“It’s cheaper for ice time and there’s a new hockey arena close by, so there’s more time available.”
As if she didn’t hear me, she said, “Or you know there’s a new arena here in Chicago. I ran into Pavel the other day in the deli section, and he said he’d love to take you back.”
I bit back a laugh at the thought of my mom stalking my old coach through Mariano’s, peeking out from behind a rack of flatbreads, ready to pounce. Never let it be said that Patricia Sullivan wasn’t dedicated to her son’s career. “That’s so sweet of him, but I left Pavel for a reason.”
She huffed. “It wasn’t his fault you didn’t make the team.”
Yes, I knew damn well that I’d lost focus at Nationals that year and fell on two of my jumping passes in the short program. After a mediocre Grand Prix season that fall, I’d needed to nail Nationals. “I didn’t say it was his fault!”
Breathe.
Blonde Perfume was side-eyeing me, and I took another breath, watching a basketball replay on the TV. “Pavel’s great, but I’m going to Bill and Manon.”
“If you have to go to Toronto instead of coming home to your family, why don’t you ask Elena Cheremisinova?”
“Because she’s focusing on ice dancing these days. She hasn’t had a male contender since Alex Grady won Worlds. Most importantly, Mr. Webber wants me to go to Bill and Manon. It might be the last thing—” My throat closed again. Fuck, I refused to cry. “I trust his judgment.”
“Did Melody tell you she was in the ninety-ninth percentile in the mock SAT?”
I was used to her abrupt changes in topic now. She used to argue with me for hours, but since I’d packed up and moved to LA to train with Mr. Webber, forbidding her from coming along, she’d eventually learned when to give up. Well, once she’d started talking to me again, which had taken almost a year.
“Yeah, she did amazing. She’ll crush the real thing, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried. Veronica and Melody are very focused. Your sisters have never disappointed me.”
Gritting my teeth, I kept my voice light. “I’m so proud of them.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “Where are you going to be living in Toronto?”
“In a basement apartment with a meth lab upstairs.”
“So cruel to your mother.”
Before she could launch into all the ways I’d disappointed her or made her worry, I said, “They’re calling my flight. I love you, Mom. I’ll text when I get to Toronto. Say hi to Dad and the girls.”
“Count the rows to the nearest exit. If the cabin fills with smoke, you’ll thank me.” She hung up.
I drained my glass and motioned to Man Bun Bartender for another.
The Ice Chalet really was like something out of the eighties with the purple and orange racing stripes painted along the walls surrounding the rink. There were no boards, just a step down onto the ice, and all heads swiveled my way as I took off my guards and tossed them on a bench.
Crap. I was later than I realized. I shook off the thought of Mr. Webber’s disapproving frown and gave the assembled skaters on the ice my biggest smile as I glided over to join the group.
Bill and Manon stood before the skaters with a couple of assistants I recognized vaguely. The ten or so students ranged in age from about twelve to early twenties. Most of them smiled back at me, one little girl clearly starstruck. I gave her a wink.
Bill said, “There you are. Remember we start and finish every week with an early team session.”
“Right, right. Sorry—still jet-lagged.” Which was the truth! Although I also hadn’t practiced at seven in the morning for years. Mr. Webber had accepted that I wasn’t a morning person. Manon had emailed me a weekly schedule, but I hadn’t looked closely at it. Or at all aside from noting I had to be here way too early on Monday.
As Bill introduced me to the other skaters, I was aware of Henry Sakaguchi’s disapproving stare boring into me. He and my mother could exchange notes on their techniques. Naturally, I gave him my best smile as Bill came to him last.
“And you know Henry, of course.”
“Hey, man!” I held up my hand for a high five because it would probably piss him off.
Wearing a typical practice outfit very similar to mine—black skating pants and a long-sleeved black athletic shirt—Henry stared at me, his arms still crossed over his chest. Not breaking even a hint of a smile, he barely slapped my palm since apparently even Henry’s alien leaders had taught him you couldn’t leave someone hanging.
Manon announced, “All right, let’s start with bubbles.”
I blinked in surprise as everyone—including Henry—fell into line along the ice, moving their feet in and out rhythmically to form big circles. This was something we’d learned as little kids.