Only One Bed

I nodded. “I’m sorry. I know this is… I’m sorry.”

“Tabarnak!” Though he spoke fluent English and only had a slight French accent, when he was upset, this classic Quebecois swear word was his go-to.

He closed his eyes, and yep, I could see right up his flaring nostrils from this angle. Then he was moving, and the camera showed the ceiling and walls, bouncing around. Etienne’s heavy breathing was the only sound.

I hugged my free arm around myself, fidgeting and pulling up my hood as the dry wind gusted, hard snow peppering my cheeks. Etienne’s face reappeared, creased and grim. It looked like he was in a gray bathroom stall now.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.

He nodded. “We thought maybe, but…”

“Is Bree there?”

His mouth tightened as he shook his head. “It was a bad day for her.”

Crap. She’d suffered a concussion months ago, and the effects were lingering way longer than anyone expected. “Do you think her phone is on?”

“Yeah, even though it shouldn’t be. I need to get home.”

Etienne and Brianna shared an apartment near their training rink in New Jersey. They got sick of each other sometimes, but skating was expensive AF.

“Okay. I should get inside. Henry’s coming up.”

Etienne nodded. “Hope he does great.” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Thanks for telling me. I guess we’ll—I don’t know.” After a silence, he nodded again. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Yeah, of course.” I wanted to say something reassuring, but all that came out was, “Later.” He gave me a tight smile and disconnected.

Teeth chattering, I ran to the closest entrance and joined the line. There were lots of exits and only a few doors letting people in. Because this day was trash, I realized I didn’t have my ticket since my mom had them all on her phone.

Fuuuuuuck.

Chapter Two

Etienne

What was this all for? What was the point if we didn’t make the Olympics?

The drive to the apartment wasn’t long, but it felt like forever before I stood in front of my door. Key out, I hesitated. Maybe Bree was sleeping. It was barely eight o’clock, but she needed the rest. Maybe she didn’t know yet.

I didn’t want to open the door. I wanted to keep living in this world where losing our Olympic spot wasn’t real yet. Seeing Bree’s face would make it official in a way that I didn’t want to deal with. I stood there squeezing the key so hard the little jagged metal teeth dug into my skin.

After a deep breath, like the kind I took before a performance, I turned the key. The cramped living room was dark, and I flipped on the overhead light. Bree sat curled on the couch, and she threw up her hand over her eyes, wincing.

“Sorry, sorry,” I murmured, keeping my voice low as I turned off the light and took off my running shoes and jacket. I blinked, waiting to adjust. The cheap plastic blinds were up, streetlights illuminating the saggy couch and armchair. If Bree had been feeling better, the TV probably would be on.

“So,” she said.

“So.” I slumped on the other end of the couch, feeling wearier than I should have since we hadn’t been able to train today.

“I guess I can’t blame them.” Bree fiddled with the end of her messy ponytail. In the dim light from the street, her thick, honey-colored hair looked darker than usual. She had her long legs tucked beside her under a fuzzy throw blanket. Her sweatshirt sleeves hung low over her hands, the edges frayed.

I wanted to argue, but I only sighed. Chloe and Phillipe were a team that would end up in the hall of fame. Yeah, they wanted another shot at Olympic gold. I would too. “It still sucks.”

“That it does.” Not looking at me, she reached her left hand toward me across the couch. I took it automatically, squeezing her familiar palm. “People will say we’re still young. We can stay in until the next Olympics.”

I couldn’t hold in a groan. It was true—in five years, we’d only be twenty-six. Definitely still young enough to compete in ice dance. But god, the thought of how much work it would be—grind, grind, grind—made me want to go to bed and pull the covers over my head.

Five more years of our parents spending every extra penny on our training. Five more years of injuries and treatment. Five more years of trying to be better and probably never being quite good enough.

Five more years until I could go back to piano.

I inhaled through the pang of longing. Sometimes, I dreamed of playing again, and I woke with my fingers stroking imaginary keys. But there was no room in our shoebox apartment for a piano, and an electric keyboard wasn’t the same. It only made me miss playing a real piano more. If I didn’t have to work shifts at the arena snack bar as well as cleaning the gym, I’d have tried to find a teacher with a piano I could use.