Page 184 of Wish You Were Mine
It was insane. Unreal. Practically unheard of.
But if any event gave me a shot, it was this one. Floor had become my strongest event this season. I’d poured everything into it: refining every leap, every line, every tumbling pass. I knew this choreography like I knew my heartbeat. Every beat, every transition, was muscle memory now.
If I could channel the same fire I’d brought to the gym this week…I might actually have a chance.
I might actually do what I couldn’t do last year.
A twinge of nerves flared in my stomach.
Please. Let me hit this routine.
“You’ve got this, Lucy,” Coach Chambers’ voice cut through the noise as she stepped up beside me, setting her arm on my shoulder. “You’ve done this routine a hundred times. Just hit your landings. Sell your performance. And no matter what the scoreboard says...I’m proud of you. We all are.”
I nodded, emotion rising like a tide I wasn’t ready for. “Thanks, Coach.”
Because I was proud, too.
Proud of how far I’d come.
How far we all had.
This whole year had been a climb. A fight. A string of near-misses, long practices, taped ankles, and early-morning lifts. We’d battled for our spot here at Nationals. And we’d made it.
Now I was about to close it out.
I walked to the edge of the spring floor, then paused, letting myself take one last look into the stands.
My heart surged when I spotted Owen sitting with my family.
He was smiling, waving, and when he mouthed, “I love you,” my chest swelled so full I could hardly breathe.
We’d fought for this moment, too. For each other.
And somehow, after everything, my dad hadn’t just invited Owen to be with my family today. He’d accepted him.
Even telling me earlier this morning that he was looking forward to golfing with Owen and Theo at the Hastingses’ private course in Eden Falls next week.
Which was something Ineverwould’ve believed a month ago.
I turned to the judges, and when they gave the signal that they were ready, I walked to the center of the floor and drew in a long, centering breath.
It’s go time.
The music kicked on—“Fireball” by Pitbull—and I struck my opening pose.
The crowd roared as the beat pulsed through the arena. I let the rhythm settle into my body, my feet already moving as I launched into my dance elements—confident, flirty, controlled.
The choreography pulled me across the floor like a current, and I played it up. Flashing smiles, hitting clean lines, throwing in that little shoulder shimmy that always got a reaction.
Then I hit the first corner.
Deep breath. Run.
Front double. Punch front.
Stick it.
The floor caught me clean and solid. I hit the landing and threw my arms up.
