Chapter 11

Chapter 11

When we landed in Los Angeles, the sun was dipping low, covering our new city in gilded light, but I was too exhausted to appreciate the view. Lulled by the purr of the taxi engine in the stop-and-go traffic on Sepulveda, I nodded off on Heath’s shoulder.

The next time I opened my eyes, we had arrived. I knew the Academy would be a step up from what Heath and I were used to. The North Shore rink was typical middle-class middle America: fluorescent lighting, shrieking children, a constant smell of hot dog water and sweat.

The Lin Ice Academy was a cathedral. We both fell silent as we entered the atrium, awestruck by all that glass glowing in the golden-hour sun. The soaring ceiling looked carved out of ice, and the steel doors on either side of the lobby shone like mirrors. The floor, which I’d originally taken for fresh concrete, was state-of-the-art blade-safe rubber. Everything was sleek and modern and brand-new.

And empty. We were later than planned thanks to a flight delay extending our already lengthy layover by several hours. As Heath checked the doors—both locked—I moved, drawn as if by a magnet, toward the brightly lit trophy case on the back wall. Inside was a small display with pictures of Sheila, as well as some of her medals—though not the Olympic golds.

The central photo, framed in carved crystal, showed Sheila and Kirk Lockwood on the top step of the podium in Calgary. I’d seen the picture before: the two of them young and gorgeous, wearing Team USA jackets, hands over their hearts. The photograph was cropped to show Sheila and Kirk only, but in the original version—the one printed in magazines and shown on the news after the 1988 Games—Sheila’s Soviet nemesis Veronika Volkova glares from the silver medal step, her teased blond hair flaring out like a cobra’s hood.

The guts it must have taken, for Sheila to return to competition after everyone had written her off. To prove all the skeptics so wrong, they were still talking about her decades later.

Someday, I thought as I gazed through the glass. Someday that will be me.

The door on the left side of the lobby swung open, letting in a burst of chilled air and the crisp, chemical scent of well-maintained ice. The day’s final practice session had finished, and skaters streamed out of the main rink. A few were locals who trained in the Academy facilities year-round, but most were visiting for the summer like us.

I picked out a couple familiar faces: some fellow competitors from U.S. Nationals, plus the most recent French champs and a young British pair hailed as the heirs apparent to a legendary UK couple who’d retired a few seasons ago. There was no sign of the Lins.

A few of our new training mates shot us suspicious stares; the rest ignored us entirely. Though they were all drenched in sweat, Heath and I were the ones who looked a mess, with our rumpled secondhand clothes, the smoke from last night’s bonfire clinging to our unwashed hair.

We hadn’t set foot on the ice yet, but the competition was already under way. And we were losing.

Finally, someone deigned to acknowledge our presence.

“Well, well, well. Fancy meeting you here, Katarina Shaw.”

It was Ellis Dean, the boy I’d met in Cleveland. The one who hoped I had run into Bella Lin on purpose. He’d cut his hair shorter in the intervening months, but it was still long enough to hang in rakish waves that skimmed his sharp jaw.

Ellis strolled toward us, skate bag slung over his shoulder, and gave Heath a once-over. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your gorgeous partner?”

“Heath, this is Ellis Dean. Ellis, Heath Rocha.”

Ellis initiated a handshake. Heath accepted, but he looked uneasy. He hated to be touched by strangers—and he considered anyone who wasn’t me a stranger.

“You two just got in?” Ellis asked. I nodded. “From?”

“Chicago.” Close enough.

“Well, welcome.”

The deep V of Ellis’s T-shirt showed off his perspiration-soaked pecs. They clearly trained hard here; I couldn’t remember the last time I’d broken a sweat like that. At North Shore, we had to be on constant lookout for gouges in the ice, as well as the orange traffic cones the management sometimes used to cordon them off instead of patching, so we couldn’t exactly skate at top speed.

“You must want to get settled in,” Ellis said. “Hey, Josie!”

Josie raised one finger, continuing her whispered conversation with Gemma Wellington, the petite redheaded girl from the UK team. Both girls kept glancing our way with narrowed eyes, so I had a pretty good guess what they were talking about.

“Well, she seems lovely.”

Heath shot me a bemused look, and that’s when I realized I’d made the comment out loud instead of in my head. Shit. Ellis was the only person who seemed willing to give us the time of day; I couldn’t afford to alienate him before we’d even unpacked.

Ellis leaned in, the same way he had when whispering to me about Bella.

“Josephine Hayworth is a backstabbing bitch,” he said. “Don’t tell her anything you don’t want the whole West Coast to know.”

Seconds later, though, when Josie waved goodbye to Gemma and walked toward us, Ellis was all smiles. I decided I didn’t trust either of them.

“Josephine, my love, would you be so kind as to show Ms. Shaw to her room?”

“Happy to,” Josie said—though her expression said otherwise. “The girls’ accommodations are right this—”

“Wait.” Heath gripped my hand even tighter. “I thought we’d be sharing a room.”

Josie laughed—then fell silent when she realized he was serious. “Boys aren’t allowed in the girls’ dormitory.”

I hadn’t given much thought to our sleeping arrangements, beyond gritting my teeth when I read the exorbitant room and board fee. I wasn’t keen on being separated from Heath either.

But it was only temporary, and we’d still be together all day, every day in training. Besides, it wasn’t like we had any other options; no landlord in their right mind would sign a lease with a pair of cash-strapped sixteen-year-olds.

“It’s fine.” I glanced at Heath, silently pleading with him not to make a scene.

The dormitories were on the second level: boys in the north building, girls in the south. I followed Josie to the stairwell, while Heath reluctantly trailed after Ellis. Josie took the steps two at a time, then stood on the landing toying with her gold cross necklace while I dragged my suitcase over the stair treads.

“Wake-up is at five forty-five,” she told me as I struggled to keep up with her quick pace down the corridor. “Breakfast at six. Training starts at seven.”

The Academy’s housing seemed more like a luxury resort than an athletic training center. We each had our own private rooms, and the shared bathrooms boasted steam showers, plush linens, and a Sephora’s worth of beauty products generously provided by Sheila’s brand partners.

“All free for everyone to use,” Josie informed me with a pointed sniff. “In case you want to…freshen up.”

It was abundantly clear she thought I didn’t deserve to be there. As if her opinion mattered. The only gold Josephine Hayworth would ever wear around her neck was that gaudy cross her rich daddy had bought her.

Soon enough I’d show her—and everyone else— exactly what I deserved.