Chapter Thirty-One
Monroe
I’m sitting in the rink lot, nursing an iced coffee. Too much caffeine isn’t sitting well with the shitshow that was meeting with my mother for the first time in over a year.
She’d asked me to lunch, and I really sat on it for a few days before deciding to see her—not for her sake but for mine. I had no real desire to keep up a relationship with her. It had always been transactional anyways. But this way, the ending could be on my terms and not hers.
‘Monnie!! Mon!’ She’d waved at me from across the little café we’d met at.
I hadn’t wanted to wait around for a lunch meeting with her, so I’d insisted we do breakfast instead.
‘Can you go order, baby? Grab me a coffee, too, please!’ I’d had to physically stop myself from rolling my eyes at her.
Too peppy for nine in the morning, and I was paying for her stuff.
Again. She could have ordered her own drink before I got there.
I’d ordered for us and waited at the pick-up counter, balancing the two cups and a bagel for myself once it was ready. She’d eyed the bagel as if she could incinerate it just for daring to be made of carbs.
‘Honey, you really should have gone for a yogurt,’ she’d said, taking a sip of her coffee. I’d stared blankly at her. ‘You’ve filled out a bit since last year.’
Truly incredible start to this meeting. ‘What do you want, Elaine?’
‘Elaine? Jesus, Monroe, we’re not colleagues. You know I hate when you call me that.’ She’d taken out a lipstick and applied another coat to replace what was now attached to the lip of her cup.
‘We both know you aren’t here to catch up or chat or whatever it is moms and daughters do. So, please spare me the show and just tell me what you want.’
Her eyes had rolled up toward the ceiling in exaggerated exasperation.
‘I heard you were back on the ice. I wanted to come and see how it was going.’
You wanted to see if you’d have a paycheck again.
‘Who told you I was skating again?’ Dad sure as hell didn’t tell her. Elsie would never.
‘Aaron called.’
I had nearly choked on my coffee. ‘Aaron called you, to tell you I was skating again?’ The disbelief had hung heavy between us.
That breach of… Trust is the wrong word.
Aaron and I don’t have that anymore. Privacy?
I guess we didn’t owe that to each other anymore, either.
Whatever it was, it was going way too far.
‘Of course, honey. You know we were always close.’
Perfect. Love that for me.
‘Are you going to accept the position?’ Her friendly facade had slipped and impatience had edged into her tone. ‘I’m staying at the Four Seasons right now, but say the word, honey, and I’ll rent an apartment again. Start working on getting you those sponsors again!’
‘This is really none of your business. You didn’t give a shit when I got hurt. You only care now because you’re tired of not making money off me. So, the answer is no.’ She had narrowed her eyes at me. No apology, nothing. She’d taken a beat, sipping her drink slowly, before continuing.
‘No, you’re not skating anymore?’
‘No, I don’t need you anymore.’
Her face had contorted into something ugly before she’d wiped it clean.
‘Monroe, spare me the theatrics. You want to be difficult? Fine. But you have a real chance here to be worth something again and it would be such a waste to see you turn that down.’
As if I am worth nothing if I am not skating and competing.
I’d stood up at that and walked out. I didn’t deserve to be spoken to that way.
As I was walking back to my car, I’d taken note of the fact that a year ago, a comment like that would have sent me into a binge-drinking spiral.
And while it definitely still stings, it wasn’t the blow to my self-esteem that it would have been to past Monroe. Progress.
And now, two hours later, I’m staring at the door to my old figure-skating coach’s office, tucked away on the far side of the rink.
I haven’t stepped foot in this hallway since before my accident.
With the clinic finished, I’ve been deep into preparing for my finals in a few weeks, and I’ve been putting off coming to have this conversation.
Not because I don’t know what I want to say, but because I’m not sure how Petra is going to receive it.
I finally got the guts to send her a text a few days ago, and all she sent back was a time and date.
If I’m going to skate again, it’s going to be for me. Not my mom. She’s not going to have anything to do with it.
