Page 5 of Fly Boy
A 0.87-point difference—less than one point stopping us from taking home the gold in the first round of the ISU Grand Prix ofFigure Skating. Less than one fucking point in my first official competition for Team USA.
Sweat lines my brow, my legs are on fire, and no matter how much my head screams to stop, I can’t. Not until I’ve done one more rep. Gritting my teeth, I push, and the thigh pads pivot. My shaking legs open outward, the weight plates lifting excruciatingly slow.
“Come. On,”I sneer. My fingers curl tight around the handles, and my back drives hard against the seat. Even theboss-ass bitchplaylist currently blasting in my ears isn’t making this any easier. “You’ve got this, Pippa.”
Finally, I meet resistance, the mechanism locks, and the relief is an instant hit of endorphins. Releasing my hold, I gently let my legs come together and sag back. God, I hate the adductor machine. Whoever made it must have wanted to see people suffer and revel in their pain.
My breaths come out in harsh exhales, and I close my eyes. The voices of Fifth Harmony singing about howI’m their girlare drowned out by the commentators atSkate America, reliving their words on a loop from the coverage I’ve watched and rewatched to see where I went wrong.
Most would be happy with the silver. Most would be happy knowing there was only a narrow margin between first and second. But most aren’t me.
The upbeat tempo in my ears changes to a soft tinkling of piano keys, and my eyes snap open. Groaning, I grab my phone and turn off my alarm before it reaches the crescendo.
My legs feel like Jell-O as I swing one off the machine and bend down to collect the rest of my things. I glance at the mirror, the sweaty, red-faced version of me looking back, her gaze filled with a fierce determination I’ll fight tooth and nail to keep.
“I am Pippa Cartwright, and I deserve to fucking be here.” I stare at myself for a second longer before turning and walking across the room.
The facility gym is silent—why wouldn’t it be at five in the morning? Only a single strip of lighting on the ceiling illuminates the small section where I was working out. DJ Khaled’s “All I Do Is Win” starts to play through my headphones, and I make my way through the empty hallway and back to the locker room, feeling tall and confident and on fucking fire.
Shoving the doors open, the rubber from the mats and residual floral notes from deodorant fill my nose, the smell welcoming as I walk through. It’s neat and tidy, ready for the athletes who will soon be arriving for their allotted practice time.
I pop out my headphones when I reach my locker, then turn the dial to the padlock and open the door. The song still plays as I set them inside, grabbing my bottle and taking a long swig of my water, humming along with the muffled voices as I pull out my towel. Turning off the playlist, I strip out of my workout clothes and leave them on the floor, snatch my toiletry bag and make my way to the shower.
I sigh as I step under the hot water, the cubicle gradually filling with steam. Hanging my head, I let it rain down my back, the tension in my shoulders dissipating with each drop.
Silver is still a good result. Stop beating yourself up.
After a few minutes of standing there, the thoughts in my head start to quiet down, and I quickly wash up.
“As the U.S. Figure Skating Championships draw closer, all eyes will undoubtedly be on Pippa Cartwright, daughter of Charles Cartwright, the billionaire oil tycoon.” My hands freeze in my hair, the last of the soap suds gliding down my arms and neck, disappearing down the drain. The voice outside my stall reverberates off the tiled wall, making my skin prickle as it continues, “Many in the beloved sport have been asking thesame question since she appeared on the skating circuit:Does she belong here?”
Turning off the shower, I brace myself for who I know is on the other side of the glass door. Pushing it open, I grab the towel hanging from the hook outside and wrap it around my body before looking at the pretty brunette gazing back at me, a bright, glossy magazine in her hands. She tilts her head, a pout on her perfectly pink lips. “So, what do you think, Pippa? Do you belong here?”
She points to the headline, and my blood turns to ice.
Billionaire’s daughter yet to prove her worth for Team USA.
Even the critics don’t think second place is good enough,the sarcastic voice inside my head says.
“What do you want, Molly?” I ask with a sigh.
She closes the magazine with a flourish, leaning back against the wall in front of me. A sneer flickers across her face as she looks me up and down, and where I’m just in a towel, she’s fully dressed. “Just wanted to say good morning.”
I side-eye her, whipping my hair as I walk past, splashing her as I do. “Good morning.”
Swiping her cheek with an annoyed pout, Molly’s heels click behind me as I head toward a set of mirrors. Her sickly-sweet voice, which hides her nasty words, follows me, “You didn’t answer the question.”
Searching in my bag for my brush, I pull it out, trying to ignore Molly as I glide it through my wet hair. But she’s relentless, staring at me until I ask, “What question?”
She grins, an evil smirk of triumph. “Do you belong here?”
If my skin wasn’t so hot from the shower, it would be on fire now. Swallowing, I tilt my head back and let my eyes drift shut, picturing that podium win where Team USA choseme. The gold medal glinting off the rink’s lights, the cameras flashing, thesmile on my dad’s and stepmom’s faces. The joy felt knowing my mom would be proud of me.
“No less than you do, Molly,” I deadpan.
She huffs disbelievingly. “Except I got here on merit, Pippa. Not daddy’s money.”
Using the edge of the towel, I clear a spot on the fogged-up mirror and rummage around my toiletry bag for my moisturizer.
