Page 54 of Shining Through

Maybe they would go out to a place where they could hear hot blues like this. Was there such a place in Russia? If not, they might go to a rock club, as they’d done in Chicago. Or maybe, they’d stay in and make sweet music of their own.

“I put a spell on you... because, you’re mine...”

She’d left Paris a changed woman. In the three weeks since, she realized that making love to Daniil and admitting their love for each other had altered every part of her life.

As much as she’d tried to deny it, somewhere deep within, a wild-child had longed to break free. To the rest of the world she was the prim and proper Ice Queen, but Daniil saw her as sensual, creative and passionate. Falling in love with him, and knowing he loved her, made her eager to embrace this new part of herself.

In Paris, they’d stayed awake most of the night, making love and making plans. He’d spoken of moving to America when his skating career was over, or shifting more of his training to Delaware, or even Los Angeles. How he’d manage it remained unclear, but that he was thinking about it at all gave her hope. Though she still didn’t know what direction her post-skating life would take, the possibility they would live in the same country made the future look that much brighter.

Unfortunately, she was having trouble staying focused on her upcoming competition. So after hours of Peter and Antigone, she indulged the wild-child by skating programs like this one. She’d choreographed two new routines, one to a song by Harry K, Samara’s favorite dead rock star, the other to Bizet’s “Carmen.” She’d always liked “Carmen,” but had never skated to it. So what if she wouldn’t be now? She hoped her rediscovered love for skating would make her stronger in competition.

Her heart beat faster as she picked up speed for the triple toe loop. She dug in her toe-pick, and sprang upward throwing her body into the move with dramatic abandon that fit her lustful, sensual character. She drew her arms in tight, but her take-off was bad, and as she spun above the ice, she tilted off balance. As gravity pulled her down, she tried to right herself. But fear of a hard landing made her muscles tense. Rather than ease into the fall, she fought it.

Exactly the wrong thing to do. She came down hard on her hip and side.

“Shit!”

At the edge of the rink, Peter looked alarmed. He dashed out to where she lay, almost falling himself. “Tabitha! Are you all right?”

Lying sideways on the ice, Tabitha wasn’t sure. The fall had knocked the wind from her lungs, and the left side of her body, from hip to ribcage, throbbed. Peter crouched low, worry etched on his face. “Can you move?”

“Yeah,” she said, regaining her breath. Numb, bare hands splayed on the cold, hard surface, she pushed herself to a sitting position.

“What hurts?” Peter asked.

Everything. “I had the wind knocked out of me,” she managed. “I’m okay.”

She hoped.

Peter helped her stand, and guided her to the rink’s edge, where she dropped onto the closest bench. Hands on her knees, she wiggled her fingers as sensation returned. She drew breath down into her lungs, fearful of a sudden deep stab that could indicate a serious injury. None came. She rotated her upper body slowly. Everything seemed to be working. She sagged with relief as sharp pain ebbed into dull ache. “Nothing’s broken.”

“Thank God for that.” Even through Peter’s concern, she sensed his anger. “And do you think that risking injury on a show program you’ll never skate is a smart use of your time?”

It wasn’t, and she knew it. “I just needed to work off some stress.”

“Then take another yoga class.” Peter thinned his lips and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “When have you not dealt with stress? This is nothing new. You’ve always risen to the challenge.”

It was true, only this time it felt different. She’d thrived as a scrappy underdog with nothing to lose. Now she was the one the scrappy underdogs were out to beat. She was tired, emotionally and physically. She was burned out. She missed Daniil, and was about to face off against a young phenom who was skating the best she’d ever skated.

But Tabitha had come too far, and sacrificed too much, to fold so close to her dream. No matter how much she wanted to quit and just enjoy her life, failing to achieve this thing she’d wanted since childhood would always haunt her.

To lose to Mia Lang and not make the International Series Championship for the first time in three years would be humiliating. To carry that humiliation into team trials just a few weeks later could prove catastrophic.

She rose from the bench. Though every muscle ached, she nodded, resolved. “You’re right. Let’s get back to work.”

After successful run-throughs of Swan Lake, Antigone and the exhibition skate, Peter sent her home, with orders to get a good night’s sleep before their long flight tomorrow.

She stopped off at a neighborhood drug store for a few essentials and then headed home. Though it wasn’t yet four o’clock, dark clouds, pregnant with rain, made it appear later. The air felt thick and the normal afternoon smog, heavier than usual. The weather was typical of November in LA, but she wished the storm would just start already. As long as it didn’t ground her morning flight.

The sight of Fiona’s white Ford hatchback parked in front of the apartment brought a twist of anxiety. Her mother usually wasn’t home before six. The new job at the call center had seemed to be going so well. Was she sick? Had she quit? Or been fired? Then Tabitha remembered that Fiona carpooled with a co-worker who lived nearby. This was Rosa’s week to drive.

Everything’s fine. Quit jumping at shadows.

Sure enough the apartment was empty. Samara had afternoon classes and then was working on a project for a student film festival. At least that’s what she’d said she was doing, and Tabitha hoped it was true. In any case, she wouldn’t be home until late, either. Tabitha switched on the 1980’s floor lamp with the fluted glass shade. Soft light illuminated their always-cluttered living space.

She took her skates from her bag, removed the soakers, and rubbed moisture from the blades, before setting them to dry on a worn blue towel in the corner.

She’d followed this ritual since she’d gotten her first pair of performance grade skates. They were Jackson Competitors, almost new, with blades sharpened to a razor’s edge. Though the boots left a blister on her heel, she’d been thrilled to have them. At least until the girl who once owned the skates recognized the distinctive scratch on the left toe.

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