He seemed to grapple with his response. “It’s complicated. All I know for sure is that it’s not looking great,” he finally admitted. “On paper, I have the tools to deal with a setback like this. Not getting hired. But... what if I can’t?”
“ThenI’llbe strong foryou,” I insisted. I threaded my hand around his arm.
“No, but that’s what you don’t understand, Quinn. You’re about to experience some pain with the transition back to being a regular human being. Trust me, it doesn’t matter how strong you feel now, or what medal you bring home, the aftermath of the Olympicswillbe tough. What you experienced last time was different. This is your final Olympics, no chance for another shot at glory, and that brings a totally different kind of bullshit. That’s where I’msupposed to come in to help you, because I’ve been there, done that, bought the therapy. But if that black dog comes back? I’m worthless.”
I squeezed his bicep. “Ben, stop. You don’t have to be my hero, you just have to behere.”
He didn’t answer.
The bartender came over to check on us and Ben shifted away from me. It felt deliberate.
After we finished our drinks we began the slow walk back to the Village, making small talk about the Vox party while I tried to pretend that everything was normal. But there was a new wall between us courtesy of Ben, and it was my turn to do some demolition.
It was probably the last time we were going to connect in person before I skated, and I couldn’t resist pushing for a little clarification. I didn’t want to have to worry about our status as I fell asleep in addition to every other challenge whizzing around my brain and keeping me awake.
It felt selfish, but I knew that we could weather whatever was to come if we faced it together.
“Areweokay?” I asked him quietly. “You and me?”
Saying it out loud made me feel itchy. We’d danced around defining whatever was taking root between us, but what our bodies had been saying left little doubt.
“What do you mean?”
Him not following the implication was a dagger in my heart. How could henotknow what I was talking about?
“Nothing. All good.” I pulled my coat across my chest and crossed my arms tightly.
“The only thing that matters right now is both of us doing what we came here to do. No distractions, right?”
I nodded. Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but it was what I’d agreed to.
“Focus on winning,” he added. “We’ll figure the rest out later.”
I nodded again and hoped my heart would get the message.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
My former coach Carol had always insisted that competition skating order could make or break you, so it took a couple of years before I could shake the feeling that “the draw” would determine my outcome. It was a bizarre bit of theater on top of the rest of the competition stress, a secretive lottery-like drawing late at night in a dark hallway to determine who skated when. There was some validity to her claim, since the judges might score earlier skaters more conservatively before seeing the rest of the contenders. But then again, a baller was a baller whether they went first or last.
I hated that Carol was in my head, on today of all days. My first competition, the short-program skate. I’d almost exorcised her completely, but being back in the theater of the Games was enough to reawaken the demon. I tried to reframe my thoughts of her as gasoline on a brush fire, like my anger about the way she’d treated me was a performance accelerant. Add in some unwanted texting from my mom after she’d arrived in Milan and I had plenty of kindling for the inferno I was about to create out on the ice.
It turned out that the top-secret closed draw with the officials the night before had graced me with what Zamboni Frank calledthe catbird seat; I was the second to last skater of the evening. I would go out onto the ice knowing nearly everyone’s scores, with the energy in the arena at a fever pitch.
The drawback was that I’d also been forced to listen to audience reactions as my competition skated. No surprise, Ayumi’s program had left the rafters shaking. Mel had made sure that I camped out in a quiet corner of the waiting space off ice, far from the TVs broadcasting the performances. She divided her time between walking out to the rink to watch everyone else and hanging out with me as I did visualizations, stretched, and tried to stay warmed up. Her descriptions of the other performances were filled with adorably modest praise, like calling Yena’s flawless jumps “decent.”
As the night sped to a close we were left with unsurprising results: Ayumi was in the lead, with Yena close behind her in a surprising upset, followed by Madeline. Erica’s performance had squeaked her into the free-skate portion of the Games—she landed in the twenty-second position—and poor Kayla had wound up in a disappointing twenty-eighth position, which meant that her journey was over.
So US figure skating only had two chances to podium. No pressure or anything.
Mel walked over to my little prep cave looking like a professor about to give a lecture, in a smart black blazer and black turtleneck. I studied her face as she got closer. No visible stress, just a confident smile, like the event was over and I’d already won.
“You should feel really good right now,” she said as she took my hands. “That’s all I’m saying.”
She’d watched everyone with the exception of Beatrix Kahn, who would skate last. It was Mel’s way of telling me that if I could skate a flawless performance I’d wipe the rest of the competition off the ice.
So different from last time. I’d forced myself not to think about the trauma of Switzerland, but there were moments like this one that made it impossible.
“It’s time,” she said, squeezing my hands. “Let’s go do this.”
