Page 20 of Love and Other Penalties
The triple lutz looms ahead, the jump that’s haunted me for years. I rise from the sit spin and move into a slower part of my routine, the part where I get my equilibrium back, make sure my vision is centered, and build my speed with the music to the pivotal point when I’ll launch myself into the hardest jump in figure skating.
I approach it with more speed than usual, skating backward with all the confidence of Finn, who’s one of the best backward skaters I’ve ever met.
I kick my leg back, hit the ice with my toe pick, and launch myself into the air. Time slows as I spin through the air, and I know before I land that I’ve nailed it.
The landing is so clean it barely makes a sound. My free leg whips around with beautiful control, and I immediately leap into my triple toe-loop.
I don’t cover nearly as much ice on the second jump, and I land it solidly, my leg swinging out again as I spread my arms wide in a mock bow to the crowd. They roar to life exactly the way I imagined them to in the airport, and I move quickly intoanother footwork routine that takes me right in front of the panel of judges.
I can’t help the grin that’s planted on my face as I transition into my final spin combination. I push off into the entry, my blades slicing a clean arc across the ice. With my arms close to my sides and my free leg pointed straight down, I find my center. The spin catches, smooth and balanced, and I draw my arms tighter to my chest, then lift them overhead. The speed builds, a coil of energy winding through my core.
I tip forward into the camel spin, my body flattening into a perfect horizontal line. Air rushes against my face as my leg extends behind me, toe pointed, every muscle alive with tension. The ice blurs beneath me, and my blade feels completely anchored to the ice. No slippage.
Reaching back, I hook my hands around the blade. My back arches, the world tipping as I pull the skate higher, higher, higher—until my arms are stretched over my head and my leg curves into that impossible arc. My chest lifts with the strain, my balance razor-sharp, and for a few revolutions I’m nothing but power, grace, and dizzy, breathless joy.
I spread my arms wide as the music ends, breathing hard and beaming at the crowd. Whatever the scores say, I know I’ve just skated the performance of my life. Not for my mother, not for anyone else’s expectations, but for the pure love of being on the ice.
The crowd is on their feet, and I scan the stands until I spot a familiar figure in a Bobcats jersey jumping up and down like a maniac. Finn cups his hands around his mouth and whoops. Though I can’t hear him over the other applause and cheering, his huge grin tells me everything I need to know.
I bow to all four sides of the arena, blow my tomcat a kiss, and accept the bundles of roses the ice girls bring me beforeskating off the ice and walking to the kiss-and-cry area to wait for my scores.
I can’t get a good breath, and I pretend to be busy with my hair, fixing my feathers, anything, because I know the cameras are on me. If I had a coach, they’d be here with me, and I’ve never felt so alone in my life.
One of the workers appears in my peripheral vision, and then Finn’s striding toward me. He slides onto the bench with me, wrapping me up into a side hug.
“Incredible,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to my cheekbone. “Simply incredible, Ivy.”
I can’t stop smiling now, but I’m still very aware of the cameras on me, of what the announcers might be saying to anyone watching. “You’re brave,” I tell him. “Everyone is going to be trying to figure out who you are.”
He grins at me. “I told the guy who let me in I was your boyfriend.”
I smile back at him and shake my head. “They’ll want to put your name on the screen,” I say.
He blinks as if he’s never been on TV before. “Oh, well?—”
“Ivy Dane, scores for the Free Skate,” the announcer’s voice booms, cutting him off. “Technical Element Score: 69.12. Program Components Score: 66.83. Deductions: none. That’s a Free Skate total of 135.95.”
The crowd noise swells, a few excited whistles piercing through the white noise in my head. Combined with my Short Program score…my brain can’t do the math right now, and I don’t need to do it anyway.
Because the announcer says, “Which gives her a combined total of 218.03 points.”
The numbers roll across the screen above the rink, crisp and final. My chest tightens as the second column locks in place with my final score for this competition—218.03.
Whoops ripple through the stands, followed by a roar that’s equal parts pride and disbelief. I glance at the leaderboard, the top slot still holding steady at 221.12.
Just three points between us.
I’m second.
My breath fogs in the cold air, but the sweat cools along my neck as I stand and wave to the crowd now that my scores have been read. I tell myself not to think about where I could have squeezed out those points—trying a quad jump, or maybe in an extra second of hold in that final spin.
I step out of the kiss-and-cry zone, the pressure of so many eyes disappearing. The Team USA Coach’s hand closes around my shoulder, grounding me. “Second in the world,” she says, voice warm, steady. “Make sure you’re at the press conference tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.” As if I would miss it.
The crowd continues to cheer, cameras still flash, but all I can hear is the implication in her words.
Finn and I disappear into the quieter recesses of the arena, and he waits for me while I change out of my peacock costume and pack my bag. When I rejoin him in the hallway, I take his hand in mine, the need to tell him how I’m feeling almost overwhelming me.
