Page 5 of Revolve
Crap. It’s happening again. After this morning, I tried all my calming techniques. Breathing, counting, EFT tapping, and knitting. But the latter’s overkill now that I’ve knit enough scarves to keep a small family warm.
“If this is too much for today, we can try again next week,” Lidia says.
Her pity is a sharp knife to my gut. It’s that same damn look everyone’s been giving me since the accident. Like I’ve become some fragile thing. Tooweakto be what I once was. Apparently, you can’t crack your head open on the ice and fall on your partner’s skate to suffer a collapsed lung without people treating you differently.
“I’m ready. I just didn’t get much sleep last night.” Or any night, but I don’t tell her that. I can’t have another person give up on me.
“How’s this?” Lidia taps her forehead, still scrutinizing me.
My brain? Oh, just a complete fucking mess.“Sharper than a computer,” I say instead. If that computer was dropped and smashed into tiny bits. Then scattered across Connecticut waiting for me to find them and piece it back together.
With that, I slap on my skate guards and fling myself off the bench, tugging at my tights and feeling the familiar weight of my anklet. I don’t know why I still wear it, because my ex-partner got it for me. But it’s a good luck charm, and the one time I forgot it on his hotel bedside table, it was the day I fell. Go figure.
The ice should fearyou. My aggressive outlook on today’s skating session is thanks to propranolol. That pink pill I swallowed this morning is the only reason my legs haven’t buckled. My chest is barely in a vise, and I haven’t spiraled. I won’t. Not today.
I even called the campus sport clinic pharmacy to get a refill since mine is on an as-needed basis. And clearly, it’s needed. But as much as I need the pill, I can’t stop seeing it as a crutch. Something the old me never would have taken.
“Just do what you’re comfortable with,” Lidia says once I’m on the ice. The woman is known to be as cold as a Russian winter, but now she’sbabyingme.The ice won’t bite, Sierra.Lidia’s old voice is still loud in my head.With this pace, the Zamboni will run you over.
My first lap is confident, or at least I pretend it is. But the moment I attempt a toe loop, everything crumbles. My landing is shaky and novice, nothing like a former Olympian’s. My next jump barely gets any air, a shitty attempt that tightens that knot in my stomach and makes the back of my eyelids sting.Don’t cry.
An hour or so slips by in a haze of amateur footwork and personifying Bambi on ice all while I force myself not to let the frustrated tears fall. My first practice back, and all the promises I’ve made to Lidia have already begun to rip at the seams.
To my surprise, she doesn’t look angry. Not even a little. “It’s a good start. Nothing a few practices won’t fix. Since your hiatus”—calling itthat sounds better thannear-death experience, I suppose—“I’ve been working on some solo per—”
“I’m doing pairs.” I’ve been doing pairs since I left singles at sixteen. Four years ago. I am not going back.
Lidia cocks her head. “I didn’t know you had a new partner.”
Yeah, so, the thing about nearly career-ending freak accidents is that nobody wants to pair with you. After my ex-partner, Justin Petrov, dropped me like a hot potato—literally and figuratively—I’ve become damaged goods to the skating community.
When I switched to pairs, I chose Justin because he was good, and only associated with people who could cater to that. I’ve never changed myself for anyone, but for him I had.
“I don’t,” I say, and her face contorts. “But I’ve been looking!”
Though my online search has only yielded creepy men trying to lure me into their basements and skaters down to hook up but not partner with me. I knew skaters were superstitious, but I’m a damn curse now.
“Remember Champs Camp? So many of those skaters were interested in pairing with me. Can’t you contact their coaches?” Champs Camp is for the top-ranked senior-level skaters in the country.
Lidia blinks rapidly. She only does that when she has bad news. “Sierra, finding a new partner this late is near impossible. We can’t rely on a couple of skaters from six years ago. Dalton requires skaters to be registered well before their first performance to qualify for any USFS events.”
“Trust me, I know. I’ve been looking on my own too, but I need your help,” I plead. “I can’t give up. Besides, we don’t need someone permanent. If I can just score high enough to qualify for the Grand Prix, then we can find someone new for next year.”
“The Grand Prix? How on earth do you expect to do that?” Her eyes widen. “You’d barely have time to train. The routines, the lifts, the chemistry. It takes months, sometimes years, to perfect. Your partner needs to have the same schedule to train. It’s not just aboutyou. It’s about trust and understanding each other’s movements. Building that kind of partnership in such a short time is already difficult.”
“I’ve thought about this for months, Lidia. In the hospital, during PT, EMDR therapy, at the gym. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for this dream.” My therapist, Dr. Toor, said the best way to overcome this hurdle is to jump over it. I’m determined to do that.
“This won’t be like your past training. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“I have to be,” I say, my voice cracking. “I need to prove that I can still do this.Please,Lidia.” I sound desperate, but it gets her to nod. A ribbon of victory unfurls in my chest. I’ll do it this time; I’ll finally be enough.
“Anyone else and I wouldn’t even consider this.” She shakes her head when I beam. “And you can’t be picky—”
“I won’t. Promise!” I rush out. “You won’t regret it.”
“I know,” she says. “Now do that routine again. This time with power.”
The tiny victory must have put a pep in my step, because this time the ice feels a smidge less daunting. My moves are still shit, and my heart still hammers like it’s going to give out, but the possibility of getting to that final and showing everyone I’m not a curse dangles in front of me like a carrot on a string.
