I hobble on my blade guards out to the arena, merging into the line of girls near the edge. One of the west-siders—Paige, I think, or maybe it’s Peyton—follows behind me from the locker room, elbowing her way to the front of the pack, catching me in the ribs.
“Nice costume, Sparkles. Shoulda burned that thing after the Empire disaster. Hope it brings you the same bad mojo tonight.” She bumps me again as she passes by, a sharp reminder that my single biggest mistake will always follow me, its harsh, black lining lurking just beneath the roses-and-glitter surface of my dreams.
“Skaters, this way, please.” A thin man with a walkie-talkie and clipboard waves us over to the box, checking us in one at a time. At his command, we file onto wooden benches and remove our guards. I keep my back to Paige/Peyton and focus on the other surroundings, visualizing my jumps and spins and the cheers that will follow, even from the relatively small crowd—mostly parents and grandparents and a few well-dressed, poker-faced women who are probably part of Lola’s foundation, perched unmoving on the center line seats.
I instinctively scan the arena for my parents, row by row, top to bottom. I know it’s ridiculous—my father is thousands of miles away and Mom is probably locked in her office, hyperventilating about the foodie. I didn’t tell her about the competition, but part of me wishes she’d be here, like she’d somehow found out and dropped everything to watch me, even on the most important night in Hurley’s history. Skating was never her thing—not like it was with my dad—but maybe now it could be. I could show her how good I am, how swiftly I can win this competition. Earn that scholarship. Remap the course of my life and rediscover the path I lost that night in Rochester. Prove to her, once and for all, that I was born to be on the ice.
But … is that why I’m here? To prove something to my mother? To get a do-over on a mistake I made three years ago? Is that the reason I’m zipped too tightly into my old sequined dress, feet anxious to slide and tap and twirl and jump through the right combination of hoops to impress those bored foundation stiffs in the reserved seats? Who are they to decide whose dreams come true and whose die on the ice? Am I here just to win their hearts, to make them fall in love with me?
No. I shake my head, trying to loosen the thought, to jar it free. I’m here because I want to compete. To win. To go to college and continue training and land on a professional circuit. To … what?
The remaining girls pack into the box like glittery sardines, the seconds ticking off the clock, and my resolve melts away. This isn’t some movie where the dramatic music starts and Mom bursts through the side doors, teary-eyed as I hit the ice, all of our problems disappearing in the wake of my flawless triple/triple combo. This is reality. My reality. And though I’ve been off the competition ice for a long time, I’ve done enough events to know with absolute certainty that something isn’t right—something else that has nothing to do with Mom not being here or all the broken, bittersweet choices I made before tonight. I can feel it.
More precisely, I can’t.
That’s the problem. I used to get these butterflies before every event, good ones. They’d swarm my stomach and knock into each other beneath the surface, a gentle tickle from the inside out. Kara would massage my hands and shoulders just to steady them. And then the event manager would say my name over the announcements, calling me for my turn, and all those butterflies would stand at attention, calming me, focusing me, helping to propel me around the ice and ensure I performed my routine beautifully. They’d stop their flitting just long enough to see me through, and then, when my scores were announced and the audience cheered from the stands, they’d reappear, excited and warm inside, drunk from the victory.
I close my eyes and wait for them to come, will them to fill me up again, but they’re not here. And now that I’ve finally noticed their absence, the hole inside presses on me like a real thing.
Since I’ve started training again, I’ve felt that kind of fluttering anticipation not when I thought about this competition, but when Dani sampled my new cupcake creations, or when Bug put the final circuit board on his robot. When I finally figured out how to carry a tray full of drinks without spilling a drop. When the Wolves skated toward the net during the semis, feet shushing hard against the ice, arms arched as they prepared to take the winning shots. When Josh’s lips brushed against mine in the firelight as we hid from the storm.
“Paige Adamo,” the announcer calls. The girl hugs her friend and skates to the ice, music setting her feet on fire, strong and energetic. I want to hate her for everything she said, for everything she is, but I can’t. She’s beautiful, and her routine is breathtaking.
“Amazing program,” I tell her when she slides back into the box. She grabs her water bottle, taking a swig as her coach hands her a towel.
“There’s no karma in figure skating,” she says, looking right through me. I raise my eyebrows, but she’s right. When you’re a solo skater, everyone is the competition. Even when you’re in a local club together, you know that one day, it will come down to the solo, you against your friends. You against the world.
The competition. The grueling schedule. The pressure to be perfect—a porcelain ballerina, dancing beneath the glass of an unimaginably tiny snow globe. It was all part of the gig.
For so long I wanted to blame my father’s affair for my decision to throw the Empire Games and pull out of regionals. I wanted him to be my reason to be mad, my excuse for hanging up the skates and seeking refuge in a bowl of batter. But maybe a small part of me was already there, one skate over the line, ready to leave. I remember it now, all the impossible expectations made bearable only by my pure love for the ice and my friendship with Kara.
I touch the silver rabbit pin on my shoulder, the metal warm and smooth. When I skated with Kara, we protected each other, supported and cheered for each other, our friendship a never-empty well of encouragement. More than the ribbons and trophies and talk of bright futures, our friendship is what made it all worth it. All those five a.m. practices, the blisters and bruises and bone-tiring workouts—as long as we were in it together, we could do anything.
It was never about the competition, just like she said in Amir Jordan’s bathroom in the first hours of the brand-new year.
“Hudson Avery,” the announcer calls. In my parallel life, the crowd would fall silent; in the stillness before their next collective breath, the butterflies would return. They’d carry me onto the ice and I’d perform my routine as planned, immaculate. Nail a perfect score. Paige Adamo would scowl and pout and stab her toe pick into the ice, but the judges wouldn’t waver. It would be unanimous.
The Capriani Cup scholarship would be awarded to …
“Hudson Avery,” the announcer calls again. I stand and grip the rail in front of the box, steadying myself. This is it. The chance I’ve been waiting for all winter.
“Hudson Avery, please report to the ice,” the announcer echoes. The crowd begins to fidget. Murmur. I close my eyes and wait for those butterflies. If I don’t go now, I forfeit. I give up everything I worked so hard for these last few months. Fillmore. Baylor’s. Wolves. Cupcakes. Friends. Family. Life.
My heart finally fills, but it’s not with butterflies. It’s flashes of the Wolves, the new friends I made as I helped coach them into a real team, the joy they shared after each hard-won game. Flashes of everyone at Hurley’s pulling together on a busy night to keep the customers fed. Flashes of the pictures Dani took in the kitchen, me with my cupcakes, how they saved me after my father left, gave me something into which I could pour my heart and creativity, something that brought people a few minutes of happiness on an otherwise dark day. Flashes of Mom and Bug and what it means to be part of a family, part of a team—my home team.