Chapter Three
It didn’t matter that I was exhausted and achy after practice. Thanks to the countdown clock in my head, wrung out was my
level set these days. Despite it, I still felt like I needed to log a few miles on the stationary bike in my converted guest
room, listening to my long program song for the billionth time.
I used to get sick of my performance music, back when my opinion on it wasn’t part of the decision-making process. I liked
classical music enough, but it didn’t get into my marrow the way my current songs did. It took some convincing to get my choreographer,
Sarah, to agree to my song choices because, yeah, the message behind both of them was as obvious as a cartoon two-by-four
to the head.
“Bulletproof”? It was right there in the title. The synth pop song was cheerfully defiant, a middle-finger-to-my-haters bop
that kept me smiling the entire time I was on the ice. My short program piece to the song “Movement” was just as blatant in
a totally different way.
Debuting my new direction at Worlds made a few commentators compare my stylistic changes to Disney teens who went full rumspringa once their restrictive contracts ended.
It tracked, though. My evolution began after I quit skating and retired for a year post-Switzerland to live a real life.
I’d figured out within a few months that I’d never feel okay about my skating career until I had a shot at making things happen on my own terms.
Cut to commentators calling my new programs “sultry” and “daring.”
News flash, the Swan could also be sexy.
I hated that I could trace the first inklings of my new direction to the one person who was getting harder and harder to avoid.
There was no way I could let Ben into my life to help tell my story, even though he played a tiny part in waking me up to
it.
If I was really honest with myself, I’d admit that he was the spark on the kindling that incinerated everything I’d hated
about my old life.
I closed my eyes as the vocals in the song went softer. This was the moment, the lead-up to what I hoped would be my flawless triple axel, where I gathered my power to leap up and twist
three and a half times in the air before landing perfectly on the outside edge of my opposite blade. I visualized nailing
the move, tensing my stomach and pulling my arms to my chest as if I were actually executing it on the ice.
I loved how the song went completely silent for the second I was weightless and spinning, followed by the rush of landing
exactly as the music exploded again. It was the ultimate feel-good moment, when I was in the homestretch of the program. I knew that
going for a triple axel on performance-weary legs was an absolutely stupid idea, but how fucking phenomenal would it be when
I landed it?
And then there was the 10 percent jump bonus I’d earn for even attempting it.
The song ended and I moved my arms into my final pose, eyeballing myself in the mirror across from the bike. Yes, I wanted to look as graceful as my fans remembered, but I also wanted to showcase my new strength. I loved the little extra definition on my delts and the hint of biceps.
I’d grown up hearing the mantra “be strong and light,” when it seemed like only the second half truly mattered. Now I was
leaning into the strong part, which was why I felt like the triple A was possible. I might not be as tiny as I once was, but
I was stronger than ever, in so many ways.
At least that’s what I told myself when the impostor syndrome took the wheel.
I got off my bike, sprayed it down, and mopped up the sweat. I was lucky to have the mini gym waiting for me whenever I needed
to push myself a little harder. As dicey as my relationship was with my parents, I had them to thank for helping with my room
and board. Without them, living on my own wouldn’t be possible, since my chosen career didn’t exactly pay well at this stage,
if ever. My apartment wasn’t huge, but they’d made sure it was in a new building, and I had a decent-size bathroom along with
a balcony facing the mountains in the distance.
I think I’d sat on that balcony once since I’d moved in a few years prior.
After a shower and quick dinner of salmon, wild rice, and way too much broccoli, I strapped on my trusty plug-in air-compression
massage pants and settled on the couch to scrutinize today’s practice videos. Mel called just as I pushed play, like she could
feel me about to tear myself to bits.
“I haven’t even started watching yet,” I answered.
“I can’t believe you changed your mind,” she replied. “Proud of you.”
I warmed a little at the p-word. It didn’t matter how far I went in my skating career, deep down I was still a puppy yearning
to hear someone tell me “Good girl.”
“Huh? About what?”
“Kim Overton from The Score just emailed and said you green-lighted it. I wasn’t expecting such a fast change of heart. What happened?”
Fury sparked in my chest at my mom’s latest overreach.
