Knot On Our Pucking Watch (Olympia Academy #1)

Prologue I’ll Never Forget

Prologue: I’ll Never Forget

~OCTAVIA~

“The ice never lies. Neither do the people who betray you on it.”

The roar of twelve thousand people should have been deafening, but all I could hear was the hammering of my own heartbeat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It pulsed through the thin layer of my costume—a hand-beaded masterpiece of midnight blue and silver that clung to every curve and caught the arena lights like scattered starlight.

Every sequin had been sewn with intention.

Every crystal placed to catch the eye of the judges, the cameras, and the millions watching from home.

The Maple Leaf Arena in Toronto was packed to the rafters. Banners hung from the ceiling in cascading waves of red and white, and the massive LED screens flanking the rink projected our names in bold, glittering letters:

OCTAVIA MOREAU & GARRISON HALE.

National Pairs Figure Skating Championship – Final Free Skate.

I could feel the frost creeping through the thin barrier of my skate boots as we glided into our opening position at center ice.

The cold was familiar—comforting, even—like slipping into a second skin I’d worn since I was four years old.

Sixteen years on the ice. Sixteen years of bleeding for this moment.

Garrison’s hand settled at the small of my back, his grip firm and possessive in a way that had nothing to do with choreography and everything to do with the Alpha he couldn’t help but be.

Even now, even here, with the weight of the world watching, he couldn’t resist that quiet assertion of dominance.

Ignore it. Focus. This is your moment.

I tilted my chin upward and met the glare of the spotlight head-on.

The arena dimmed. The crowd hushed to a collective inhale, twelve thousand lungs holding their breath in unison.

The judges—a panel of nine, seated behind their pristine white table at the boards—leaned forward in their chairs.

I caught the subtle nod from the chief referee.

We’re clear.

The opening notes of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No.

2 in C minor bled from the speakers, low and aching, those first chords rolling through the arena like a gathering storm.

The melody was melancholy. Haunting. It was the kind of music that made your chest ache before your mind could catch up to why.

And that was exactly the point.

We moved as one.

The first sequence was a side-by-side triple Lutz, and I launched into it with the precision of someone who’d done this ten thousand times.

Toe pick into the ice, body coiling, and then—flight.

Three rotations in the air, tight and controlled, arms pulled flush against my chest, and the landing was silk.

Clean edge. No wobble. My free leg extended behind me in a perfect arabesque as the blade kissed the ice without a whisper.

Beside me, Garrison matched me rotation for rotation. His landings were strong, his lines sharp. To anyone watching, we were flawless. Symmetrical. The kind of partnership that came along once in a generation.

If only they knew.

The music swelled—the strings climbing, climbing, climbing into that soaring second movement—and we transitioned into our first lift.

Garrison’s hands found my waist with practiced efficiency, and I was airborne before I could think, his arms pressing me overhead in a star lift that had the crowd erupting.

My body arched above him, one leg extended, the other bent at the knee, my fingertips reaching toward the ceiling as if I could touch the lights themselves.

The applause was a living thing. It crashed over us in waves, punctuated by the sharp crack of banners being waved and the rhythmic stomping of feet against metal bleachers. I could see phones raised in every direction, their tiny screens glowing like a galaxy of earthbound stars.

When he set me down, the transition into our combination spin was seamless.

I tucked into a sit spin first, my body folding like a petal, then rose into a camel spin, one leg extended behind me in a flawless horizontal line.

Garrison mirrored me three feet away, our blades carving identical circles into the ice.

The Rachmaninoff thundered around us, the piano and orchestra locked in that desperate, yearning dialogue that made this piece feel like a confession.

This is it. This is everything.

The technical score was going to be enormous.

I could feel it in the way the judges were writing—quick, decisive strokes.

No hesitation. We’d nailed every element in the first half of the program with a level of execution that left no room for deduction.

Our program component score—the artistry, the interpretation, the emotional connection to the music—was going to carry us even higher.

