Chapter 26

Chapter 26

When we left Japan, I was still in denial.

I don’t know how long I stayed out searching for Heath. Long enough for the freezing rain to soak through my thin jacket and the sweater underneath, down to my skin.

Eventually, I gave up and returned to our hotel, but I didn’t want to get in the shower—what if he came back, came looking for me, and I missed him?—so I lay under the covers, sleepless and shivering until dawn.

Later that morning, as I dragged my bags to the bullet train alone, I told myself he would be waiting at the station. Or at the airport. Or back in California. I imagined throwing my arms around his neck and kissing him until I couldn’t breathe. I imagined choking the life out of him.

No one knew what to say. The other skaters on our flight avoided me, as if my failure and heartbreak might be catching. After takeoff, Garrett insisted on switching seats so I could sit next to his sister—my first time in first class. Bella split her headphones with me and queued up a terrible movie on the seat-back screen, tactfully pretending not to notice the tears running down my face.

Somewhere below the Bering Strait, I managed to fall into a fitful sleep. I dreamed of ice shattering under my feet, cold water rushing into my lungs when I tried to scream.

By the time we got back to Los Angeles, I was burning with fever.

The twins offered to let me come home with them and stay in one of the guest suites. But I wanted to be alone, so I went back to the dorm. For days, I stayed in bed—sweating, shaking, the only indication of time passing the light shifting over my closed eyelids.

Bella brought me food and medicine—not the usual chicken noodle soup or Sudafed, but extremely LA cure-alls: green juices, organic bone broths, packets of herbs labeled only with handwritten Chinese characters.

Nothing helped. I hadn’t been so sick since I was a child. And that time, Heath had been by my side, as miserable as I was.

—

It was February 1994—the first time the Olympic Winter Games were held in a different year than the Summer Games, and the first year of my friendship with Heath.

People talk about Great Lakes winters as though they’re hell frozen over from Thanksgiving to Easter, but it’s February you’ve got to look out for. After weeks of bitter temperatures, several feet of snow fell overnight, and even in the Midwest, they have to cancel school for that.

I knew Heath would be miserable trapped in that tiny house with his foster family all day, and I didn’t relish the thought of spending hours cooped up with my brother shouting at his Sega Genesis either. So I suggested we go to the lake.

At least once every winter, the lake iced over—though you didn’t have to venture out far before the surface became dangerously thin. My father had taught me what to watch out for: clear ice with a blue tinge is the strongest. If the ice is milky-white, tread carefully. If it’s gray or slushy, don’t even think about it. And if it starts to break apart under your feet?

Don’t run. You’ll only make it worse.

The high winds had cleared away the snowdrifts closest to the shore, leaving us with our own private rink surrounded by sky. I’d unearthed two pairs of old hockey boots from the depths of the basement, because Heath didn’t own skates yet, and I knew better than to let my pricey blades touch anything other than pristine indoor ice.

We were both awkward, tottering and sliding like baby deer on the dull, rust-speckled runners. Within a few minutes, though, we’d worked out a rhythm, and soon we were gliding across the lake’s surface, mittened fingers clasped, faces stretched into giddy grins.

Heath had been watching me skate for months by then, but that was the first time we ever skated together. He started spinning me around in a simple waltz step, and I shut my eyes and imagined we were skating to victory in front of an adoring crowd.

Sometimes I think my entire career was an attempt to recapture the elation I felt that winter day, with the wind on my cheeks and Heath’s hand in mine, moving so fast we were almost flying. I had no idea how long we’d stayed on the lake, or how far out we’d gone.

Until I heard the crack.

It only hurt for a second. Then I went numb. My legs were submerged in the lake. Shards of ice scraped my waist, but I was too shocked to scream. Luckily, Heath wasn’t.

“Katarina!”

Everyone always called me “Kat” as a kid, Heath included. Until that moment. He kept shouting my full name, over and over, like somehow the extra syllables would help close the distance between us.

“Katarina, give me your hand!”

When I tried, I only slipped in deeper, frigid water soaking my coat, weighing me down. Heath lunged forward and grabbed me by the shoulders. But I was sliding back, faster and faster. Dragging him with me through the hole we’d made in the ice.

“Katarina, please. ”

He pulled, and I heaved myself up. I wouldn’t fully understand how we’d managed it until years later when we started doing dance lifts, achieving seemingly impossible feats through counterbalance and adrenaline and pure trust. All I knew was that I was out of the water.

I collapsed on top of him. The ice groaned under our weight.

My hat had come off somewhere in the struggle, and my hair tumbled free, curtaining around our faces. We needed to get up, off the lake, back to the safety of solid ground. But we were frozen in place, staring into each other’s wide, startled eyes.

Eventually we caught our breath and trudged back to the house to warm up by the fireplace. By nightfall, we were both wracked with chills and coughs, and Heath ended up staying over for days, until we were both on the mend. I thought his foster parents might object, but they seemed relieved not to have to take care of a sick kid. The two of us curled up together on the sofa in a nest of blankets, watching hours of skating competitions I’d videotaped, and I was so grateful for the feverish flush on my face, because it kept Heath from seeing how I blushed every time he looked at me. Every time I thought about how close we’d been.

