Chapter 22 #2
Tonight, for the first time in years, I didn’t feel trapped inside that lesson.
And that memory didn’t hurt.
Mila pulled back enough to look at me, her eyes bright and disbelieving. “We did it,” she whispered.
I looked across the arena.
Dean stood near the American section with Nathan and Brooke beside him.
Even from this distance, I knew he was watching me.
A distance I could not cross.
Dean
I came off the ice after the warm-up, skating back to the team section. I didn’t look at the scoreboard. The numbers were already burned into my memory.
We were tied with Canada, both teams on 59 points. The free skate would be the clincher.
Simple enough in theory. Terrifying in reality.
Ethan handed me my guards. “You’re not gonna let Canada beat us, are you?”
I snorted. “Thanks. Just what I needed to hear right now.”
“Seriously though.” He grinned. “Please save us from becoming silver medalists.”
Brooke whacked him on the arm before addressing me. “Ignore him. Panic responsibly.”
That startled a laugh out of me.
I sat, breathing deeply, doing my best to maintain my calm.
Mark joined me. “How’s the ice?”
“Fast.”
“Good. That works for you.” He adjusted the collar of my costume automatically, movements practiced after years working together. Then he looked me directly in the eye. “Listen to me.”
I stilled in a heartbeat.
“You do not need to save the world tonight.” His voice stayed steady against the roar of the arena around us.
“You don’t need to think about Canada. You don’t need to think about points.
” He paused. “And for the love of God, stop carrying the entire United States on your shoulders for five minutes.”
I couldn’t hold in my laughter.
Mark patted my back. “Go out there and skate your program. That’s it.”
I nodded.
Canada was first on the ice, and I deliberately didn’t watch Victor’s skate, didn’t analyze it. I glanced instead toward the other team sections—and found Luka.
He stood near the barrier beside Mila and the Velkaran coaches, his thick white, crimson and black jacket covering the red and gold of his costume.
Luka was talking with them, but he was looking at me. Not the crowd, nor the cameras.
Me.
I stopped thinking about Canada.
Mark followed my line of sight. “The kid can’t stop looking at you.” The words were uttered casually enough.
“Mark—”
“What?” His lips twitched. “I’m observant.”
“Oh my God.” I waited for the focus lecture.
“Dean.” His tone gentled. “Whatever’s going on there?” He glanced toward Luka once more before looking back at me. “It seems to be making you happier.”
I was too shocked to answer.
Mark squeezed the back of my neck once. “Good. Hold onto that.” Then his expression sharpened again into coach-mode. “Now go win me an Olympic gold medal.”
I forced a grin. “You think maybe I’d better wait until it’s my turn?”
Going last was always a pain.
Then both of us stilled as the crowd roared.
Mark sighed. “Damn. Victor’s on fire tonight.”
I took a deep breath. “No pressure then.”
Luka
There was only Dean left to skate.
My heart was pounding, my palms clammy inside my gloves.
Canada had scored 195.90. If Dean was going to beat that, he’d have to produce the skate of his life.
Mila’s hand found mine, and I squeezed it, thankful for once that the narrative they’d built around us would mean no one gave her action a second thought.
Dean’s name echoed through the building, a roar following, the air heavy with expectation.
I watched as Dean skated out into the center of the rink. The ice reflected pale silver beneath the lights, his deep blue costume creating flashes of brightness each time he moved.
Mila leaned closer. “He looks terrifying.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
The opening notes of Outro rolled through the arena, low and deliberate, and Dean moved. Immediately, the entire building shifted with him.
That was what made him extraordinary. Not only the jumps or the technical difficulty or even the consistency everyone talked about, but his presence.
Dean Foster stepped onto Olympic ice as though he belonged there.
The opening quad exploded upward with astonishing height, the landing clean and effortless enough that the audience reacted before he had even fully exited the edge.
Then another followed it, with no hesitation or hint of caution.
Every movement flowed directly into the next with relentless momentum, speed carrying him across the rink in huge sweeping patterns while the music built beneath him.
“He’s flying,” Mila whispered.
She was right. Dean was skating like someone aiming wholeheartedly to win.
The Axel landed clean. Then came the combination pass, impossible levels of difficulty stacked together under crushing Olympic pressure, and somehow he held onto every ounce of control while still making it feel alive and never mechanical.
My hands were clenched tight against my arms. I knew what this performance meant: his father watching from a hospital bed; the pressure of the standings; and the weight of expectation from an entire country.
Dean carried pressure differently than I did. He absorbed it, transformed it into momentum instead of restraint.
The step sequence drove the audience into applause halfway through, Dean moving with absolute command of the music, edges sharp and powerful, his expression a mask of open joy.
The flying spin accelerated before centering perfectly, transitions so clean they almost looked unreal from rink side. The choreography stopped looking performed and started looking lived.
The entire arena felt caught inside it, and still he kept building, adding another quad, cleanly executed.
Mila choked out a laugh. “This is ridiculous.”
Dean’s final spin combination blurred with speed before slowing into his closing position, one knee bent as the music crashed to its finish.
Then stillness.
For one suspended heartbeat, the entire arena froze with him.
And then the building exploded, the sound hitting like physical force.
People were already on their feet before Dean had even straightened, applause crashing through the arena while he stood at center ice breathing hard, chest rising sharply beneath the lights.
My own breathing was uneven, and I knew before I saw the scores, before I heard the commentators or watched the replay, that I’d just witnessed the best performance of his life.
Dean
The applause hit like a wall.
For a second after the music ended, I stood there in the center of the rink, trying to breathe while at least six thousand people lost their minds around me.
The sound crashed through the arena in waves, loud enough that I felt it vibrating through my chest, my legs, the ice itself beneath my blades.
Somewhere deep down, before the scores even appeared, I already knew I’d done it. The program had felt different from the first movement, not perfect but more alive than anything I’d ever performed.
And now the entire building was on its feet.
I pushed a shaking hand through my hair as I skated toward the boards, adrenaline surging violently through me. Flags blurred together in the stands, cameras flashing from every direction while volunteers scrambled to clear the exit path.
Mark caught me at the entrance to the Kiss and Cry with an expression of pure pride. “You listened,” he said, his voice gruff.
I laughed shakily. “Yeah?”
“You stopped carrying everything.” His hand tightened on my shoulder. “And you finally skated like you trusted yourself.”