Only One Bed

It was fine—I didn’t have to party all the time to meet another girl. My buddies at school kept telling me about all the hot chicks they picked up with the latest app. I said I’d download it when I was back home in Vancouver in January. I’d be busy enough playing with Etienne anyway. We were really close to reaching the next level and couldn’t stop now.

Obaachan and I shuffled to our section through a short concrete corridor and then down the steps. We were in the third row in the corner near the Kiss and Cry, and a family had to stand up to let us squeeze by to our seats. A dance mix of “Last Christmas,” which I hated yet knew all the words to, echoed through the arena as the Zamboni steadily cleaned the ice, leaving it shiny and smooth.

After handing off food to my parents, I tried to get comfortable. Seriously, who fit in arena seats? I was on the skinny side and only five-six, but my knees hit the chair in front of me. Obaachan and the kids under ten beside me were the only people who didn’t look uncomfortable.

On my grandma’s other side, Mom asked, “Sam, you’re sure you only want money for Christmas?” She tapped her phone, frowning.

“Uh-huh. There’s no point in having to carry stuff home.”

It was mid-December, and we’d be heading to Toronto soon to spend Christmas there with Henry since there was no way he’d stop training for the holidays. He’d be forced to on the days the rink closed, but he was too obsessed to take an actual week off or something.

I missed the old days when Henry and Etienne both trained in Vancouver and I saw them anytime I wanted. I opened my texts, itching to send Etienne a message. But I shouldn’t distract him when I didn’t have anything specific to say. “I miss you” would just be weird.

After the judges and officials were introduced, which always took a stupidly long time, the overhead lights temporarily dimmed and thumping music played in time with strobes as the six women competing in singles skated to center ice for their introductions.

We applauded the lone American, two Japanese skaters, and three Russians. We didn’t always attend all four disciplines when we went to Henry’s competitions, but at the Grand Prix Final it was only the best and we had an all-event pass.

Just before the American girl began—but after the noise of applause had faded—Obaachan declared, “That dress makes her look like a stewardess.”

Mom and I shushed her in unison. As a kid at one of Henry’s competitions, I’d mercilessly roasted another skater who fell on half his jumps, even though my parents told me to lay off. Turned out that the skater’s mom was sitting right behind us, which I only realized when he joined her later, his face all red and puffy from crying. His mom gave me the biggest stink eye, and I’d wanted to sink through the floor.

I’d hated being dragged to Henry’s competitions back then, but the shame of being so mean had stuck with me. I’d grown to like skating way more over the years, especially after I became friends with Etienne in grade nine. I knew how much criticism skaters had to deal with from every direction.

Admittedly, Obaachan wasn’t wrong about the dress—all that was missing was a scarf around her neck and a tray of drinks.

After the women’s short program ended, there was another break before the men began. The Zamboni rumbled out again, and I chewed the ice from the bottom of my pop. The arena announcer told us there were surprise guests.

In the Kiss and Cry, the TV reporter who did the post-skate interviews got on the mic. A familiar couple stood beside her, their image flashing up on the scoreboard screen to thunderous applause.

Huh. What were Chloe Desjardins and Phillipe Vincent doing here? They’d reigned as the top Canadian ice dancers for years and had won three or four world championships. Maybe five? They had been pegged to win Olympic gold, but they fell on their twizzles in the rhythm dance—those quick spins on one foot in perfect unison were like the quads of ice dance. The Russians beat them.

They retired after that, so why were they in Calgary for the Grand Prix Final? Probably doing some charity thing or maybe fluff pieces for the network. Their outfits were too stylish to simply be attending the event. Chloe’s lips shone her trademark pink, her golden curls perfect.

“You’ve got a big announcement today, don’t you?” the reporter asked with a coy smile. Chloe and Phillipe looked equally coy. Even smug, which was weird. Maybe they had a new endorsement deal? They’d already gotten engaged, though they weren’t married yet.

My stomach clenched. Oh fuck. No. Don’t say it. Do not say it. Don’t—