Chapter 47
The Maple Leaf Classic was held at the Carlton Centre—the same arena where I’d skated a dozen times, where I’d won my first senior national title, where I’d collapsed on the world stage and was carried off on a stretcher.
This building had seen me at my best. It had also seen me shatter.
Coach Miller had flown in with me, a steady presence at my side as we navigated the familiar hallways. He didn’t push, didn’t offer empty platitudes. Just walked beside me, his hand occasionally landing on my shoulder when he sensed I needed grounding.
I saw Coach Renaud before he saw me.
He was standing by the boards, clipboard in hand, watching one of his skaters run through a step sequence. He’d aged in the months since I’d left—more grey at his temples, deeper lines around his mouth. Or maybe I was just seeing him clearly for the first time.
When he finally noticed me, his expression shuttered into something cold and cordial. A slight nod. Nothing more.
I nodded back and kept walking.
It was more than I expected. Less than I deserved. I wasn’t sure which.
I thought I would be angrier. But standing there in the corridor, breathing in that familiar cold air—ice and rubber and the faint chemical bite of Zamboni exhaust—what came instead was something stranger.
A kind of grief, maybe. For the version of myself who’d walked these halls believing he was invincible.
For the boy who worked himself to the bone.
For the skater who’d thought medals could fill the emptiness inside him.
That boy was gone. I wasn’t sure who had taken his place.
But I was here. Standing upright. About to skate.
Sabrina found me right before I was due to take the ice.
She was still in her competition costume—an elegant white tulle dress covered in beads that caught the light like crystals—with a hastily thrown on “Team Théo” t-shirt over it, clearly homemade, complete with glitter paint and glued on rhinestones.
Her red hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, her makeup still camera ready.
She’d skated earlier in the day and must have come straight from cooldown to find me.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind her.
The black silk of my shirt billowed slightly at the sleeves, the black and teal rhinestones scattered across the chest catching the light.
Black pants cut close to my legs. I’d left my hair loose—Derek had mentioned he liked the way it moved when I skated.
Old Théo would have slicked it back, gelled into submission, not a strand out of place.
Neurotic competition Théo, controlled down to the last detail.
I still looked like someone who belonged here.
I didn’t feel like it. But maybe that was okay.
Sabrina’s eyes were suspiciously bright as she took in the sight of me in my skating costume.
“Don’t you dare make me cry before I even skate,” I warned.
“Shut up.” She pulled me into a fierce hug. “You’ve got this. You hear me? You’ve got this.”
I hugged her back just as tightly. “I hear you.”
“Now go out there and show them what they’ve been missing.”
The arena was silent as I took my position at centre ice.
So silent I could hear my own heartbeat. The thunder of blood in my ears. The rasp of my breath, too fast, too shallow.
You’ve got this.
I closed my eyes. Found my centre. Thought about Derek’s voice on the phone last night: I’ll be watching. Even if I can’t be there, I’ll be watching.
The first notes of Spring Day by BTS filled the arena—the piano opening, soft and aching, a song about loss and longing and waiting for something you’re not sure will ever come back.
And then I was gone.
It felt different this time. Lighter. Like I wasn’t fighting against my body but moving with it. Like the ice wasn’t an enemy to be conquered but a partner to dance with.
I didn’t push for as many quads as I used to.
Coach Miller and I had talked about it—about skating smarter, not harder.
About proving myself without destroying myself in the process.
The quads I did attempt, I nailed. Clean takeoffs, solid landings, the kind of jumps that used to come naturally before I’d poisoned my body with Adderall and starvation.
The melody shifted and I let myself sink into the ache of it. All the things I’d lost. The version of myself I used to be. The people I’d pushed away because staying felt harder than leaving.
The new spin sequence I’d developed in Chicago—the one Coach Miller had helped me refine, the one I’d practiced until my legs screamed—flowed out of me like water.
I could feel the audience holding their breath as I hit the final position, my body a perfect line, my heart pounding with something that felt dangerously close to joy.
The music swelled. I moved into the final choreographic sequence, every gesture intentional, every movement an expression of something I’d been afraid to feel for so long.
I am still here. I am still fighting. I am still me.
The last note rang out. I hit my final pose, chest heaving, arms extended, face tilted toward the lights.
Silence.
One beat. Two.
And then the crowd erupted.
The roar was deafening—a wall of sound that crashed over me and nearly knocked me off my feet. I stood there, frozen, as stuffed animals and flowers rained onto the ice around me. A plush cat landed at my feet. A bouquet of roses. A stuffed bear wearing a sweater with a tiny Canadian flag.