It feels quieter over here on this side of the building, heavy with the ghosts of every practice session, every demand, every expectation still lingering in the walls. I started skating in this rink when I was eight. Started working with my coach at twelve. I grew up here.
My fingers hover inches from the door, knuckles poised, but I can’t seem to bring myself to knock.
I’m not the girl who used to walk confidently into this office with the iron-clad knowledge that I was the best skater on the Nationals circuit, the best skater at Worlds. The future Olympic gold medalist for Team USA.
I’m not landing quads, and my footwork isn’t perfect. But I’m not permanently off the ice, either. I’m skating clean, landing my jumps. I feel comfortable on the ice again. Maybe not Olympic-bound, but if we’re talking skill level, I’m at least on par with half the current Nationals roster.
And that should be enough. Rhodes has been reminding me just how much it is.
But it doesn’t feel like it, standing here in front of this door. I make the motion again to knock, attempting not to psych myself out when someone clears their throat behind me.
I turn slowly.
Petra Ivanov stands there, arms crossed, sharp as ever. Four feet ten inches of steel, her platinum-blonde hair pulled into the same severe bun she’s worn for as long as I can remember.
She raises an unimpressed brow. “You made it,” she says, the strong lilt of her Russian accent curling around every word. “Are you ready to grovel for acting like little shit?”
It hits like a slap—but the familiarity of it, the harsh brutality, the severe cadence, makes something ache deep in my chest. I swallow, forcing myself to meet her gaze.
“I owe you an apology,” I say honestly. “But I am not here to grovel.” I am starting to feel less ashamed of who I was a year ago.
I’m holding space for the girl who lost everything.
She makes a small noise in the back of her throat, like that answer is barely tolerable. “At least you do not lie.”
Without another word, she steps past me and unlocks the office door. “Come.”
I hesitate for a half-second, pulse pounding, before following her inside. The door clicks shut quietly behind me. My palms are clammy. Rhodes doesn’t know I’m here today. Neither does my dad or Elsie.
Nobody knows. I came here to do this for myself, whatever this shapes up to be.
Petra gestures sharply to the chair across from her desk. “Sit.”
I do, muscles stiff, back straight.
She wastes no time.
“If you’ve come to tell me you are skating again, I already know you are skating again,” she says, voice clipped. No pleasantries. No preamble.
Her gaze is cool, assessing, sharp as the blade of a skate. I feel twelve years old again, desperate for approval.
“I see everything,” she adds, tone final. “You think I do not?” she scoffs.
My throat tightens, but I stay quiet.
“You behaved like a child,” she says flatly. “You shut everyone out. But I am not everyone, Monroe Abrams.”
It’s not cruel. It’s just brutal truth, and she’s right. Another person I shoved away when I was spiraling. Another person who cared more than I gave them credit for. The list gets longer every day. I let a few shitty people color my entire opinion, and that is the biggest shame of all.
I shift in the chair but don’t argue. She watches me a beat longer, then continues.
“I have seen you skate. You land jumps. They are clean. Not the jumps you were landing before accident, but we can work on that.”
“I heard there is still an open spot for pairs.” My voice is smaller than I meant for it to be. I clear my throat, opening my mouth to try again, with more conviction.
But Petra waves a hand, dismissive. “If you are here to ask for pairs position back, no. That is not possible.”
The words hit sharp. My heart stutters, even though I expected it.
“Oh,” I manage, voice even quieter. “Oh, okay. Right, of course. I’m sorr—”
Petra cuts me off with another wave of her hand before continuing on.
* * * *
Later, when I’m alone in my apartment going over the meeting in Coach Ivanov’s office, I let my thoughts tumble around me.
The tears come hot and fast when I let myself sit with her words.
It’s not what I thought I wanted when I went to see her, but lately, nothing I have thought I wanted ended up being the best thing for me in the long run.
I’ve scaled the wall up from rock bottom. I can learn how to do something new.