Page 80 of Revolve
SHE’S FREAKING OUT.Or, at least, I think she is.
Sierra is in a corner when she takes three steps, pivots, takes three more, then pivots again. Those movements have been on repeat for the past sixteen minutes. I spot Scarlett on one side of the rink with a small sign that readsLUTZ BE REAL, SIERRA & DYLAN GOT THIS!
The guys are here too, and by that, I mean our whole hockey team. Kian and Summer hold up our faces on Popsicle sticks. I’m pretty sure Kian’s holding a blow horn and a sign that saysYOUR CAPTAIN ORDERS YOU TO WIN. He found out he’s interim captain, and none of us have had a peaceful night’s sleep since then. Coach even texted me, saying I’d better be on my best behavior because he can’t handle Kian on his own. Sierra’s parents are here too. I was expecting them to size me up, but they just hugged us. They spoke some quick Russian with Lidia, then gave me atake care of herbefore finding their seats. I think there was anor elsetacked on at the end of that, but he didn’t need to say it. His icy blue eyes did that for him.
I adjust the collar of my vest, trying to get it to sit right. It’s a deep, almost royal blue, made of a thick material, and sleeves that billow out a bit. We’re Rapunzel and Flynn.
The gold accents on the skirt of Sierra’s pink dress catch the light and shimmer with every step she takes. Her corset has floral patterns stitched in gold thread weaving their way up the fabric to the neckline.
Sierra’s calves flex with each pivot, and I realize I could watch her for a long, long while.
“Does she always do that?” I ask Lidia, who’s texting on her phone. I’ve tried striking up a conversation with her four times, but she only grunts.
I’d peek over and tease her about whether she’s texting a new fling, but the texts are in Russian, and I’m not confident she won’t throw the phone at my head.
Lidia doesn’t even glance back at Sierra’s odd ritual. “Only when she’s freaking out.”
That makes me take the pen from Lidia’s clipboard and walk over to Sierra. “Why are you freaking out?”
Sierra pauses mid-step. “I’m not.”
“Lidia said you were.” When I take her hand, she doesn’t pull it back; she lets me unfurl her palm, seeing the faint nail marks and a faded smiley face. I draw over it, darkening the edges.
Sierra lets out an amused breath. “Lidia probably said that so you’d stop talking to her. I do this as a warm-up, to center myself.”
I drop her hand just as one of the crew members rushes past us to Lidia, signaling that we’re up after the Russian team who just killed their free skate.
Sierra takes my hand. “This is it,” she says.
“Well, technically we have one more and then the final.”
She rolls her eyes, but her hand stays fixed in mine. Neither of us lets go even for a second. Not even as she checks her skates for the third time or when she brushes away the pink on her cheeks. I have a feeling she needs this grounding touch, and I want to give it to her.
“You ready, Romanova?” I ask.
I put her hand on my chest, the steady thrum of my heart againsther palm. She doesn’t hesitate as she takes my hand to do the same. It’s in moments like these where I see her. Not for the darkness she thinks surrounds her, but for the girl that glows. Like a firefly.
“Ready.”
One synchronized nod, and we’re off.
In hockey, there’s six of us on the ice, and the focal point of the game is the puck. Figure skating is different. I never really focused on how many people were out in the crowd, that was a normal occurrence for me since I was a kid, but right now the attention is homed in on us.
Now, that still doesn’t bother me. I couldn’t care less about what these people think, but seeing the way Sierra blinks rapidly, eyes darting to the crowd and the twinkling lights until the spotlight turns on, I know I’ll do everything I can to execute this to perfection.
The music starts, “Lay All Your Love on Me” by ABBA, and in an instant, I see the version of her that won an Olympic gold, the one she’s been chasing. Poised and perfect. If she thinks I’m cocky, she needs to see this side of her. It’s untouchable. Anyone else, and I’m sure they’d be out of their element, but I feed off her energy.
This performance is point heavy, packed with jumps, spins, steps, and lifts. In our opening sequence, I stay just outside the reach of the light, waiting. Sierra spread-eagles into a deep outside edge, arms extending like she’s seeing the world for the first time. I push forward and just as she turns, I take her hand to show Flynn entering Rapunzel’s world.
We skate in unison, our strokes powerful, building speed so we can enter a double axel, our right knees swinging up and around mid-rotation, crossing loosely like a pretzel before we land in sync. We slow down to move into our first major element—a triple twist.
I catch her easily, but Sierra lands a second too early. That’s when I see the first crack. She glides backward, allowing me to catch her waist for the first lift. Our step sequence follows—mirrored three turns, quick mohawks, deep edge changes. We weave around eachother, keeping close without touching, eyes locked. Then she grabs my hand, and we push into a throw triple loop. She grips my fingers before I send her flying. The air is silent as she rotates, one, two, three revolutions. My breath stalls until her blade touches down. It’s solid. No hesitation. No break in momentum.
It’s almost perfect, but I notice the tremor in her hand. I try to meet her gaze, to understand what she’s thinking, but then she stumbles on the second jump combination.
Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and the next modified lift comes too soon. She hesitates, bailing halfway and landing awkwardly on the ice, panic written on her face. She’s locked inside her head now, her movements robotic, her steps trialing behind, a half second late.
“Look at me.” The noise in the rink swallows my voice, but I know she hears it. When she doesn’t look, I take her hand and hold tight. The space between us is charged, a hairbreadth apart, but it might as well be miles. We finish with a sit spin as the last note of the music fades into polite applause, but her gaze doesn’t meet mine, not even when we glide to the bench to wait for our scores.
