I shouldered past Heath and joined Garrett without a backward glance. Showtime.
Opening position: facing in opposite directions, the only point of contact Garrett’s hand reaching back to rest on my hip. Cue the music: the groovy, looping bassline of Sade’s “Turn My Back on You.” Garrett spun me around with a quick flick of the wrist that sent my filmy white skirt fluttering like a spiderweb in a storm, and we were off.
I told myself not to think about Heath. I told myself to be in the moment, to be in my body. Feel the fabric slipping over my thighs, the cool breeze off the ocean, the heat of Garrett’s shoulder under mypalm. The contrast between the smooth velvet and the scrape of rhinestones.
But I couldn’t get it out of my mind. The kiss. The brush of Heath’s knuckles over mine. The smug, triumphant look on his face.
Despite my distraction, I kept up with Garrett. The first part of the program—with its hip hop–inflected muscle isolations, dynamic footwork, and flirtatious interplay—was easy for both of us, even with the constraints of the compact rink.
Our problems always came in the latter half, when we shifted into the yearning classical guitar and soft piano of “Haunt Me.” No matter how many times we practiced, it felt counterintuitive—all that kinetic energy building, only for us to slam on the brakes for a smooth, restrained midline step sequence to match the slower music.
We came to the transition point. A pause at the center of the rink, a breath with Garrett’s arms around me and my head on his shoulder. Usually I closed my eyes for that moment, centering myself. But that night, I kept them open.
And there was Heath, standing in the front row of the crowd. Our eyes met. My hands clawed, digging into the back of Garrett’s head. He gave a little gasp and flinched.
Heath smiled.
All the months we’d been working on the program, drilling it over and over and over again, I’d had it all wrong. Shoring up all that energy wasn’t counterintuitive. It was the whole damn point. “Turn My Back on You” was a seduction—a push-pull of warring lusts, seeming to give in to Garrett one moment, forcing him to follow me like a lovesick puppy the next.
So once we reached “Haunt Me,” the tension was almost tantric. My mistake before had been trying to tamp down the fire, instead of holding it inside me for as long as possible. Everything I was feeling that night—the rage, the jealousy, the frustration, the desire—all of it was more fuel for the inferno.
Garrett met my sudden intensity spark for spark. Our combination spin had always felt a bit stilted and mechanical; now our bodies curled together like plumes of smoke. He touched my face, and I could feel his longing extending from every fingertip. When we reached theclimactic lift, timed to the song’s sultry tenor saxophone solo, I threw myself into his arms. No hesitation, no holding back. We whirled across the ice, my spine arched, hand reaching back to grab my blade, only the strength of Garrett’s interlaced fingers keeping me aloft.
It felt like flying. It felt like victory.
When we finished, the applause seemed to last forever. I didn’t look for Heath in the crowd again. Instead, my eyes sought out Sheila. She stood next to a firepit, wearing a cocktail dress covered in iridescent sequins that caught the reflection of the flames, making her look like a goddess emerging from a pyre.
She wasn’t applauding. Instead, she smiled at us and lowered her chin in a subtle nod of approval. Garrett and I exchanged glances. We both knew what that meant.
We were ready.
Chapter 35
As I changed out of my costume into party clothes—a long velvet dress with a low V in both the front and the back, snakeskin stilettos gifted to me by a designer following a magazine shoot—I was still vibrating with adrenaline.
Garrett and I were peaking at exactly the right time. Finally, our free dance felt like a cohesive program instead of a series of elements strung together. All we had to do was skate at Nationals the way we’d skated that night, and they’d have no choice but to hand us the title—and our ticket to Torino.
So what if Bella had worn her mother’s old costume and put on a nostalgic show to impress a bunch of people who didn’t know a twizzle from a one-foot turn. It must have taken her and Heath weeks to learn that choreography—time they could have spent perfecting their competition programs. Sheila should have known better. In fact, I was sure she did. She might have put Bella and Heath in the spotlight, but Garrett and I were still the ones to beat.
The elevator car was empty when it arrived; the whistling operator must have taken off for the evening. I stepped inside and started examining the control panel, which had directional arrow buttons in addition to the options for each level.
Then I felt the floor shift as another passenger boarded.
“Going down?” Heath asked.
He’d changed out of his costume too, into a slim-cut black suit and leather brogues. Interesting how content he seemed to let Bella dresshim up like a doll, considering how stubbornly he’d held on to his scuffed sneakers and ripped jeans when he was with me.
I mashed a combination of buttons. The elevator didn’t move. Heath stepped closer.
“Here, you just—”
“I’ve got it.” I bumped him out of the way with my hip, trying another sequence.
The elevator started to descend. I yanked the gate closed.
Heath was right behind me. The heat of him radiated across my spine. We stood still like we were waiting for music to start, but the only sound was the whir of the elevator gears.
I spun to face him. Stepped back. My shoulders hit the side of the car, the cool metal bars sending a shiver through me.
