I started to follow him. Bella caught my arm.
“Let him go. He’s being a dick.”
“But we have to skate tonight.”
“So what, you’re gonna beg for his forgiveness? Screw that. You did nothing wrong.”
I had lied to him—by omission, at least. Because I knew exactly how he would react.
My first instinct was to soothe his hurt feelings the way I usually did. But staring up at the billboard, I didn’t want to be my usual self. I wanted to be the fierce, confident woman I saw in the photograph. That woman wouldn’t apologize or grovel or explain.
“You’re right.” I looped my elbow through Bella’s again. “Let’s eat.”
—
I didn’t see Heath again until it was time to leave for the competition. The shuttle bus was so full, he had to take the seat next to mine, but it was clear he was still stewing. As the other skaters chatted amongst themselves or sang along with the J-pop on the radio, he remained stubbornly taciturn the whole way to the M-Wave Arena.
The arena’s ridged structure was supposedly designed to echo Nagano’s mountainous landscape. It looked more like an armadillo crouched in the frostbitten grass. The first time we’d crossed the threshold, though, it had given me a heart-pounding thrill to know I stood in one of the venues from the 1998 Olympics. Heath and I had watched them on TV when we were fourteen, and four years later, there we were, about to compete in our first World Championships final.
About to compete, and giving each other the silent treatment. We went through our pre-skate routine separately. I stretched alone, using the cinder-block walls instead of Heath’s hands to get the necessary support and resistance.
I hoped once we were on the ice, muscle memory—or plain old habit—would take over. But Heath wouldn’t even take my hand during the group warm-up. After doing my own makeup, I usually applied his eyeliner—a subtle smudge along his lashes, enough to make his expressions show to the back of the stands—but he decided to do that by himself too. The black line was so messy, it made him look slightly feral. We stayed close to the sides of the rink, stiff and awkward with a wide space between us as our competitors spun and stroked past in perfect sync.
By the boards, our coaches looked on. The Canadian coaching team stood between Sheila and Veronika Volkova, as if they sensed a buffer was necessary. Veronika’s hair was bleached even blonder than it had been back in her skating days, and she wore a sable coat with a dramatic collar that set off the steep angles of her features. She was one of the only women in ice dance taller than I was—though her partner Mikhail had been well over six foot even out of his skates.
Yelena Volkova had the same pale hair and narrow, feline eyes as her aunt, but otherwise the two women were nothing alike. Yelena had only just turned sixteen, and she was so small and fragile-looking she could’ve passed for younger. Her partner—Nikita Zolotov, Mikhail’s son—was well into his twenties, which made her seem even more like a little girl out on the ice.
With two minutes left in the warm-up, Sheila waved Heath and me over to her. I steeled myself for the worst—but if she could shake Heath out of his funk, it would be worth it.
As soon as he’d snapped his blade guards on, though, Heath stalked away, leaving me to face Sheila alone.
“I’m sorry.” The words I refused to say to Heath fell right out of my mouth when faced with our coach’s intimidating stare. “Heath’s mad at me, because I—”
Sheila put a hand up. “I don’t care. You’re on in five minutes. Make up with him.”
“Why shouldIbe the one to have to apologize?”
Even as the words spilled out, I wanted to stuff them back down my throat. No one spoke to Sheila Lin like that.
To my surprise, she softened. “I know how you feel, believe me. But what do you care about more, Ms. Shaw—your performance or your pride?”
I didn’t see why I should have to choose. This was the World Championships, though, and we were on the brink of a bronze medal.
So I went in search of Heath, ready to say or do whatever it took to get him to forgive me—at least until the end of the free dance. My training at the Academy had improved my skating, but it had also taught me how to perform under pressure. Whether you’re miserable or in pain or so pissed off you want to scream, you have to keep a smile onyour face. And you have to convince everyone watching—the audience, the judges, even your partner—that it’s genuine.
I’d made it all of two steps into the backstage area when Garrett intercepted me.
“Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” I tried to peer around him, but his broad shoulders blocked my view. He still had his oversized Team USA jacket zipped over the gauzy gray costume he wore for the twins’ somber orchestral piece in tribute to the 9/11 victims. The choreography had been completed months before the attacks, but their mother knew a PR opportunity when she saw one. “Have you seen—”
“Bella told me about the billboard. She said Heath was upset.” Garrett leaned closer. “I could talk to him if you want? Make sure he knows nothing…happened, or—”
“I appreciate the offer. But I’ve got it under control.”
Or I would, if I could get to Heath in time. The fifth-place couple from Japan had already started their program, so the clock was ticking.
“Gotcha,” Garrett said. “Well, good luck out there. You two have beenkillingit.”