—

Eight days following our flight out of Nagano, my fever finally broke. I’d still heard nothing from Heath.

After so much time spent prone, my body was strung tight with anxiety and restlessness. I needed to move.

I needed to skate.

It was nearly midnight. I had no idea whether I’d be able to gain access to either of the Academy rinks at that hour, but I decided to try my luck anyway. I pulled on some ratty leggings and my old Stars on Ice shirt, slung my skate bag over my shoulder, and went downstairs, my deconditioned leg muscles protesting every step.

The door to the main rink was shut, but light leaked around the edges. Not the bright white banks of overheads, but the soft blue-tinted spotlights they used for ice shows and exhibitions. There was music playing too—though the volume was so low I couldn’t pick out the song until I went inside.

“The Good Fight” by Dashboard Confessional. And there, whirling across the ice in time with Chris Carrabba’s wailing vocals, was Garrett Lin.

Instead of his usual perfectly fitted, designer-branded workout gear, Garrett was in loose-fitting sweatpants and a tank top that showed off his well-developed shoulders. Sweat glistened all over his arms and chest, streaming below the neckline of his shirt as he leaned into a layback spin. He’d clearly been at this for hours.

Another song started; I didn’t recognize this one, but it had the same angsty, emo vibes. Despite his casual attire and the intensity of the music, Garrett’s every move was impeccable, a masterclass in technique.

He was mesmerizing. I didn’t realize how long I’d stood there watching from the shadows like a creep until Garrett stopped skating and looked at me.

He seemed startled for a second. Then he smiled and gave me a little wave, like we’d bumped into each other on the street.

“Kat.” He was winded, and my name came out in a gasp. “You should be in bed.”

The rise and fall of his chest pulled his sweat-soaked shirt taut, revealing every muscle underneath. Off the ice, Garrett sometimes seemed like an awkward teen boy, uncomfortable in his body, unsure of himself.

But on the ice? He looked like a man. And an artist. Garrett wasn’t just some reliable backdrop to show off Bella’s talent. He was a star too, and he’d been holding himself back so he wouldn’t outshine her.

“I’m feeling much better,” I told him—though if I’d known I was going to have company, I would have bothered to shower or at least brush my hair.

He skated over to the boards and picked up his water bottle. “If you’re better, you must have thrown out that disgusting green juice Bella brought you.”

“Of course not.” I smiled. “I poured it down the drain.”

Garrett laughed. “Very wise.”

“Is that what your mother used to bring you, when you were sick as kids?”

“No. Our nanny.” He tipped his head back to down the last of the water; a bead of sweat slid over his Adam’s apple. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, but what are you doing up so late?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Jet lag. It always screws me up for a couple weeks. By the time I get back on track, it’s usually time to fly somewhere else.”

“Your mother doesn’t mind you coming here in the middle of the night?”

“Not as long as I’m practicing.” He set the bottle down. “I’m glad you’re here, actually. I’ve been hoping to talk to you, but I wanted to wait until you recovered.”

“Oh? About what?”

“About what Bella told you in Japan.”

My stomach sank. He was going to tell me it had all been a big misunderstanding. Why would Garrett Lin want to skate with me, when he could have anyone? And now that I’d blown up my relationship with Heath, I had no partner, and I’d never make it to the Olympics, and—

“I never would have asked her to talk to you,” Garrett said, “if I’d thought it’d lead to—”

“You asked Bella to talk to me?”

“Yeah. Why, what did she say?”

“Only that you two were splitting up. Looking for new partners for the next quad.”

“I honestly wasn’t trying to mess things up with you and Heath. But I could see how much you two had been struggling lately. And when we did the photo shoot together—well, I thought…I mean, it might just have been me.”

“It wasn’t just you.”

That was the first time I’d admitted, to myself or anyone else, that I felt something during the shoot. It wasn’t attraction, exactly, beautiful as Garrett was. More like compatibility. We’d shifted from pose to pose so seamlessly, I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to skate with him.

Garrett’s playlist faded into the next track, and a thunderclap of memory rattled me.

I’ll be your dream, I’ll be your wish, I’ll be your fantasy.

Heath and me at sixteen, driving to Cleveland, belting those lyrics over the whine of the car engine, thinking we’d love each other forever. And now I didn’t even know what continent he was on. I had no idea whether I’d ever see him again.

“You okay?” Garrett asked.

“Yeah, I…” I swallowed. “I love this song.”

“Me too.” He held out his hand. “Care to join me?”

I hesitated. If simply posing with Garrett had been a betrayal, what would this be? I’d never skated with anyone except Heath.

“I understand that you two…” Garrett shook his head. “Well, okay, I don’t understand you two at all. But I know there’s a lot of history there.”

Heath knew me when I was a gangly little girl with bloody kneecaps and prairie grass in my hair. He’d seen me sobbing and weak and shaking with helpless rage. He knew my pressure points. He knew how to provoke me.

Garrett had never known me as Kat Shaw from Nowhere, Illinois. I could leave her behind, as abruptly and heartlessly as Heath had left me. With Heath, I could be myself. But with Garrett, I could be someone better.

And if Heath wanted to see me again? He could watch me on television, winning goddamn gold medals with Garrett Lin.