Page 16 of Love on the Edge
I flow through a jump into a back camel spin, my arms extending in perfect form. It’s strong, technically flawless. But I already know what’s coming.
"Faster rotation," Nikolai says, then after a pause, "More expression."
I don’t react, just nod, even though I already know it’s useless. I need more expression, more artistry, more feeling.
I can land every jump, execute every spin with perfect placement. But the second I’m asked to sell it—to feel it—it all falls apart.
I glance at Nina and Zara. Nina’s spins aren’t as strong as mine, but she sells them. She makes them look effortless, like she’s telling a story on the ice. Zara has a way of extending her arms just enough, of tilting her head at the perfect moment to make everything look intentional.
I know how to do the movements. But I don’t know how to make people feel something when I do.
"Again," Nikolai calls.
I exhale, push into another spin. This time, I try—I try to extend my arms more gracefully, to make the movement looknatural. But I can already feel it. It’s forced. It doesn’t feel like me.
I land my exit, and Nikolai watches me for a long moment before speaking.
"Technically perfect," he says. "But you are not an artist, Valeria. You are a machine. You need to be both."
It shouldn’t sting. I already know this about myself. But somehow, it does.
I skate toward Nina, slowing my breathing. She bumps my shoulder. "He’s just grumpy. You were incredible."
"Technically," I mutter.
Zara glides beside us. "I’ll take your edges and jumps if you take my arms and face."
I let out a breath of laughter. "Deal."
"Cool down," Nikolai calls. "Then stretch."
I take a slow lap around the rink, feeling the exhaustion settle into my legs. Every drill today, I nailed. I was out in front, landing everything, showing exactly what I can do.
But none of it matters if I can’t make people feel it.
I push harder into my final strokes, cutting into the ice. Maybe I don’t need to. Maybe jumps and spins should be enough.
But Nikolai’s voice lingers in my mind.
You are not an artist, Valeria. You are a machine. You need to be both.
Practice ends, and we are exhausted. Muscles burning, sweat cooling, breath still coming fast. We drop into stretches, letting the last of the tension seep from our bodies. The doors open, the familiar hum of the Zamboni kicking in as Harry moves onto the ice.
Normal. Expected. Routine.
Until—
"Hey, sis."
A man’s voice. Deep. Familiar. Too familiar.
I freeze. That voice. I know that voice.
That’s the voice that murmured against my skin, rough and hungry. The same voice that growled my name when his hands were gripping my waist, his body pressing into mine, his breath hot against my ear.
No. No. No.
"Hey, big brother," Nina responds.
