Chapter 14

Chapter 14

I hadn’t known Sheila was on the premises. No one else had either, judging by the uneasy hush in the space after our music cut out.

“I asked you a question, Mr. Rocha.”

She folded her hands, waiting for his answer. Some coaches yell at their athletes, but Sheila Lin’s silences were more harrowing than any scream.

Heath swallowed. “I thought she might be hurt.”

“She’s fine,” Sheila said. “Aren’t you, Ms. Shaw?”

I nodded. Heath’s hand fell away from my waist, though I could still feel his heart against my back, beating faster.

“I just wanted to make sure,” he said. “What if—”

“What if you were at the World Championships? The Olympic Games? Would you take a nice little rest in the middle of your program then, Mr. Rocha?”

Heath was smart enough to keep his mouth shut that time.

“You have to keep going,” Sheila said. “No matter what. Every skater makes errors, but the best skaters fight through their mistakes to continue the program. Now do it again. And this time”—she looked directly at Heath—“do not stop.”

Heath was practically vibrating with rage as we moved back to our starting positions. I pressed my hand to his chest harder than usual, trying to soothe him.

“It’s okay,” I whispered.

He took a deep, shuddering inhale. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

Heath looked uncertain. But when the music started up again, he was with me.

We were perfectly in sync. Shoulder shimmies with each thump of the solo tom-tom that started the song. Moving smoothly into the promenade step as the horn section came in, gliding through the rest of the foxtrot as Ella Fitzgerald crooned you are the one.

And then the lift. Heath’s grip around my ankle, pulling my blade against the crease of his hip. His hands finding purchase on the back of my knee, sliding higher as I pushed myself to standing and swung my other leg into position.

I was up! My skates balanced on either side of his waist, my body tall and proud, a beautiful flower stretching its petals toward the sun. He deepened the bend of his knees and held on to my thighs to provide enough counterweight for the final pose: my back arched, my arms flung out behind me, as we covered the ice in a graceful curve.

We had it. We finally had it. We—

Lost it.

Heath’s feet wobbled. My hips pitched too far forward. We didn’t fall, but my exit from the lift was a clumsy tangle of limbs that left us several steps behind in the choreography.

The music revved into the quicker tempo of “Too Darn Hot,” and we chased it until we caught it. We battled through every measure, fought for every move. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t good. But we didn’t stop.

By the end, we were panting, shaking, dripping with sweat. The second the final note faded, Heath let go of me and bent at the waist. I didn’t realize until he straightened up again that he was dripping with blood too.

My blade must have caught his thigh during that travesty of a dismount. It had shredded his pant leg and sliced into the skin below, leaving an angry red gash.

“Shit,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“We finished. That’s the important thing.” He glared toward Sheila. “Isn’t it?”

Her back was to the rink as she gave some instruction to the French team, Arielle Moreau and Lucien Beck. We’d given everything to our performance, and she wasn’t even watching.

Heath didn’t wait for permission—or for me—to leave the ice. By the time I looked away from Sheila, he was already seated on one of the benches against the wall, examining his cut.

I skated over, trying to figure out what to say. Garrett Lin beat me toit.

“She got you, huh?” Garrett held out a first aid kit. “Used to happen to us constantly. I lost count of how many pairs of my pants Bella destroyed.”

The Lins could afford to go through endless items of clothing in pursuit of the perfect lift. Heath only had two decent pairs of practice pants, and I’d just ruined one of them.

Heath hadn’t moved to accept the first aid supplies, so I took the box instead, placing it gently beside him. He’d been so worried about hurting me, but I hadn’t even noticed when I hurt him.

“Don’t feel bad,” Garrett said. “The key’s to make sure you’re balanced right on the center of your blade, and—it’s probably easier if I show you. Do you mind?”

Even without looking at Heath, I could tell he very much minded. But Garrett had asked me, not him. I moved into position for the lift entry, extending my leg.

Garrett’s grip was lighter than Heath’s. He moved so fast, I didn’t have time to think. I was on the floor, and suddenly I was in the air.

As I leaned into the backbend, I wasn’t some delicate flower on display. I was a goddess carved on the prow of a ship, the sea parting to get the hell out of my way. I’d never felt like that before. Effortless and powerful all at once. I could have stayed up there for hours.

Garrett initiated a more difficult dismount—flipping me so my hips rolled over his shoulders on the way down, something I’d seen him do with Bella.

I looked over at Heath. His jaw twitched, and he was gripping the first aid kit hard enough to crack the plastic.

“That was great!” Garrett said. “And see: no cuts.”

My blades had left small creases in his white pants, but no injuries. Except perhaps to Heath’s pride.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Sure.” Garrett grinned. “Always happy to help.”

He meant it. Garrett never seemed to get caught up in—or even take notice of—the petty rivalries and power plays at the Academy. Everyone liked him.

Well, almost everyone.

Heath finished tending to his cut and came to stand beside me, putting a possessive hand on my back. Garrett kept right on grinning.

“So,” he said, “what do you two have planned for the holiday?”

“We’ve been talking about—” Heath started, but I cut in.

“No definite plans,” I said. “Why?”

“My mom throws a little party for the Fourth every year,” Garrett said. “No problem if you’ve got something else going on, but we’d love to see you there.”

I highly doubted that “we” included Bella—who was on the other side of the rink doing a series of cool-down stretches, studiously ignoring our entire interaction with her brother.

I had nothing to wear either. In the Midwest, a “little party” means a backyard cookout with brats and beer and maybe some s’mores if you’re feeling fancy, all the guests in cutoff shorts and flip-flops. Whatever the Lins had planned, it was bound to be more formal.

If it gave me a chance to spend more time with Sheila, though…

“We’ll think about it,” Heath said.

“I’ll be there,” I told Garrett.