Heath was always envious that I’d grown up with a father and brother and a house to call my own, but the truth was, my family never felt the least bit normal until Heath joined it. Maybe it was their shared affinity for music, or the rapt attention Heath paid during my father’s frequent tangents. Or maybe it was simply that Heath was a child my father could dote on without being haunted by memories of his lost love. All I knew was, Heath’s presence sparked a light in my father’s eyes that I once feared had been snuffed out for good.
The study door had been open only a sliver. I steepled my fingers against the paneled oak and pushed. The hinges screeched, and I cringed. So much for sneaking in undetected.
But my father didn’t move. He was in his favorite broken-down leather chair, facing the bay window; he liked to stare out at the lake while he was thinking. The glow of his banker’s lamp reflected in the glass, showing a mirror image of his face.
Skin pallid. Mouth slack. Eyes wide and staring and empty.
Gone.
The next thing I remember was Heath’s hand on my back, turning me toward him, pressing me close as if we were dancing.
Then, minutes later, or maybe hours: Heath’s fingers squeezing mine as we stood together on the front porch, watching the ambulance pull away. Lights off, no siren. The thing that had been my father zipped into a black bag on the stretcher inside it.
Heath had called the paramedics. He called Lee to tell him the tragic news too, then tucked me into bed and stayed by my side until I fell asleep. When I woke up barely an hour later, sobbing and shaking, Lee still wasn’t there, but Heath hadn’t moved an inch.
When I reached for Heath, he didn’t hesitate. He climbed in beside me under the covers, and I clung to him as if I were suspended over a yawning darkness and he was the only thing keeping me from plummeting down, down, down.
That was the first night we shared a bed. And ever since, I’d had trouble falling asleep without his arms around me. Heath Rocha was there for me when no one else was.
At the motel in Cleveland, I managed to drift off with my cheek pillowed on Heath’s chest and his fingers gently stroking my hair. When I woke up in the morning, the snow had stopped—and my hip was screaming.
Heath took one look at my face and said, “Katarina, you need to see a doctor.”
We both knew we couldn’t afford a doctor. And we knew if we didn’t skate today, it could spell the end of our skating careers. Clawing our way onto any step of the podium was the best hope we had of attracting the attention of sponsors, a better coach,somethingthat would allow us to continue without begging for scraps from my brother.
I thought about Isabella and Garrett Lin, waking refreshed after eight hours cosseted in feather-down luxury at the Ritz-Carlton. Eating egg whites and fresh fruit delivered to them on a literal silver platter. Riding to the arena in a chauffeured car so the slap of the lake-effect wind couldn’t touch them.
People like them didn’t know how to fight. They’d never had to.
I sat up in bed. I put one foot on the grimy chartreuse carpet, then the other. As I pushed myself to standing, Heath flinched like the pain was coursing through his own body.
But he knew better than to try to stop me.
Ellis Dean:Kat Shaw always was a stubborn bitch.(He takes a sip of his martini and raises his eyebrows.)What? I meant it as a compliment. Trust me, she’d take it that way.
Garrett Lin:Part of being an elite athlete is pushing past your limits when it counts.
Jane Currer:We would never want a skater to compete injured. That said, it’s ultimately up to the athlete and their coach. U.S. Figure Skating can’t be held responsible. Or liable.
Nicole Bradford:If I had been there, I would have withdrawn them and driven straight to the nearest hospital.(She pauses, lips pursed.)Well, I would have tried anyway.
Garrett Lin:The thing is, when pushing your limits is all you know, when it seems normal to you…it’s hard to remember you evenhavelimits. Until you run right into them.
Chapter 8
I broke it down into small, manageable steps, like in training.
First, I had to make it to the shower. Next, I had to get dressed. Then walk to the car without slipping in the unsalted parking lot.
I got through the day one excruciating moment at a time, until Heath and I were by the boards, waiting for the sixth-place skaters to finish so we could take our turn.
He stood behind me, palm pressed against my stomach, and we took slow, deep breaths together until we felt our pulses beat in sync. Even with the pain, a sense of calm settled over me, the way it always did when Heath and I touched.
If this was going to be our last competitive skate, I wanted to know I’d done everything I could.
We skated to center ice, and I let it all fall away. Not just the pain—everything. The hum of the crowd. The scrape of our blades. The sound of the announcer saying our names. Everything faded, until my focus shrank to the heat of Heath’s fingers intertwined with mine.
I don’t remember much about that free dance. We were skating to a medley of songs from Madonna’sRay of Lightalbum, anchored by “Frozen,” which was all over the radio at the time. Heath had recorded it off B96 for me, and I’d worn out the cassette, playing it over and over until Lee smacked the wall and shouted toturn that shit off.
