Chapter 80

Chapter 80

Less than thirty minutes left.

We’d already warmed up and triple-checked every piece of equipment, from our skate blades to the bobby pins in my hair. All we could do now was wait for our turn on the ice.

Heath’s back still hurt, and my foot still throbbed, but I knew we could push through the pain. We were stronger than ever—as individuals and as a team. We could win.

I left my skates under Heath’s watchful eye as I headed backstage for a final makeup touch-up. Right as I reached the women’s dressing room, the door swung open. I stood aside to let the person exit, focusing on the floor tiles rather than meeting their eyes. I had no interest in trying to psych out my competitors; this was about me and Heath, no one else.

Then I saw the black skates. Only men wore black skates in competition.

I looked up. Into the cold hazel eyes of Dmitri Kipriyanov.

He held my gaze for a second—face slack with surprise, full lips flushed pink—before walking away, leaving the door swinging in his wake. Yelena must be in the dressing room. She’d needed something, and he brought it to her. That was the only explanation.

But when I went inside, the only person there was Francesca Gaskell.

She stood at the mirror, applying another coat of rosy lipstick. The same color smeared across Dmitri’s mouth. When she saw me, she smiled.

“Love the dress,” Francesca said. “How’d you find another one so fast?”

“It’s a long story.” I stepped closer. “Look, I saw Dmitri.”

She capped the lipstick tube and turned to face me.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” I said. “But he’s not a good guy.”

Francesca only blinked at me, the picture of wide-eyed innocence.

“Maybe he’s different with you, but if he ever hurts you, or—”

“I appreciate your concern. You don’t have to worry, though.”

Her voice was all warmth. Something colder glinted in her eyes.

“Dmitri would never hurt me.”

Dmitri’s not smart enough…not on his own.

But Francesca was. Smart enough to plot behind my back while smiling in my face. Skilled enough at playing so sweet that no one would suspect a thing.

Don’t trust anyone.

“I thought you of all people would understand,” she said.

“Me?” I took a step back. “Why?”

“Because you’re Katarina Shaw. You’ll do anything to win.”

“That’s not—”

“You and Heath are clearly bad for each other, and yet you keep reeling him back again and again so you can use him to get what you want.”

She zipped up her makeup bag. The metallic slide set my teeth on edge.

“Not that I’m judging,” she said. “It’s inspiring, honestly, how thoroughly you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger.”

“You don’t know anything about me and Heath.”

“Maybe not.” Francesca shrugged. “But I know I’m going to take that gold from you today. You can’t win, Kat. This comeback of yours was doomed from the start.”

Her words should have riled me up, incited me to respond with trash talk of my own.

But all I felt was a deep, aching sadness.

Francesca had grown up watching me, like I’d grown up watching Sheila. She said I was inspiring, but what had I inspired? There was no joy left in her, no light. Those smiles were a mask, concealing a molten core of grasping ambition.

I wanted to shake her by the shoulders and tell her it wasn’t too late. She could wake up. She could realize there was more to life than winning.

Happiness couldn’t be won. It couldn’t be hung around our necks while a crowd of thousands cheered. It wasn’t a prize, something we had to suffer and toil to earn. If we wanted happiness, we had to create it ourselves. Not in one shining moment on a medal stand, but every single day, over and over again.

I could have told Francesca all that, but it wouldn’t have mattered. She’d have to learn for herself, like I did.

So instead, I wrapped my arms around her.

She stiffened, probably afraid I was about to bury a knife in her back. I didn’t let go.

“Good luck today, Frannie,” I whispered.

Francesca stared after me, caught between fury and confusion, as I walked out.

I was confused too, about why such a promising young skater would risk her own career for the sake of petty sabotage. Between Francesca’s family money and Dmitri’s criminal connections, all of it would have been easy enough to pull off.

But to what end? They couldn’t really believe that was enough to stop me and Heath, not after all we’d been through. Then again, they weren’t like us. They’d both grown up rich and coddled. Everything in their lives had worked out in their favor thus far, so why wouldn’t this?

You can’t win, she’d told me, but it hadn’t sounded like a threat—and that, more than anything, was what troubled me. Francesca had said the words with such supreme, chilling confidence, like the outcome was already decided. Like she already held an unbeatable hand, and all she had to do was lay her cards on the table.

Heath leaned against a pillar in the backstage area, our skate bags at his feet. As I approached, he clapped a hand over his mouth, then took a swig from his water bottle.

More painkillers. He’d taken a dose in the morning. Another before we left for the arena.

“Your back is still bothering you?” I said.

“Yeah. I swear it’s like the meds are making it worse instead of taking the edge off.” He winced as he bent down to stow his water bottle. “Don’t worry, though: I only took one. I’m still below the maximum daily—”

“Let me see.”

“See what?”

“The bottle.”

He handed it to me. I twisted off the cap and took out one of the white tablets. Francesca and Evan were about to take the ice. Then it would be Yelena and Dmitri’s turn. Then ours.

“What’s the matter?” Heath asked.

I studied the pill, running my thumb over the chalky edge. I thought of the sequins I’d found on the ice at the Grand Prix in Moscow—tiny white discs, so like the ones on my dress. But not quite the same.

Not quite right.

“We have a problem,” I said.