Page 38 of Icing the Cougar
The hall behind the rink is a wind tunnel of nerves. I’ve been in this back corridor a hundred times, always with my head full of game strategy or the memory of last week’s bruises, but never like this. This time, my hands are shaking so bad I can barely lace my left shoe. My heart’s working double time against my ribs, like it’s not sure if I’m about to fight, bolt, or puke.
I take a knee and rip the tape between my teeth, wrapping my ankle tighter than I need to. A rink staffer rolls by with a cart full of folding chairs and gives me a look. I ignore him. I’m not ready for spectators yet, not even the paid kind.
In the wings, they’ve set up the silk rig. It’s not a full trapeze, but a glossy blue-and-white fabric, hoisted and locked down to theold center ice rigging. It looks out of place next to the battered benches and the half-melted rubber mats, but that’s the point. I make myself look at it, just to prove I’m not chickening out.
My skate bag sits open on the bench beside me. I palm the ring box, flip it open for the hundredth time, then close it again. The ring is nothing fancy. It’s plain and more about not slicing up anyone’s face during sex than about diamonds. It’s heavy as hell for something so small. I shove it in my athletic pants pocket and zip up the zipper to ensure it’s safe keeping.
I push the bench with my foot, rolling back to sit hard. My palms are wet. My jersey, still fresh-printed with my number, sticks to the sweat pooling down my back even though it’s freezing in here.
Across the hall, through a triangle of curtains, I can see them sitting in the first rows. Nova is at her spot in the front, curly hair up in a bun. She’s got Trinity by the arm, steering her to the reserved row right against the glass. Trinity doesn’t know what’s happening, but Nova’s done a hell of a job getting her here. I owe her big time.
I check the time on my phone, then kill it and drop it in the bag. No distractions. I force three slow breaths and focus on the show ahead and set my shoulders. I’ve never been more ready and less ready at once.
Another tech waves me forward, the show cue. The announcer is already in the booth, voice tuned to “majestic” setting. The rink goes dark, save for the heavy spotlight dead center on the logo.
I roll my neck once, twice, then stand and yank the jersey straight. I grab the microphone a sound tech hands me on my way out onto the ice.
The first step onto the rubber mat is a little off. My legs don’t want to work the way they should. Then I hit the gate, and the cold of the open rink air shocks my lungs. The stands are only half full, but the sound rolls like the place is sold out. I hear kids yelling my number, parents calling for autographs, the distant thud of some brat kicking the Plexi. All of it is nothing compared to the black hole of attention waiting for me in row one, seat three.
I walk out, slow, taking my place at center ice under the spotlight. The crowd starts to hush, voices trailing off as the overhead cuts out. It’s just me and the center logo and the long ribbon of silk drooping like a challenge. I can’t see her face yet, but I know she’s watching.
The PA booms, “Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to center ice for a special performance by Jasper Wright!”
Some applause, mostly confusion. I don’t care. I can’t feel my hands.
I stop walking directly beneath the silk. It’s lower than it should be for a pro performance, which is good, because there’s a non-zero chance I’m about to humiliate myself. I clear my throat and bring the wireless mic up to my mouth.
“I, uh… I guess I’m supposed to say something,” I start, and my voice booms bigger than I expect. People laugh, just a little. I see kids nudging their moms.
My eyes find hers through the glare. Trinity. She’s not smiling, but she’s not leaving either. I grip the mic and try to remember what I practiced in my head all night.
“I don’t really know how to do this,” I say. “Not the talking part. Or the… ‘public performance’ part.” I gesture up at the silk, get another ripple of nervous laughter. “But I guess that’s what you do when you want to show someone they mean everything to you.”
The rink is so quiet I can hear the banners fluttering up in the rafters.
“I, uh…” I pause, and the silence stretches out. “This is for Trinity Harper. The woman I’ve spent the last year trying to keep up with, and who’s spent the last year trying to show me what it means to be better than I am.”
A wave of whispering in the crowd. Kids don’t care, but the adults know drama when they hear it.
“She’s probably going to kill me for doing this in front of everyone,” I say, and I see her mouth twitch, just a little. “But she deserves a guy who’s willing to make an ass of himself. On and off the ice.”
I take a breath, and my hands don’t shake quite as much.
“I’m sorry I was a coward,” I say, loud and clear. “I’m sorry I let what other people think matter more than what I know is right.” I look straight at her now, and there’s a heat in my chest that feels like it could melt the rink. “I’m sorry for every time I laughed when I should have shut it down. And for every time I let you walk away instead of stopping you.”
Someone in the crowd starts to clap. One person, then two. I let it go for a second, then cut back in.
“I’m not a performer. Not like you,” I say. “But I did learn a couple things. From you. So, if you’ll let me, I want to show you that I’m not afraid anymore.”
I toss the mic aside, pull off my gloves, and unlace the jersey in a single, practiced rip. Underneath, I’m wearing a black sleeveless top from our first aerial session together. It’s cut high at the arms and shows off the puck-shaped bruise on my shoulder from last week. I glance at Trinity. Her eyes go wide. I don’t know if it’s horror or awe.
The crowd gives a little ooooh, which I take as my cue to move.
I walk to the base of the silk, grip it in both hands, and feel the fabric run rough between my fingers.
I never thought I’d be terrified of a piece of fabric, but the silk hanging in front of me is like a dare from the universe. Up close, it’s even higher than I remember from the practice sessions. The staff told me they’d lower it, but I can see now they just meant “a little.” I try to imagine Trinity up there, moving like gravity wasa suggestion, not a rule. It feels impossible. It feels like the only thing that matters.
The crowd is still roaring, but it’s background static compared to the blood rushing in my ears. I wipe my palms on my shorts, grip the silk, and remember the first lesson: “Don’t overthink. Just commit. It’s all about tension and trust.” Trinity said that, just before she threw herself into a perfect drop.
