Page 53 of Love on the Edge
CC sniffs hard, trying to stay brave, but her grip on me tightens. “I don’t wanna go with her,” she whispers. “Please don’t make me.”
Mom reaches out, stroking CC’s hair, her touch as light as her voice. “Baby, no one is going to make you do anything youdon’t want to do.” Her words are calm, but there’s a quiet storm behind them, her free hand gripping Dad’s so tight her knuckles are white.
My father finally speaks, his voice carrying the kind of weight that makes everyone in the room listen. “She left,” he says simply, his words deliberate, unwavering. “A parent doesn’t do that. A real parent doesn’t come back just to take something that was never theirs to begin with.” His jaw tightens, and when he speaks again, his voice is final. “She is never getting her back.”
A sharp gasp cuts through the silence.
I swallow hard and press a kiss to the top of CC’s head, my voice steady even though my pulse is hammering in my chest. “Never, sweetie. I will never let her take you.”
CC trembles against me, but she nods, just barely, like she believes me.
And I swear, I will do whatever it takes to make damn sure I don’t break that promise.
Nationals. The final test.The moment that decides everything.
I roll my shoulders, breathing deep, shaking out my limbs. My body is ready, my muscles coiled, but my mind is loud. The arena hums with restless energy. Cameras flash. Voices echo. The weight of expectation presses down, thick and suffocating.
Somewhere, the commentators are speculating—Did the scandal get to her? Did she crack under pressure? Is she still the skater she was before all of this?
I shut them out. I’m here to win.
I glance toward the boards, toward the stands, searching for something—someone.
But the lights are too bright. The crowd is a sea of faces, blurring together, too many at once. I can’t pick anyone out.
It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to see anyone. I know my parents are in the crowd, despite their busy lives, they’ve never missed a performance.
I need to skate.
The music begins, and I let my training take over. I pushoff, my blades carving into the ice, steady, controlled. The noise fades. The crowd dissolves. The cameras, the judges, the weight of expectation—none of it exists.
There is only this.
My movements are fluid, exact, every step hitting where it should. Not too much. Not too little. Just enough.
I push into my first combination—triple lutz, triple toe. Knees bend, body coils, and I launch, rotating fast, my core locked tight. The landing is clean, absorbed into the next transition.
No reaction. No hesitation. I keep moving.
The choreography sequence should feel effortless. It doesn’t. The ice feels harder beneath my skates, my limbs tighter than usual, my breath shallower. I push through it.
Deep edges, sharp transitions, arms extending just enough to match the music. Not because I feel it—because I command it.
I prepare for my next combination—triple flip, double toe, double loop.
My body snaps into position in the flip, my skates touch down, for only a second, my weight feels too far back. A flicker of doubt. A fraction of hesitation.
I adjust instantly, flowing straight into the next jump.
It’s fine. It’s all fine.
But the fight is there.
I don’t let it shake me. I don’t let it rattle my control. I absorb the moment, I shift, I own every movement.
One final jump. Triple loop.
I step into it, push off strong, rotating effortlessly. The landing is clean, absorbed into the ice like it was always meant to be.
