Chapter One
Zamboni Frank was my biggest fan.
Our rink’s adorable white-haired Zamboni driver thought I could do no wrong, so that meant I’d still hear him clapping even
when I accidentally popped a jump or, worse, fell on my ass.
“You’ll get it next time, sweetheart,” he’d always yell from the entry to his cave. “Keep going!”
I didn’t love when people watched me practicing, but Frank’s stooped figure in the shadows was a good omen. I considered him
the Phantom of the ice rink; always around, always watching, but never wanting to be the center of attention unless he was
on his machine.
Like just now. My swingy takeoff on a triple axel resulted in me needing to touch my free foot to the ice when I landed. It
was messy, but his applause still echoed around the rink. I gave him a little thank-you wave and he blew me a kiss.
It wasn’t the best place to end my session, but I felt fried, and nothing good happened on tired skates.
“Phenomenal, Quinn,” Melanie called to me as I glided to where she was waiting in the players’ box, “but I wish we could hit your axel one more time today. That leg was loose, right? I wonder if Frank would mind if we did another . . .”
She trailed off as the Zamboni slid onto the ice and the few remaining skaters hurried off.
“Okay, I guess we’re done,” she said, eyes still on the beast. “That’s a good place to end. You looked really strong today. I’m pleased.”
Even after three years it was still a shock that I had a coach who praised me, freely and without hesitation. I never imagined
that it was possible after a decade of Carol telling me that I was as massive as a linebacker, and “gravity’s bestie,” because
my jumps weren’t high enough, and that my blood on the ice after a hard fall was “part of the deal, now go do it again.”
All when I was eleven years old.
“You okay?” Melanie asked.
I shook off the old dread and refocused on the now. “Yup.”
She studied me as she handed me my hard guards and black fleece. “Tell me.”
“Just in my head, as usual,” I said as I slipped the guards on. I was still too warm for the fleece. “We’re a little under
a month and a half out. I feel like I need six.”
“Nope, I’m not letting you do this.” Melanie attempted her version of a glare. All the elements were present—narrowed eyes,
furrowed brow—but there was something about her sweet face that prevented it from having the intended effect.
I was plenty used to glares from a coach, but in a “you suck and I’m ashamed to have my name associated with yours” kind of
way, not a “quit the negative self-talk” way.
“We are exactly where we need to be,” she continued. She held up her phone. “You’ll see when you watch today’s videos. You’re there. All we have to do is stay consistent, and polish. And nail those axels, right?”
I answered with a snort.
“But other than that, you’re on it. Trust me.”
I did trust her, more than anyone. The problem was I didn’t trust myself.
I’d already blown it once on the world’s stage; there was always a chance I could make it a twofer if I didn’t get my head
game in order.
Four years later and all it took was a passing thought about my first Olympics to make my heart feel like it was trapped in
a vise. I’d come a long way in the time since thanks to my new direction and team, but the blocks I had with certain jumps
still popped up at the worst possible moments.
And that was what kept me awake at night.
“I know that look, knock it off,” Melanie scolded me. “You’re stuck on the axel. Everything else was phenomenal, stop obsessing.
That’s my job. Now park it for a minute, I have some stuff I want to go over with you.”
I sat down on the bench while Melanie swiped at her phone, squinting at the screen. She defiantly refused to buy readers because
she claimed it was the first sign of giving up and getting old, which left her holding her phone as far away from her face
as her arm would allow anytime she needed to read something. It wasn’t like she came across as just past forty, though. Her
bob was jet black without even a whisper of gray, and the “wrinkles” on her face only existed in her imagination. She’d always
been the tiniest skater on her team, and though she finally allowed herself to enjoy food, she was still a slip of a human.
Sometimes I felt like a giant standing next to her, and I wasn’t exactly known for my height.
“Okay, here it is,” she said, holding her phone up triumphantly. “It’s really good news. I got an email out of the blue, from a producer at that streaming show The Score. They’re interested in doing a feature on you, which, no-brainer.”
