Page 54 of Love on the Edge
I coil in, the world blurring as I increase my speed. Faster, tighter, deliberate. Then, for the final extension, I extend, arms reaching outward, chin lifting—a flawless finish.
Silence.
A breath.
Cheers crash through the air, the roar of the crowd swelling, deafening. The energy pulses around me, vibrating through the ice, through my chest, through my bones.
Nikolai is waiting for me, eyes bright, his expression full of something rare—pride.
“That was brilliant!” He grabs my shoulders, squeezing. “You did it!”
I shake my head. “I can do better.”
His grip tightens. “Stop that, Valeria. Accept your accomplishments. Accept your wins.”
I exhale sharply, my pulse still pounding in my ears. “You don’t even know if I won.”
He huffs, like it’s obvious. “You are winning.”
I want to believe him. I really do.
I glance toward the stands, searching for my parents, for Grant and Hannah. They’re there, standing, cheering, their expressions proud. But it still feels… distant. Like I haven’t let it hit me yet.
I inhale slowly, trying to shake the residual energy still buzzing in my limbs. I should feel triumphant. Overwhelmed. Something.
Instead, I just feel… empty.
The competition is over. And suddenly, all I can think about is Ethan.
The music starts, and immediately, I see the difference between my style and Nina’s. She doesn’t attack the ice. She invites it in.
Where I cut through the rink with power, she moves like the music belongs to her. There’s no force, no sharp edges—just breath, just glide, just something effortless in the way she lets herself be part of the performance.
She doesn’t skate to hit every beat. She skates to feel it.
Her arms extend, fingers tracing unseen lines in the air, every movement deliberate, but never forced. Where my movements are clean and exact, hers are soft, expressive, open. Her face changes with the music, her body leans into every note, and for a moment, I swear I almost forget I’m watching a competition.
She’s not just performing. She’s telling a story.
She moves through the footwork sequence, her blade carving smooth, flowing arcs, her weight shifting effortlessly between edges. She’s light, floating across the ice like she’s not bound by gravity the way the rest of us are.
Her step sequence is hypnotic—deep edges, fluid turns, arms drifting seamlessly through each motion. It’s mesmerizing. Every gesture, every glance, every breath seems like it belongs in the music.
The jumps come, but they don’t define the program. They don’t own the routine the way they do in mine.
They’re woven in, almost secondary to the performance itself.
I’m not watching technique. I’m watching Nina.
And for the first time, I wonder if that’s what I’ve been missing.
Her final spin unravels like a ribbon, slow and controlled before extending into her finishing pose—arms reaching toward the sky, a smile breaking across her face, the last note lingering in the air.
She skates off, her expression glowing, her joy undeniable. Drew is already reaching for her, pulling her into a hug before she even catches her breath.
It wasn’t the most difficult program. It wasn’t packed with the hardest jumps. But it was Nina. And it was unforgettable.
She looks to the monitors, waiting for her scores. The numbers flash. The crowd roars yet again. It’s incredible. Her highest score yet.
