Page 63 of Love on the Edge
The case is over. Margo is gone. CC is safe.
And now?
Now, it’s time to go pick up my girl.
The music begins, swellingthrough the arena, but I don’t hear it the way I used to. I don’t count the beats. I don’t map out every step before I take it.
I feel it.
I push off, my blades slicing cleanly into the ice. The world outside the rink disappears. The cameras, the judges, the pressure—they all fade away, leaving only the cold air against my skin, the quiet hum of the ice beneath me, and the moment stretching out in front of me.
I start just as I rehearsed. Triple lutz, triple toe. My knees bend, my core tightens, and I launch, rotating fast, sharp, spotting the landing before my blade even touches the ice. Clean. Perfect. Exactly as planned.
But something shifts.
I exhale into my next steps, extending my arms, my fingers reaching, but it feels… wrong. Not because I’ve made a mistake. But because I’ve done this before. Every movement, every breath, every single second of this program has been choreographed to be perfect. To win.
But what if winning isn’t the point?
The thought stirs, unexpected, curling through my ribs, pressing against something deeper. Do I keep going exactly as planned? Or do I take this moment and make it mine?
For the first time, I hesitate. Just for a heartbeat.
I let go.
The choreography shifts—not enough to break the structure of my program, but enough that it’s mine now. A deeper edge here, a longer glide there, a movement I never dared to hold before because it wasn’t efficient, wasn’t necessary.
I push into my next combination. Triple flip, double toe, double loop. Textbook. But this time, I don’t just land it. I absorb the moment, let my arms extend a second longer, let the emotion settle before moving into the next step.
I can hear the crowd reacting.
They feel it.
I push forward, moving into what should be my final jump—a triple loop—but something inside me knows I can do more. Not technically harder. Not riskier. Just moreme.
So instead of a triple loop, I push into a double axel. The first jump I ever landed. The one that made me fall in love with skating. My blade carves into the ice, and I launch, letting the landing breathe, letting it settle, letting itmean something.
I’ve spent my whole life chasing perfection.
Right now, I just want to skate.
The final spin begins. My body coils in tight, faster, faster, faster—but instead of snapping out as planned, I hold it. The world blurs, the music pulses through my veins, and for the first time, I let it pull me instead of controlling it.
And then, finally, I extend.
Arms reaching. Chin lifting. A finish that isn’t just a pose, but a declaration.
The music cuts off.
Silence.
A moment suspended in time. A single breath.
Then—the arena erupts.
Cheers crash through the air, an explosion of sound ricocheting off the walls, the boards, the ice beneath my skates. The crowd is on their feet. The commentators are shouting.
I glide to a stop, my skates pressing against the barrier, my breath coming faster than I want it to. It’s over.