And then, much to my complete and utter humiliation, I started to cry.
Not pretty, delicate tears. Ugly crying.
The kind where your face crumpled and your shoulders shook and you couldn’t catch your breath.
I pressed my hands to my face, trying to hold it together, but it was useless.
Everything I’d been holding in—the fear, the doubt, the months of wondering if I’d ever feel like myself again—came pouring out in front of 15,000 people.
I waved blindly as I skated toward the exit, tears still streaming down my face, laughing at the absurdity of it all. The crowd was still cheering. Chanting my name.
I stepped off the ice and nearly collapsed into Coach Miller’s arms. He caught me, steady as always, and gave me a proud smile.
“That’s the Théo I’ve been waiting to see,” he said.
Before I could respond, a familiar figure pushed through the crowd.
My mom.
She was crying too—of course she was, she always cried at my competitions—and her arms were open and I fell into them like I was five years old again, burying my face in her shoulder.
“Little bao,” she murmured, stroking my hair. “I’m so proud of you. So, so proud.”
“Thank you for being here. I know I haven’t made things easy—” My voice cracked.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” She pulled back, cupping my face in her hands, wiping my tears with her thumbs. “You were beautiful out there.”
I laughed, still crying, and hugged her again.
And then I looked up over her shoulder and my heart stopped.
Brown eyes. Warm and steady and impossibly, improbably here.
Derek.
He was standing a few feet away, wearing a black cap pulled low and a black parka, trying and failing to look inconspicuous. Once our eyes locked, he broke into a face splitting grin and closed the distance between us.
My mouth dropped open and I just stared, dumbfounded.
“What—” I pulled away from my mom, glancing between them. “How? You have a game tomorrow. In Florida! Who’s watching Aspen?”
I’d told him not to come. I’d insisted. His comeback season, his healing jaw, a flight that made no logistical sense—I’d made my peace with looking into the stands and not seeing him there.
“I flew in an hour ago and I fly out again tonight.” He stepped closer, that smile growing. “Hana’s watching Aspen. I couldn’t miss this.”
“You couldn’t—Derek, that’s insane. You have to play tomorrow. You’re still recovering from surgery—”
He kissed me.
Right there, in front of my mom and my coach and—judging by the phones raised along the boards—half the arena. His hands cupped my face, gentle and sure, and his mouth was soft against mine, and I forgot every objection I’d been about to make.
When he pulled back, my eyes darted past his shoulder: a journalist with a press badge, a spectator recording, a cluster of skaters pretending they weren’t staring.
“Derek,” I hissed. “There are cameras everywhere.”
He just laughed—no panic, no regret. “Surprise,” he said. “Your mom helped me plan it.”
I turned to stare at her. She was smiling, looking far too pleased with herself.
“Mom!”
“What? He called and asked if he could surprise you. Was I supposed to say no?” She shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “He’s very charming, your Derek. And he clearly adores you. A mother notices these things.”
“I—you—” I looked between them, completely at a loss. “I don’t even know what to say.”
Derek’s arm slid around my waist, pulling me against his side. “You could say you’re happy to see me.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
He flew three hours to watch me skate for four and a half minutes.
He was going to turn around and fly back tonight so he could play a hockey game tomorrow—a game that mattered, during his comeback season, while he was still healing from surgery.
He’d coordinated with my mom. He’d kissed me in public without hesitating.
All because he couldn’t miss this.
My whole life, I’d learned to expect disappointment.
People meant well and still didn’t show up.
They had schedules, obligations, reasons that sounded reasonable until you were the one standing there alone.
I’d stopped taking promises seriously a long time ago—stopped letting myself want things that depended on other people.
But Derek was here.
Something cracked open in my chest—something I’d been holding together with sarcasm and deflection for so long I’d forgotten it was even there. My eyes burned. My throat went tight. I pressed my face into his shoulder so no one would see.
“I’m happy,” I mumbled into his parka. “I’m so happy. You absolute lunatic.”
“Probably.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “But I’m your lunatic.”
My mother made a soft sound that might have been a coo. Coach Miller was suddenly very interested in his clipboard.
And I stood there in the kiss and cry where I’d fallen apart a year ago, surrounded by people who loved me, feeling something I almost didn’t recognize.
Will the spring come again?
I’d stopped believing it would.
But yes.
It was about to bloom.