“I don’t want to talk about Bella right now. This is about you and me, Katarina.”
“I understand it’s a long shot,” I said. “Us making it to Sochi, let alone winning.”
“You know I’ve never cared about medals as much as you and Bella do.”
“You’re still skating, though,” I said. “I have to admit, that surprised me.”
“Yeah?” Heath buried his hands in his pockets. “It surprised me too. Did Bella tell you I worked in a record shop in West Hollywood for a while?”
She hadn’t. “Let me guess: dealing with hipsters all day made you run screaming back into figure skating’s frigid embrace?”
“That might’ve been a factor. But mostly, I missed thatfeeling—of becoming part of the music, instead of just listening. There’s nothing quite like it, is there?”
I thought back to our practice session that afternoon, the effortless sensation of swirling across the ice in his arms. “No. There isn’t. And if we don’t do this, if we don’t at least try…”
Heath smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in it. “We’ll always wonder.”
Dusk had fallen, casting our faces in shadow. Heath looked so different from the boy he’d been—not only because of the beard, but also the lines creasing the corners of his eyes, cutting across his forehead. He would turn thirty in July; I’d follow him in October. Young by the standards of the real world but pushing obsolescence in our sport. As smoothly as our practice session had gone that afternoon, my knees and back ached, and I knew I would be hobbling like an old lady come morning.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked.
He nodded. “See you tomorrow, Katarina.”
—
Even after all our talk of keeping things professional and the distraction of personal feelings, when Heath dropped me off after our detour to the beach, it took tremendous restraint to resist inviting him inside.
My temporary home was an unassuming A-frame on one of the hilly, winding streets east of the beach. It had a security system and tall hedges—which, given my diminished public profile, I hoped would suffice, but getting papped on my first day back wasn’t the best omen.
The lightbulb beside the front door was burnt-out, and I fumbled in the dark for the keys. My foot hit something on the stoop.
Flowers. A dozen yellow roses in a ceramic vase.
I carried them inside and set them on the knockoff midcentury modern console table in the entryway. I had no idea who could have sent them; only Heath and Bella knew the address, and why would they have sent flowers here instead of giving them to me at the rink?
Finally, I located the card, tucked between the stems. As I pulled it out, a thorn nicked my fingertip, drawing blood. I stuck my finger in my mouth as I read the message.
Two words. No signature.
Welcome back.
Ellis Dean:Obviously they were fucking. Did you see those pictures on the beach?
A montage of paparazzi photos of Katarina Shaw and Heath Rocha at Playa del Rey Beach in Los Angeles. They look like a happy couple who can’t keep their hands off each other.
Ellis Dean:My best traffic since the Olympic Village furniture-throwing incident, byfar.
Garrett Lin:I think it’s nice they were able to remain friendly after everything.
Inez Acton:Who cares whether they were fucking or not? They were attempting a major athletic feat together, trying for another Olympics after years away from the sport.That’sway more interesting than their sex lives. At least to me.
Francesca Gaskell:I wasn’t paying attention to them. I didn’t have time, quite frankly. The Games were a year away, and I had a lot of work to do.
Ellis Dean:Canoodling on the beach at sunset is all well and good. But if they were serious about making a comeback, they had toskate.
Kirk Lockwood:They kicked off the season with a lower-level competition, as a trial run.
Katarina and Heath skate their free dance, to a dramatic Philip Glass piano piece frequently used in movie trailers, at the 2013 U.S. International Classic in Salt Lake City, Utah.
