Chapter Seventeen
Exhibition Force
I've never seen anything quite like Regan on ice.
The exhibition hall is packed, every seat filled with figure skating enthusiasts who've come to see the stars perform without the pressure of competition.
I'm wedged between Bohdan and my dad in what Bohdan assured me were "premium seats," though I'm pretty sure the old man pulled some strings to get us this close to the action.
"Remember," Bohdan whispers as the lights dim, "this is art, not sport. No shouting like at your football games."
I roll my eyes, and I'm tempted to remind him that I've attended exactly seven of Regan's practices and two competitions already.
I know the drill. But something about being here, in this massive arena in New York City with the spotlights dancing across the pristine ice, feels different. More significant.
"She's fourth in the lineup," Dad reminds me, as if I don't know that already.
"I've memorized the program too," I add with a smile that's probably a bit too proud.
Bohdan sweeps his gaze over me as if he's appraising me. "Perhaps you are learning after all, football man."
The first three performers are impressive enough---a Japanese skater who spins so fast she's virtually a blur, a pairs team that performs lifts that defy gravity, and a young guy who lands a quad jump that makes the whole arena gasp. But they're just the opening acts as far as I'm concerned.
The announcer booms, "Olympic medalist Regan Banks!"
Her name echoes in the arena as I grow oddly anxious. What if Regan falls down? What if everyone boos her? But when my girl glides out into arena, the crowd erupts, and I find myself clapping until my palms sting. I also let out an ear-piercing whistle and shout "wooooo!"
Regan glides onto the ice in a costume I haven't seen before.
It's a deep blue that catches the light and sparkles like she's wearing the night sky.
Her hair is pulled back in an elegant twist, accentuating her graceful neck and those killer cheekbones.
She takes her position at center ice, head down, one arm extended, the other curved around her waist. The music hasn't started yet, but already I'm holding my breath.
"She looks nervous," I whisper to Bohdan.
He shakes his head slightly. "She is focused. There is a difference."
The first notes of her music drift through the arena. It's some kind of classical piece that Regan tried to explain to me three times before giving up and just saying, "It's about longing." Whatever it is, the melody wraps around the space like silk, and Regan comes alive.
Holy shit, she's incredible. I've seen her practice dozens of times now, but this is something else entirely.
She lifts off, beginning her first jump sequence.
A triple something followed by a double something else.
Okay, so I still don't have all the technical terms down.
She lands both moves perfectly, her arms extended in a graceful flourish.
I'm already on the edge of my seat, and we're only thirty seconds in.
"Triple salchow, double toe loop," Bohdan whispers, and I nod as if I totally knew that. But he helpfully explains. "Here she will demonstrate the combination---triple salchow followed swiftly by a double toe loop. It is exceedingly difficult."
"Dang, she does that? It sounds unbelievable."
"Yet it is to be believed."
The music swells as Regan launches into a spin, gathering speed until she's a blur of blue sparkles and extended limbs.
She pulls her arms in tight to her body, and suddenly she's spinning even faster, her body a perfect vertical line.
The crowd goes wild, and I find myself holding my breath.
When she emerges from the spin, her lips curl in the cutest way.
It's not the full-wattage grin she saves for me after she lands a difficult element in practice, but a subtle acknowledgment that she's in complete control.
The music slows, and Regan's movements become more deliberate, every gesture telling a story I'm only just learning how to read. It's like watching someone speak a language I'm picking up in fragments. I get the overall meaning but miss the nuances that make the crowd gasp at certain moments.
"Watch her edges," Bohdan whispers, his gaze never veering away from the ice. "Perfect control. Beautiful."
I pretend to know exactly what "edges" means in skating terms and make a mental note to Google it later so I can impress Regan with my growing knowledge of her sport.
The music builds again, and Regan picks up speed, circling the ice with powerful strokes.
She's heading into what I recognize as the setup for her signature jump---the one she's been drilling relentlessly in practice, sometimes staying at the rink long after everyone else has gone home.
I know she's been working on a triple axel---three and a half rotations---and I hold my breath as she approaches the takeoff.
She launches herself skyward, spinning so fast it's almost impossible to track her movements.
For a heart-stopping moment, she's suspended in the air, defying gravity in a way that makes football physics look like child's play.
Then she's coming down, leg extended perfectly behind her, arms spread wide as she lands with a soft scratch of blade on ice.
The crowd explodes. I'm on my feet before I realize it, shouting like I'm at the Super Bowl. Bohdan is standing too, his stoic demeanor cracked by a smile of pure pride.
"That's my girl!" I holler, not caring if I sound like a moron. Dad claps me on the shoulder, grinning.
Bohdan's warning look doesn't faze me. His pride is too evident to be hidden. "Regan has been working on that jump for months. Many skaters never land it in competition, let alone exhibition."
As Regan flows into the second half of her program, I can't tear my eyes away.
She's in her element here, her body creating shapes that seem impossible, telling a story without words.
The music shifts into something more urgent, and her movements follow, becoming sharper, more defined.
There's a fierceness to her now that I recognize from our private moments.
It's the kind of determination that makes her who she is.
"What's this part called?" I whisper to Bohdan, not wanting to miss a technical term.
"Step sequence," he replies, his gaze never leaving Regan. "Watch how she uses whole ice. Every inch has purpose. The sequence consists of steps and turns that create a pattern on the ice."
I try to understand what Bohdan means while watching Regan travel across the ice in what looks like a complicated pattern. Her blades carve precise lines, every turn and twist flowing into the next as if she's writing in cursive on the frozen surface. It's mesmerizing.
"Regan is telling a story," Dad whispers, surprising me with his insight.
"What story do you see?" I ask, curious what my football-obsessed father gets from this performance that I might be missing.
He shrugs, his gaze still fixed on Regan. "Something about overcoming. Look at her face."
I do, and there it is. That subtle transformation I've seen in private moments. The vulnerability in her expression as she extends her arms outward, like she's offering her heart to the audience, before pulling back into another spin that has her practically hovering above the ice.
The music crescendos as Regan enters into her final combination spin.
She's a kaleidoscope of blue and silver, her body contorting into positions that seem to defy human anatomy.
The audience holds a collective breath as she transitions from a camel spin to a layback, her head thrown back and her arms extended, abandoning herself in the music.
I can't move a muscle, amazed by her mind-boggling flexibility.
"Years of training," Bohdan replies anyway. "Watch her final position."
While the last notes of the music play, Regan slows her spin and extends one leg behind her in an arabesque, her arms reaching forward as if she's grasping for something just beyond her reach.
The music fades, and she holds the pose for one perfect, silent moment before the arena erupts in thunderous applause.
I jump up again, whistling and clapping like a madman.
Flowers and stuffed animals rain down onto the ice from adoring fans.
Regan takes a deep bow, then another, her smile finally breaking through in full force.
She skates a victory lap, waving to the crowd, and I swear she looks right at me when she passes our section.
And then she winks. I love her like crazy.
"Did you see that?" I nudge Bohdan. "She looked right at us."
"At you," he corrects with a knowing smirk. "She knows where you are sitting. We discussed that before the show."
That little tidbit makes my heart swell about three sizes.
Even in her moment of glory, with thousands of eyes on her, Regan made sure to find me in the crowd.
My football brain is struggling to process the level of athleticism I've just witnessed.
When she finally exits the ice, she heads directly toward me.
The joy on her face makes my heart skip a beat.
Then she comes up to the wall, or whatever they call it in ice skating, and looks straight at me. I can't control myself. I leap off my seat and rush to Regan, throwing my arms around her.
And then I do something insane.
With her ear close to mine, I whisper, "Marry me, Regan."