Every extension of my fingers told a story.

Every glance between us was choreographed to break hearts.

And it was working.

The crowd was with us. Not just watching— they were feeling it.

I could see a woman in the front row pressing her hand to her mouth, tears tracking mascara down her cheeks.

A little girl in a sparkly leotard clutched a stuffed bear to her chest, her eyes wide and shining.

The announcer’s booth was silent—they’d stopped commentating entirely, letting the music and our movement speak for itself.

Three minutes and forty-two seconds into a four-minute-and-thirty-second program, and we hadn’t put a blade wrong.

Just the throw quad Salchow left. One more element. The crown jewel.

The Rachmaninoff was building toward its climax now, the orchestra surging with an almost violent intensity, the piano hammering out those iconic ascending chords that felt like the entire world was rising, rising, rising toward something magnificent and terrifying all at once.

We set up for the throw.

In pairs skating, the throw quadruple Salchow is the Mount Everest of elements.

The female skater is launched by her partner with enough force and height to complete four full rotations in the air before landing on a single blade.

It requires absolute trust. Absolute timing.

The male partner’s job is to generate the lift—to propel his partner skyward with enough power that she has the altitude and rotational velocity to complete the element safely.

I’d done this throw a thousand times with Garrison. In practice, in competition, in my sleep. My body knew the mechanics the way my lungs knew how to breathe. He would grip my waist. I would load onto my left back outside edge. He would pull, twist, and launch, and I would fly.

Simple. Routine. Ours.

I felt his hands tighten around my waist—left hand at my hip, right hand bracing the small of my back—and I loaded into the entry edge.

My weight settled into that back outside curve, my body already beginning to coil for the rotation.

The music was screaming now, every instrument in that orchestra crying out in unison, and the crowd was on their feet, they were on their feet, because they knew what was coming.

Everyone in that arena knew what was coming.

Now.

He launched me.

And the moment my skates left the ice, I knew something was wrong.

The height wasn’t there. I could feel it in my stomach—that sickening absence of the upward surge I’d felt a thousand times before.

My body was already rotating, already committed to the four revolutions that required every fraction of an inch of altitude, but I was low.

Too low. The apex of the throw—the peak where I should have been suspended for that split-second of weightlessness—came and went a full foot below where it needed to be.

He didn’t push me high enough.

The realization slammed into me mid-rotation with the force of a freight train.

My arms were already pulled tight against my chest, my body a spinning axis, but the math was wrong.

The physics were wrong. I needed four rotations in roughly 0.

7 seconds of air time, and he’d given me the launch for three. Maybe three and a quarter.

I’m not going to make it.

Time didn’t slow down the way people say it does.

It shattered. It broke into jagged, crystalline fragments that sliced through my awareness one horror at a time.

I could feel the rotation count—one, two, three—and my body was already descending, gravity hauling me back toward the ice with merciless indifference, and I was only three-quarters of the way through the fourth revolution.

Open up. Open up NOW.

Survival instinct took over. I threw my free leg out to try and catch the landing, tried to force my body into some semblance of a controlled descent, but I was still rotating.

My right blade hit the ice at the wrong angle—not on the back outside edge where it needed to be, but on the flat, with too much sideways momentum and not enough vertical clearance.

The sound was the worst part.

It wasn’t a crack. It was a pop—deep, wet, and visceral—followed by a sensation that ripped through my right knee like someone had driven a white-hot railroad spike directly through the joint.

My leg buckled. My body slammed into the ice hip-first, and then I was sliding, tumbling, my costume catching and tearing against the frozen surface as momentum carried me across the rink in a grotesque sprawl of limbs and scattered crystals.

The Rachmaninoff cut out.

The silence was worse than the fall.

For one suspended heartbeat, twelve thousand people didn’t make a sound. The judges froze, pens halted mid-stroke. The arena held its breath like the entire building had been plunged underwater. And then—

The gasp.