Page 77 of Rinkmates

“She doesn’t,” I say. “It’s her. She’s always been cold like this. When I mastered my thirst triple toe loop at sixteen, she didn’t even blink.”

The stage manager yells my name and points to the stage.

I give Priya one last squeeze before heading to the ice with Aiden. The lights are dim, but I can still feel the weight of a thousand eyes on me. I know next week will be tough. If we make it to round two, the interviews will start. Questions will come. I need to be ready.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and center myself.

As soon as Shayleen and Tim call our names, the lights blaze on, and we begin.

As the finalnotes of the music drift into silence, I strike my last pose, chest heaving, heart pounding like a drum. For a heartbeat, everything is still—then the audience explodes into applause. Some are even on their feet, clapping and cheering like it’s the best thing they’ve ever seen. I can’t help but beam as Aiden sweeps me into a hug, his laughter bouncing off the walls. “We did it,” he says against my ear, his eyes twinkling with pure joy.

But as we turn to face the judges, my grin starts to falter. Grace’s expression is like a stone wall, completely unreadable. She presses her lips into a thin line before leaning into her microphone. “Technically impressive,” she says, her tone as cool as ice. “But I’m not feeling the emotion, the connection between you two. It’s…adequate.”

I start to hate that word. The way she says it. It makes all of my hair stand on one end.

My heart sinks even further as the other judges chime in with equally tepid feedback, their enthusiasm draining away like air from a balloon. By the time they hold up their scorecards, I brace myself for the inevitable blow.

Twenty-five out of thirty.

The same score as Stacey and her partner.

I let out a breath, relief flooding through me. It’s not a perfect score, but it’s enough to keep us in the running without needing the audience’s vote. We’re through to round two.

As we leave the ice, Aiden pulls me into another hug. “We were amazing out there, and we’re going to keep getting better. We’ll find a way.”

We’re quickly interviewed by our media staff and give some statements about how we rate our routine, and all the time Aiden is holding me. And honestly, if he hadn’t been there, I might have fallen—my knees are shaking uncontrollably. Even though I’m wearing a cardigan, the tremors just won’t stop.

Once we’re done with all the interviews, I collapse onto the nearest chair. Aiden hands me a water bottle, and I take a long swig, trying to calm my racing heart.

“You were amazing out there,” he says, sitting down beside me. “Don’t let what the judges said get to you.”

I nod, but I can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. We’ve worked so hard, and I thought our routine was flawless. But maybe Grace was right. Maybe there was something missing, some spark that we hadn’t quite captured. “Our next choreo needs to be more emotional.”

My phone buzzes in my cardigan’s pocket, and I pull it out, half expecting a message from my mom. But when I see the name on the screen, my heart does a little dance.

Puckster: Hey, just wanted to say congrats on an amazing performance. The whole team watched, and you were absolutely stunning out there. Can’t wait to see what you do next.

I stare at the message, reading it over and over, my cheeks heating up. He’d been watching. Him and his entire hockey team. And he thought I looked stunning.

I type a quick reply, my fingers betraying a slight tremor. “Thanks!” I hover over the send button, contemplating if I should add more. But what else is there to say? Thanks for fingering me, sorry I ran away right after?

But before I can hit Send, Riley sends another message.

Puckster: How’s Oscar doing by the way?

Liora: If I say he’s fine, will you stop texting?

Puckster: No.

I chuckle, drawing a curious glance from Aiden.

Liora: He’s alive, but if he dies, I might have to strangle you for real this time.

Puckster: Can you even reach my neck, baby?

Liora: I’ve got my methods. Don’t underestimate my wrath.

Puckster: Well, if you’re mad, I’ve got 70 ways to make it up to you. Number one: a hug.

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