CHAPTER 1 #2
I immediately skate over to her, so quick I manage to leap right across the gate, my blades stamping onto the rubber mats. “Coach,” I say in disbelief, “did you hear about Ethan and Violet?”
She simply nods.
Maybe Coach isn’t as frazzled by the news, but I feel like the rink’s high ceilings have snapped and collapsed right over me.
“When did you find out?” I ask frantically.
“Ethan told me as I was about to enter the rink,” she says. “He wanted me to coach him and Violet. Said there would be a big advance I would jump to accept.” Yamamoto places her mug on the seat beside her as the deep wrinkles on her temple settle. “I did not.”
I knew she wouldn’t.
The one person around here that money cannot buy is Coach Yamamoto. The only trace of warmth I have left in me burns out when I peek over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of Troy’s disoriented state as he approaches the gate.
I turn back toward Yamamoto, my lungs splintering in panic. “Thank you, Coach, but who am I supposed to skate with now?”
I know that look.
Her eyes dart right behind me, and then back to my face.
“The person who also just lost his partner,” she says. “You will skate with Troy.”
HA. I will NOT under any circumstance—ever—skate with Troy.
The same Troy who criticizes my skating technique any chance he gets.
The same Troy who didn’t have to work a day in his life to get everything he has.
The same Troy who trashed the diner I worked at when I was 15 with his friends.
The same Troy who had no regard for the other two jobs I was juggling to help my mom keep food on the table, while this man would flash his latest sports car in my fucking face.
The same Troy who thinks money and power make you untouchable.
Troy Larsson will not be my skating partner today, tomorrow, the days, weeks, months, years, after that.
Heck I’d ask Dean, the rink’s Zamboni driver, who tumbles onto the ice the minute he straps on his skates, to perform with me before that ever happens.
A smooth voice rips into my aggressive spiral. “Respectfully, no.”
The jackass must’ve heard Rina’s insane announcement, and—yeah, same. Skating together, that’s not happening. But the conceited drip in Troy’s tone, the way his electric green eyes narrowed like he’d never even consider the prospect, bubbles a strike of rage in my veins.
Troy slaps on his blade guards, ignoring the rest of our conversation, before he disappears into the rink’s tunnel, Yamamoto’s expression still way too calm for the avalanche that was just dumped on us.
While arguing with her is pointless—Yamamoto has this odd way of foreseeing what’s best and she’s always had my back—I still insist, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Do you have a better idea?” she asks.
Yamamoto also rarely doesn’t make a wise point.
I still refute.
“Troy and I can barely stand in the same room as each other, let alone skate together. Besides, I’m sure I can find someone else to skate with,” I say this even when I know it’s almost impossible someone at this level is also looking for a pair and during Olympic season, for that matter.
“If you find someone in the next 24 hours as talented as Larsson,” she compromises, “then we will discuss from there.”
_____________
“This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening…” Trying to talk myself down, I spot Troy in the hallway near the locker rooms. “We’re not skating together.”
“You’re telling me?” He looks appalled by my words. “Skating with you would be the worst kind of torture.”
I scowl at him. “I can’t believe they just did that. Ethan didn’t tell me anything about wanting to switch partners.”
“Violet didn’t mention anything either. I don’t get why they would do this. They don’t even like each other.”
“To sabotage us? I don’t know.” I can already feel the sweat forming across my forehead. “They know we don’t like each other even more.”
“No, that can’t be it. If we skate together…
” He flashes me a look of disgust that I’d judge if I were not feeling the exact same.
“…then that theory doesn’t make any sense.
” His chest rises in frustration as he focuses on the rink’s wet carpet.
“Maybe she’s still pissed off from a party we went to a few weeks ago and did this as revenge. ”
I scoff. “Now it all makes sense.”
He cocks his head, confused. “What?”
“Of course we’re in this mess because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.”
His brows pull together. “Are you skate slut-shaming me?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Skate slut-shaming?”
“Yeah, adding to the completely unfair stigma of skating pairs hooking up with each other,” he says with utter sarcasm.
“That’s not a thing.”
“Yes, it is. Google it.”
“Surprised you know how to Google things.”
He bites his scowl. “Back to the skate slut-shaming…” I roll my eyes. “Completely uncalled for and a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”
“Excuse me?”
“You and Ethan.”
“Never in a million years. I didn’t hook up with him, nor have I ever hooked up with any of my skating partners. I think that’s highly unprofessional.” I scoff, gesturing a hand at him. “Which is super on-brand for you.”
His full lips slide into a smirk. “Well, you’re missing out.” Troy picks up on the slightest tilt from my head. “We’re skaters. Think of all the different positions we have in our back pocket.”
My back straightens. For a brief moment fantasizing the image he’s just painted, but it’s fast, so fast, I abruptly—luckily—reply quick enough for him to not throw another jab.
“I’d prefer not to think of said positions that have forced this pairing.”
Troy’s shoulders drop in what appears to be exhaustion.
“God, Ana, you’re so uptight. I never slept with Violet. Which is why she’s probably doing all of this to spite me.”
A hint of surprise hits me.
A hint.
“It’s funny the root of our problem still ties back to your dick, somehow.”
“Twice in one conversation…” Troy folds his arms across his chest with a sprinkle of amusement that I want to wipe right off his smug face. “Tell me, how many times are you thinking of my dick on a given day?”
“You are mad,” I huff out, immediately turning around, hearing the subtle trace of a condescending snicker as I barge out of the rink.
This isn’t happening.
This is just a nightmare that will soon come to an end. My skating partner of ten years did not just leave me for my childhood skating nemesis. Right before the start of Olympic training. And more importantly, my lifelong rival, that insufferable man, is not my current skating partner.
No, this is all just some sick and twisted dream.
_________
Nine years ago, I sat on this very same polished mahogany bench—one of the dozens scattered all throughout Larsson Ice Rink’s spacious lobby—next to Sasha Trusova and Haru Yamada, while Marion Dupont gave the newest invitees her rendition of a welcome speech.
One sequence, in particular, chilled right to the bone.
“If you want to win, you must want it more than anyone else. You must work harder than anyone else. Skate smarter than any of your friends. Because everyone here wants to win.”
She proceeded to expand on her stance regarding competition, making it abundantly clear that competitive figure skating was not for the weak. I think she would have personally kicked me out of the rink, had she detected the droplets of fear budding all over my skin on that cold January morning.
I already knew our discipline, at its peak level, wasn’t for the weak. What I wasn’t privy to yet, was every sacrifice it would take to reach the top.
With a financially struggling mother, treacherous father, divided ethnicity my family warned me not to capitalize on, a deficit in connections and status felt like the least of my problems.
None of it mattered when I knew one thing, at the core, skating was my air.
On some days, I still feel like an imposter, as if all those hours, days, weeks, months, years, I spent perfecting my technique are not enough to warrant the accolades I’ve earned, the fans I’ve reached, and figure skating community I’ve helped build.
Maybe if I prioritized being an opponent over a confidante first, I too, could orchestrate schemes as humiliating as Violet’s latest.
Instead, I’m glaring vacantly at a now-empty palette of fresh ice, wondering how I’m going to win this time.