Page 30 of Fire on the Ice

Wow. Way to make a girl tear up. I’m not ready to forgive her. Hell, I’m not ready to even talk to her yet, but what I am ready to do is read her message over and over and over, let it wash over me like a steaming-hot shower after a long, hard, disappointing practice, and let it soothe me. Let the warmth of it sink into all the places that hurt. And before we leave, maybe get a chance to tell her that, because something occurs to me—I didn’t know she was there, I’ve seen no press talking about how she was there. That wouldn’t have been an easy thing for her to do, and yet she did, for me.

Chapter Thirteen

Blaze

Maisy didn’t write me back last night, which kind of sucked. But she also didn’t write me back and tell me to throw myself off a bridge. Or the Canadian equivalent of that. Drown myself in maple syrup? Choke on my poutine? Get run over by a moose? Whatever. What matters is that she didn’t tell me not to come, so here I am.

I have sat quietly and politely through a shit ton of free programs, and while it’s given me a greater appreciation for what these women are capable of, mostly I’m twitchy with impatience because I want to see my girl. I also am dying over trying not to call attention to myself. How do people do this all the time? Is this how Maisy feels? Tied up—and not in a fun way—by trying to act a certain way? No wonder she looked so stiff yesterday. This is no fun. But I can do it, will do it, for her.

She’s again one of the last skaters, and I bide my time by drubbing my heel, tugging at my sleeves, and reflexively pushing nonexistent hair back under my hat. Apparently if I can’t use my energy to be loud and move around, it gets channeled into twitching. Awesomesauce.

At long last, they call Maisy’s name and she skates onto the ice. She’s wearing this gorgeous royal-blue skating dress with a short-ass skirt that shows off her ridiculous legs, and a keyhole back traced with sparkly crystals. It’s got a jeweled halter neck that bares her shoulders and her arms, and she looks . . . radiant. Like whoa, glowing. Even from here. And I could’ve sworn her costume for this number was some ombré black-and-grey thing. Pretty, sure, but boring. This is . . . anything but that.

My seats aren’t super good so I could be making this up, but I think the corner of her mouth is curling up in a hint of a smile, but she also shakes out her hand as if she’s jittery as fuck as she skates to the center of the ice and strikes a pose that makes her look like a goddess straight out of some French castle’s garden. Maisy’s not the type to get nervous. Or really, to show she’s nervous. So what’s . . .

That’s when the music starts. The whole arena is silent for a second and then there are ripples of murmurs going throughout the place.What is she doing? This isn’t the expected program. Did they make a mistake?

I don’t think they did. A few beats in, I recognize it. It’s the song I walked in on her skating to that day all on her own. The murmurs in the audience get louder, but they all blend together and melt away because I feel like I’m here by myself. No, that’s not right. I feel as if Maisy is in the arena, on the rink, all by herself. That’s how she’s skating, with the lights low, and the way she’s moving is all power. Grace for sure because I don’t think the girl could look clumsy if she tried, but she looks strong, formidable. And to my delight, she looks excited. Like she’s actually enjoying herself.

Soon enough the jumps and the spins start, and all I can do is sit here in the dark with my chin in my hand and watch her blow the fucking roof off this place.

Maisy

The only things I can see are the white of the ice, the colors of the logos on the boards as they flash by, and the black beyond. Otherwise, I’m alone. Free. Doing what I damn well please. And though I can’t see her—because I can’t see anything, and she’s not making herself known—I think Blaze is here. I can feel her in some woo-woo way that would usually make me roll my eyes because what kind of nonsense is that? But as I turn to get in position for my first combination, I can practically feel the fiery heat of her approval on me. Not that I’m doing this for her. No, it’s all for me. But I can’t deny she lent me some of her massive amounts of not-giving-a-fuck in order to do this. Switch out my staid free skate for my exhibition program—which my coach and my parents alike will downright murder me for—but I feel good. God, it feels good.

Triple lutz into a triple toe, and I nail them. The crowd knows it, because the blackness erupts into applause. It feels good, it feels right, and the ice feels like a co-conspirator in this suicidal plot of mine. Smooth and steady under my blades, it lets me fly. And screw being a swan or some other long-necked graceful thing like a heron. Today I’m an eagle or a hawk. Strong, sturdy, vicious; an acrobat in the sky.

I throw in a triple flip, give myself a little room before heading into a triple loop. My stamina is one of my strengths, so I store up some of my jumps—including the biggest challenges—for the second half of the program, including something the judges won’t know what to do with. Something even my coach won’t see coming because I’ve only practiced it in secret.

