Isaak is singing the last mournful lyric.
Zoe and Chase join their free hands into a heart, internet-style. And as Chris Isaak declares the dearth of love in the world, they pull their two hands apart, breaking the heart in half as the song ends.
Zoe glances at Chase, finding his expression so full of pride and wonder that it takes her breath away.
“We killed it,” he whispers, raising her arm overhead to set up for the bow. “Absolutely crushed it.”
The audience is on their feet as they bow. It’s a friendly crowd, not exactly a panel of international judges. But the praise still lights her up inside.
They skate off together as the next act is announced. And when they reach the rubber padding, they clomp together down the darkened tunnel. Behind them, the lights fade to black in preparation for the next skater.
Chase stops abruptly, pushes Zoe up against the wall, and kisses her like his life depends on it. “You make me so fucking happy,” he whispers.
She knows just what he means.