They fit me a whole lot better back then, just like the pair before that and the ones before that, all the way back to the very first time I ever felt the ice beneath my feet. It was during the winter Olympics more than a decade ago. I was a toddler, mesmerized by the twirls and turns on TV and the way the skaters’ feet seemed to float as if they were dancing on water. I’d never before wanted to be anything as much as I wanted to be that—a ballerina on ice. So one morning my father drove me to Miller’s Pond, this old place out in the country. He parked the car and came around to my side, kneeling in front of me with a big white box. I took it into my lap, legs dangling over the edge of the seat as I tore off the lid and pulled out miles and miles of tissue paper. Inside, two magical silver blades shone under soft leather boots, bright as snow. Dad laced them up and set me on the ice like dust on spun glass, and he pulled me around and around and around until my face was numb from smiling in the cold, the same question spilling from my lips for hours.
Please, can you take me again, Daddy?
Soon he’d be paying for lessons at the community center two towns over, then private instruction when they started throwing around phrases like “unlimited potential” and “incredible natural talent.” Not too long after that came Lola Capriani, and that was it. Pro track, all the way. Before he finally split, my father must’ve spent a boatload on my dreams, his entire future staked on the destiny I was supposed to claim.
Still, through all the winters of lessons and competitions, through all the dizzying spins and hard-earned bruises and medals, it never meant as much as it did on that first day at Miller’s Pond when he surprised me with those magical skates. That day, I really was a ballerina and he was my whole world and if I let myself now, I bet I could still feel the warmth of his hand around my tiny pink mitten.
Don’t worry, baby girl. I promise I won’t let you fall.
But I don’t let myself feel that warmth. Even now, as I prepare for another competition and wade through all the old memories, the ghosts of my father’s promises don’t take up nearly as much space as they used to.
“That’s it,” Josh calls out, skating toward me. “I can’t take it anymore.” He stops close, his face pink from cold and exertion. “Now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself, how ’bout showing off some of your killer moves.”
“You’ve seen my moves.”
“Not really.” He stretches his arms out before the lake. “All this room. No walls. No rails. No Brad Nelson running his mouth. It’s just us and the seagulls. And I promise not to crash into you.”
I smile. “There you go, being a hero again.”
“You’re competing in a month, right?”
“One month, six days, and a handful of hours, give or take.”
“Then put your money where your skates are.” Josh nods toward the ice. “Come on, Avery. Show me what you’ve got.”
“That a dare, Blackthorn?”
He shrugs. “Call it what you like. You down?”
“Down? I’m about to make you wish you never got up,” I say, strictly for the cameras. What’s a high school action rom-com docu-drama without a few corny but well-placed one-liners?
I hand Josh the puffy outer layer of my jacket and push off with my toe pick, gliding backward to the other side of the runoff. I haven’t choreographed my full program yet, but with Josh smiling at me across the ice, I set my nerves to steel and silently count to ten.
A cold breeze rolls over my skin, and in the next heartbeat, the music starts in my head. Not “Bittersweet” this time. Maybe “Freaktown,” the Undead Wedding song with the paper birds that Josh likes so much. My muscles recall the beat and tense, uncoiling like a spring to launch me forward. I take long strides, tucking in my arms and head as I pick up speed. As I approach the edge, I look for the perfect spot to curve, looping at an angle as I gain momentum for my first jump. My skates cross over … one, two, one, two … and up … my feet drift through the air; I rise to the sky for a single axel. Josh whistles from the sidelines, but hold it, boy. I’m just getting warmed up.
I move through another set of jumps and spins, forward and backward, fast and slow, making up the sequence as I go. I speed up again, zipping around the perimeter of the runoff, legs burning from the effort, lungs on fire, heart ready to burst out of its cage, but this is it. This is the stuff I was made for, the freedom, the speed, the furious jog of my heart, the cold breeze biting my skin. When I look across the ice and see Josh watching me—really watching me—I spring into my triple flip.
But I know as soon as I leave the ice that I won’t get enough lift for the full rotations.
I manage to turn it into a double and land without wobbling.
Josh cheers, and I launch into another double, land, and twist immediately into a camel spin. The song in my ears starts to slow, and I let the spin fade into a gentle glide, the bright white sky motionless as I sail uninhibited beneath it. I push off one more time, gaining momentum, zooming closer and closer. Then, in my favorite finish, I cut my blades hard and shower him with ice.
Phishhhh …
I can almost hear Lola laughing. Enough showboating, greenblades. I was making moves like that when I was six. But she’d smile when she said it. And so would I.
“What do you think, fifty-six?”
“I think I’m glad I don’t have to skate against you in the competition.” Josh hands over my jacket. “You were wrong about one thing, though. You didn’t make me wish I never got up.”
His comment hangs in the winter air between us, blood rushing back to my cheeks as I catch my breath.
“I messed up that jump,” I say. “I’ve been working on this crazy triple/triple combo at Baylor’s. Back in the day, it was my signature move. Lost my edge a little.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“You’re not a skating judge.”
“You’ll figure it out in time, Pink.” Josh nudges me with his hip, but as usual, I don’t see it coming. He grabs me just before I fall, catching me against his chest, arms tight around my waist, neither of us moving for a moment.
“Hudson,” he whispers, and I look up into his eyes, so bright and blue in all this whiteness … my heartbeat quickens as he leans closer. His grip tightens and my legs go wobbly in a way that has nothing to do with slipping on the ice. He could kiss me. He could kiss me right now, and then I’d know for sure.
We’re alone out here, just us and the seagulls and the harsh December wind. I close my eyes and lean forward, ever so slightly, waiting for him to make the move.
Here’s your chance, Blackthorn! Now or never!
“Sorry,” he says, letting go of my arms as my eyes pop open. “I didn’t mean to knock you over. You okay?”
“I’m … um … I brought snacks!” My announcement is loud and awkward enough to wake all the ghosts of Fillmore, but it works to break the not-so-momentous moment. I skate over to my backpack and dig out the small box of cupcakes and some balled-up Fresh ’n’ Fast bags. Side by side, but not too close, we sit on the plastic bags beneath the signpost and chow down.
At least now I know for sure. Friends. Just friends. I can live with that.
“How lame is it that I have to stay home on New Year’s every single year?” I ask between bites of chocolaty goodness. “I swear, if I’m ever allowed out for the ball drop, Dick Clark will accuse me of cheating.”
Josh taps the blade of my skate with his. “You and Dick, huh? Sorry, I don’t see it.”
“Aw, you just don’t know Dick like I know Dick. Dick and I are like this.” I cross my fingers and hold them in front of Josh’s face. “Like this!”