Now’s the time for my step sequence, and it leads into my combination spin. Even though I can’t see her—don’t even dare try to find her—I can picture Blaze’s face. And since I can’t hear her, she must have her hands clamped over her mouth, but I hope she’s enjoying this. I am.

And I continue to, through a triple salchow on its own, followed by a triple flip, double toe, double loop combination, and into a flying camel spin, and now it’s time to make some noise.Just you wait, Blaze.

There’s only one other woman who’s ever done this, and while I’m not nearly the athlete that Surya Bonaly was, I can still pull off a version of it. Picking up speed, I turn, and the preparation could be mistaken for a lot of things, but by the time I’m digging my toe pick into the ice, the experts in the audience will know I’m not going for any kind of regulation jump. Nope.

Right toe pick hard into the surface, and then I’m pinwheeling my left leg straight over my head, joined as soon as I can by the right. Hard pike to get the full rotation in before gravity turns against me, and yes, yes, both my blades land solidly on the ice, and the arena goes nuts. I can’t land it on one leg like Surya, but no one can. Still.

Back. Flip. Eat it.

I extend a leg behind me, and spread my arms, opening myself to the crowd. I don’t mean to make it a saucy thumbing of my nose to the figure skating establishment, but that’s probably what throwing this illegal move into my program looks like. Feels like to the judges, and I’m sure my score will reflect that. But oh well. Blaze was right. This is my last shot, and I want to do it my way. Showing off my abilities—which are for better or for worse more athletic than elegant—is my way.

We’re into the second half of my program, and the music is really taking off now, loud and pounding, and the crowd is eating it up. I bask in the sounds, a wide smile splitting my face so hard it hurts, and I keep it up through my single choreographic sequence. That gives me a tiny break in which to slightly rest my burning legs and my lungs that feel near to exploding.

This starts to seem like the craziest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s too late now. I could tone it down, pull the rotations on my jumps, but I don’t fucking want to. Which leaves me with my last offerings. I’m going to leave it all on the ice, and I say a wish to I don’t even know who that I don’t flub this too badly. My thighs are trembling, my mind is racing, but I will do this. The murmur in the crowd kicks up a notch when they see my forward approach. There’s no toe pick to help me here, only a bend of my shaking knee to get that coveted elevation, and with a push as hard as I’ve ever pushed with my left foot, I’m in the air.

With my hands holding tight to my chest, and my ankles crossed close against each other, I make the three-and-a-half rotations that make up a triple axel, and then my right blade touches down with a slight wobble, but I keep it together in a near-picture-perfect landing.

The crowd has no hope of being as loud as my pounding heart, but they provide a rumbling background to the rhythmic thump of my blood. My whole body pulses with excitement, exultation . . . bliss. This is how I want to skate. This I how I want to be seen.

Even though I’ve been on the ice for what feels like forever, it has in fact been slightly less than four minutes. I’m ridiculously grateful that the crescendo of the music that cues the start of my final spin has arrived, though, because I’m about to drop. Flat out pancake on the ice because I’m exhausted and the emotions roiling inside me are too much to take. I let them spin up, spin out as I do, the heavy G-forces tearing some of them away and leaving me feeling clean and elated.

I don’t cry on the ice. It’s not something I do. Too much drama, and that’s not a thing I should do. It’s not what Harpers do. But when I’ve dug in my toe pick, come to a final stop and raised my hands to the sky, I feel the tears forming, and I don’t stop them. I’ll give the audience this, too.

They love it. Clap and cheer and oh my god, I feel as though I’m swimming in it, being carried by it as I skate a lap around the arena, picking up the brightest bouquet I can find, waving like mad, and smiling so broadly there’s a good chance I’m going to split a lip. Plus of course, swiping at the tears running down my cheeks because I can’t stop them. Just can’t stop them. Don’t even want to.

Waiting with my coach—who is positively rigid with anger—is anticlimactic. I didn’t do this program to win, have no expectation that I will. I skated the way I wanted, not the way I’ve been shoehorned into for my whole career. While a medal in my trophy case would be nice, what I’m prouder of is that I could silence the voices for long enough to come out here and dazzle my audience with my actual talent. They liked me exactly the way I am. I was,am,enough for them.

I’m sure there was some headshaking from the old guard, and no doubt my parents are either screaming at their television or have thrown it out a window with all my possessions, but for the most part there was adulation, and I could get a hint of what Blaze must enjoy all the time. I fucking loved it.

---