“Damn it,” I fumed. “She literally just emailed them like three hours ago. And it’s late, why are they still working at nine o’clock
at night?”
“Who emailed who? I’m confused,” Melanie said.
“Hurricane Tricia. Someone from the production staff accidentally sent her a message about me being on the show, and she mentioned it when she called me today. I lied and said I was going to do it,
and she immediately took it upon herself to email them back to confirm it. Anything to keep her hooks in me.”
“Huh. Well, here’s to happy accidents. Thanks, Tricia.”
A beat, as I prepared to deliver the punchline.
“Mel, but I’m not doing it.”
“Excuse me?”
It was impossible to put my thoughts in order, so I just opened my mouth and let the gibberish flow. “I’m just not comfortable
with any of it. It’s too much, and the timing is terrible. I hate all of it. Interviewing my parents, being observed, dealing
with Ben.”
I said his name like it tasted bad.
“What’s wrong with Ben?”
“Long story.”
I heard a sigh. “Your flip-flopping has me really confused, but I’m going to take this little slipup as a sign from the cosmos
that it’s happening.”
“Uh, no, I’ve been pretty consistent that I wasn’t agreeing to it,” I replied.
A silent stalemate stretched on.
“Well, we’re painted in a corner now,” Mel finally admitted. “I’m sorry, Quinn, but we can’t pull out. When it comes to TV
it’s either at a snail’s pace or a sprint, and these guys are already working on scheduling their crew. It would look incredibly unprofessional to confirm and then immediately cancel. We need to keep your run-up to the Games squeaky clean. If you come
across as flighty, or incapable of making up your mind, people are going to uh . . . draw conclusions.”
She didn’t have to spell it out for me. My mental health was up for public consumption as well.
“No one would find out that I canceled it,” I protested.
“Quinn, there’s no such thing as privacy these days and you know it. If they sense a story in all this back-and-forth they’ll
find a way to leak it. Especially with your mom in the mix. I’m sorry, but you have to walk the line for the next few weeks.”
The implication was loud and clear. There was no need for her to come out and say that the media would be watching me for
any hints of faltering. My flameout last time was dramatic, and there was plenty of debate about my mental health after the
frantic tears in the kiss and cry in Switzerland.
We both silently breathed into the phone, each unsure how to move forward. Until this point we’d always been perfectly in
step, and I’d gotten spoiled by our yearslong united front. This was the first time we were at odds about something major.
I hated finally admitting to myself that she was right. I couldn’t risk an ounce of negative press. I needed to go into the Games like a phoenix, rising from the ashes of my dumpster fire performance four years ago.
“Can I get some control of the edit?” I asked. “And maybe get their questions in advance?”
“I can ask, but you know how these things flow. The sit-down portions will have set questions, but I can totally see Ben riffing
when you two are doing the day-in-the-life stuff.”
“Did you ask if anyone else can do it?” I crossed my fingers.
My stomach twisted at the thought of giving him access to my world. I’d allowed it once and wound up getting scorched.
“I asked, but they want him because it makes sense with the whole Olympic angle. He’s going to be in Italy for the entire
Games.”
Wonderful.
I flopped back against my couch, still trying to find an out. “Can anyone else on the team do it instead of me? Erica would
be amazing.”
“They want you,” Melanie said softly.
In the old days I would’ve been given zero choice from the moment the offer came in. I recognized that now I could pull rank,
put my foot down and refuse, but Mel’s quiet resistance was working on me. No threats or intimidation, just reminders about
what was at stake and what I stood to gain by doing it.
Or lose by refusing.
I closed my eyes. Could I deal with Ben for a week?
Would I make it if I let charismatic, funny, charming, maddening Bennett Martino back into my life after what he did?
I took a gut check. It didn’t matter how much time had passed, I still wanted nothing to do with him. But if I was honest with myself, I couldn’t ignore the tiny spark of hope buried deep inside me, an ember just waiting for the right gust of air to make it catch and burn.
After everything. I hated that for me.
“Thoughts?” Melanie asked.
I stubbornly refused to answer her right away. She already knew what I was going to say.
“Fine.”
She knew better than to gloat. “Okay, thank you. I’ll give you whatever support you need. You’re not going to regret this.”
“Too late,” I said under my breath.