My legs burned, but I flew across the ice and reached back with my toe pick, vaulting up into the Lutz.
Pain flared in my hip as I crashed onto the ice, sliding with momentum before popping back up onto my feet. Worse than falling again on it was that without another jump on the end, even a single toe, I’d repeated the same solo quad jump twice, which wasn’t allowed.
The audience clapped, trying to boost me. I’d made a mess of my program, but I managed the rest without any more major mistakes. I finished in a haze, the audience applauding despite how terribly I’d performed.
All I could do was try to smile as I took my bows, shame burning my face. I’d failed miserably not only in front of the fans, but my family. I would have loved nothing more than to crawl into a hole and bury myself in darkness, but the cameras were on me, the microphones strong enough to pick up every word in the Kiss and Cry.
Steeling my spine, I gave Manon a stiff hug as she reassured me that it was okay and I’d done my best. The Kiss and Cry area for this competition had been adorned with a maple leaf-covered bench and backdrop, the Canadian federation’s logo prominently displayed in a red and white theme.
It was my job now to sit on the bench with Manon and pretend all was well while the cameras zoomed in on us. As the judges finalized their scores, the technical specialist reviewing any questionable elements, slow-motion replays of key moments from my performance unspooled on TV for the home audience, the arena scoreboard, and on a monitor by my feet.
I had never actually allowed myself to shed tears in the Kiss and Cry, and even in celebration, kisses were rare. Manon still reassured me as we watched the replays, and I nodded, keeping my face impassive as I watched my failures.
Theodore hadn’t skated yet, and I’d kept on my noise-canceling headphones backstage. I’d heard the score of the previous skater, but he’d clearly made too many mistakes for me to worry about him ranking above me.
Skate Canada was part of the Grand Prix circuit of six competitions in the autumn, culminating in the Grand Prix Final in December for the top six skaters or teams in each discipline. We earned points for our placements at our two assigned events.
My mouth was painfully dry, and I gulped from the water bottle Manon had handed me. My chance of making the Grand Prix Final in Torino would depend on how I placed here and at my second assignment: NHK Trophy in Japan.
NHK would be a tough field—minus Theodore, who’d already won Skate America last week. If I were off the podium here at Skate Canada, even if I won NHK, which I was favored to do, would I earn enough points to make the final? It would depend on how other top skaters performed at their events.
Cold sweat clung to my skin. The judges were taking their time. The replays were over now, and all eyes focused on me like ants swarming my body. The longer the judges took, the more elements were in question, and the lower my score could be.
What had I been thinking? Why was I so stupid? I never switched around my choreography. It wasn’t prudent, and I knew it. I’d lost focus and possibly destroyed my chances at the Grand Prix Final, which I was certainly expected to make.
If I didn’t, it was the chance the skaters on my heels needed to gain momentum and favor with judges and spectators.
I was going to vomit.
Sometimes I wondered why of all sports, I’d chosen one that was judged. The panel of experts analyzed my every move, as did the viewers and the commentators. If I were a hurdler, either I’d win the race or I wouldn’t. But from the moment I’d first tried on skates and fallen flat on my back, I’d craved the challenge of mastering the ice.
As the announcer finally read my free skate score—180.72—I squinted at the monitor by my feet and then up at the scoreboard, waiting for the standings. I saw my name appear at the top a moment before the announcer said, “And he is currently in first place.”
There were two more skaters to go, including Theodore. I’d be bronze at worst, but I should stay ahead of the skater from China unless he truly excelled. It seemed I wasn’t the only one who’d faltered, and despite the relief, I still felt sick to my stomach.
Manon patted my knee and told me I’d done well, which we both knew was a bald-faced lie, but the world was watching and listening. Backstage, she sighed heavily and muttered, “You got lucky,” followed by something in French I didn’t particularly want to translate.