A chill ran through me. Yeah, I could command the attention of an arena filled with people and make them fall in love with
me for four minutes, but sitting down one-on-one with a reporter and giving them access to my demons was not something I wanted to do. Especially because I could predict their angle.
Failed Olympic figure skater’s second chance at gold.
The Score was a great show and seemed fair to the athletes they featured, but I’d watched enough episodes to know how they’d spin my
story. It didn’t take much to get me to cry when the Switzerland Games came up—especially when they rolled the footage—and
that wasn’t the version of myself that I wanted to present to the world. No, this time around I was going to be a completely
different Quinn Albright.
I was stronger and fiercer. Bulletproof, just like my long program song said.
“I don’t know . . .” I trailed off as Mel stared at me expectantly.
“Quinn, my darling, this is priceless coverage and a huge compliment. It’s a fantastic awareness campaign for you, and it’s a chance to talk about your new direction.”
Anyone who followed skating and had been watching my evolution unfold at various competitions already knew that I’d left the
sparkly princess persona in Switzerland. All they had to do was look at me on the ice, before my blades even moved. No more
pastel Easter egg costumes and classical music. The Swan had transformed into a dragon.
“When do they want to do it?” I asked Melanie.
She squinted at her phone again. “They said they can be flexible and work with your schedule but have lots they want to film and they’re hoping to get started within the next couple of weeks.”
“Get started?” I repeated back to her. “You mean this isn’t a one-and-done kind of thing?”
“Oops,” Melanie joked. “Did I forget to mention that part? This opportunity is a big feature, possibly an entire episode if
it all goes well. They basically want to embed with you for a week to start, and follow you through your daily routine. See
you practicing, in the weight room, in dance class . . . a real behind-the-curtain look at what it takes to be a gold medalist.”
“Future gold medalist,” I reminded her.
I leaned forward to pound my knuckle on the wooden boards three times. Superstitious? Who, me?
“There’s one other thing,” Melanie said, scrunching her nose. “If the timing works out, they want to do a home visit.”
My stomach curdled at the thought of going back to Connecticut. It was my home by definition but not in my heart.
“Nope. No way.” I stood up and started collecting my things and packing them into my bag. “I’m out.”
“Quinn, come on, it actually might help. People can see for themselves what you were up against. Your mom isn’t known for
her tact.”
“Is a home visit a deal-breaker?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Don’t know, I can ask. That aside, I really think you should do it. It’s not like they’re offering it to everyone
on the team. It’s a chance to tell your story the way you want to.”
“You clearly don’t watch reality TV. Have you ever heard of a villain edit?” I snorted as I shoved the fleece in my bag.
“Stop. Be serious for a minute and really think about how this could play out. You’ll be your usual charming, gorgeous self on camera, and potential sponsors will see you as someone who’s multidimensional.
Not just a pretty face. I can picture it now .
. . Coke, Nike, Omega, all fighting to sign you.
This interview is another chance to bank your future. ”
My future. What did that even mean? My tunnel vision didn’t expand beyond the next two months.
“It’s a no-brainer, I’m forwarding you the email so you can see the specifics,” Melanie added as she bent her head to tap
on her phone. “I’d never force you to do it, of course, but I strongly, strongly suggest you agree to it. I’ll be right there with you, if you want me to.”
I busied myself wiping down my blades and putting on my soakers.
“I know,” I finally answered. “Thank you.”
“I think you’ll get a kick out of who they want to interview you,” Melanie added. “It’s fun synergy.”
My hackles went up, because I had zero in common with the three hosts of the show, other than us all being athletes. Darian
Young was a former NFL quarterback, Maizey Liu was a retired Wimbledon champ, and Zach Bell was a former pro golfer.
“Who is it?”
“Bennett Martino! I love that guy. I mean, who doesn’t? Four years postretirement and he’s as droolworthy as ever.”
The name made every muscle in my body constrict in tandem, a system-wide cramp that made me glitch for a few seconds.
“Oh, absolutely not,” I finally answered. “It’s a hard no for me.”