I nodded and actually watched the switch happen in Ben as we waited for Neil to get into position with the camera. His incandescence got even more vibrant, like someone turned up his brightness setting. Ben marked the beginning of the interview to camera, then focused on me.
“Let’s talk about your dance background, because what I just saw out there was next level,” Ben said.
His opener was gift-wrapped with a bow, his way of proving that he was going to abide by our agreement. Ben knew exactly how and why I’d gotten into dance, or at least he had four years ago.
He could’ve said something like, “Your mom was your first dance instructor, correct?” It would’ve made for a better story, and teed up the home-visit portion of the show. Instead, he left it up to me.
“I’ve always loved dance,” I began tentatively. “Since I was really young. You could say it’s in my genes.”
I assumed that I had some hereditary skills thanks to my mom, plus the years watching her teach classes from my pack and play probably helped with my timing and rhythm. When I heard certain old songs I was instantly brought back to that big mirroredroom that had been my second home. I could almostsmellthe place, and hear the wood floor creaking beneath dozens of feet.
I’d accidentally given him a thread to unravel by mentioning genetics though.
“So you took classes as a child.” Ben nodded at me in a way that made me feel like I was already doing a good job. “What age did you start?”
“As soon as I learned to walk, basically,” I laughed. “My baby shoes had taps on them.”
I realized that I had to come out and talk about it, high level. I knew she’d bring it up, and it would look weird if I didn’t corroborate it.
“My mom is a dance teacher,” I explained. “I lived my dance lessons every day.”
His mouth went tight when I admitted it, but I noticed that Neil wasn’t swinging the camera around to capture Ben’s expressions. He didn’t have to disguise his knee-jerk negative reaction to me talking about her.
“Do you have a favorite style of dance?” Ben asked. “Because I’m guessing that you’re good at everything.”
I wanted to hug him for the blatant pivot. Ben was already working hard to help me feel safe, so even though it was risky, I relaxed a little.
I wasn’t about to let my guard all the way down, but I decided that it would be okay to crack the window for Ben.
Chapter Twelve
“You good, sweetheart?” Frank asked me. He was standing near the pit with a hose, melting the pile of snow the Zamboni had just scraped off the ice. “It’s early.”
He was used to me sneaking in the back door before the rink officially opened. It happened more frequently when competitions loomed, and obviously there was no bigger one than what I was about to face.
I gave him a quick squeeze on my way past. “Yup, just hoping to steal some alone time to clear my head before the rest of the world shows up. Lots going on lately.”
“Well, I just finished out there, so it’ll be nice and smooth for ya. Have fun.” He pushed his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand.
No one worked harder than Frank, and even though we had a half dozen guys willing to step up and take over the Zamboni duties, he wasn’t ready to let go yet. He’d been a hockey player back in the 1960s, which meant that he had ice in his veins as well. Unfortunately, thanks to his sport and the lack of support for players back in the day, he also had a pronounced limp from osteoarthritis in his hips.
Things were better for athletes now, but not by much, which was why I had a team of people helping to keep my own machine in top form.
I ran through my off-ice warm-up quickly with a focus on my ankles and feet. The pull to get out on the ice was stronger than usual, probably because it was the only place where I could forget about the rest of the world. For all the pain I faced daily thanks to falling in love with a sport that was all hard edges and frigid temps, the rink was my home. My skates gave me wings. My heart was free on the ice.
Even during the dark years, I never stopped loving my sport.
I dropped my stuff off, put in a single earbud, and headed out to the center. I wasn’t going to skate any of my programs, I just wanted to let my body respond to whatever music came on my random Spotify playlist.
First up? “Slave to Love” by Bryan Ferry. The perfect song for a languid, dreamy start to my six a.m. session. I fished my other earbud from my pocket, because I wanted to hear every note of it. I’d learned the hard way that earbuds became projectiles during spins, but I wasn’t ready to break out the big moves quite yet. For now, I just wanted to let the music wash over me.
I closed my eyes, arched my back, and let go. This floaty, weightless feeling was my reason for being. Mylove.
The song came to an end. I opened my eyes, did a half turn, and screamed.
“Ben?! What thefuck?” I fumbled with an earbud.
He was right behind me. My entire body went numb, half from shock and half from the way he was staring.
