Page 41 of Love on the Edge
Not just counting beats. Not just preparing for the next jump. For once, I just let myself be in it.
The music fades, and I hold my final position longer than usual, letting the moment settle into my muscles before I straighten.
I exhale, pulse still steady from the routine, but my chest feels different—lighter.
For the first time in a long time, I felt it.
I turn toward Nikolai, bracing for his usual critique. A correction, a dismissal, another thing to fix.
But he’s just standing there. Arms crossed, eyes locked on me like he is assessing something he has never seen before.
Silence. Then he nods once, it’s small, but enough. "That," he says, voice even, measured in a way that makes my stomach tighten, "was incredible."
The words hit harder than any criticism ever has.
He steps closer, his gaze sharper now, assessing, weighing. “You have always been precise, always been powerful. But that? That was something else entirely.” His expression shifts, something rare flashing in his eyes. “That was artistry.”
I’ve spent years chasing his approval, perfecting every edge, every takeoff, every landing, but this is the first time he has looked at me like I did something more.
Something beyond technique.
Something beyond control.
Something real.
His voice lowers, quieter, but still firm. "Do you feel it now?"
I swallow, gripping the boards. "Yes."
He nods again, his mouth lifting in something that almost looks like satisfaction. "Good. Then do it again."
My body is still buzzing when I step off the ice, my muscles alive with something deeper than exhaustion. Not just from the movement, not just from the routine, but from the shift.
I untie my skates slowly, my fingers moving on autopilot, my mind still tangled in Nikolai’s words.
That was artistry.
I roll my shoulders, stretch out my legs, but the tightness in my chest doesn’t fade. It lingers, curling around my ribs, settling somewhere deep.
I should be thinking about my jumps, about my timing, about Nationals. I should be picking apart what went right, what I need to adjust, how to make it sharper.
But instead, all I can think about is how it felt. How it felt to just… let go.
I exhale, shaking out my limbs, forcing myself back into routine. Back into control.
Lacing up my sneakers, I tug on my sweatshirt, the fabric warm against my still-heated skin. The air inside the rink is heavy, thick with the energy I left on the ice.
The cold air outside hits fast, cutting through the leftover warmth still clinging to my skin, sending a sharp, electric jolt through my body. It feels almost like a reset, a shock to the system.
I barely register it before I hear his voice.
“Thought you’d be here.” Ethan is leaning against the wall near the entrance, hands in his pockets, watching me like he has been waiting.
I open my mouth, but no words come. I don’t know what I would even say. Before I can try, before I can ask why he’s here, he nods toward the lot.
“Someone wants to see you.” A second later, a familiar blur of energy appears, bundled up in a puffy jacket that makes her look half her size.
“Val!” Her voice is pure excitement, breathless and bright, cutting through the cold air like she couldn’t possibly hold it in for another second.
