“Follow me.”
I push a breath out through my nose, step into the room…
…and pray I don’t fall on my ass in front of the judges.
I'm going to throw up.
The thought hits so hard my stomach clenches. I force out a shaky breath, grab the boards, and step onto the ice.
The second my blades hit the surface, I lose my balance and my brain goes into overdrive.
Knees bent.
Weight centered.
Don’t lock your ankles.
Push, don’t stomp.
Glide, don’t walk.
Trust your edges.
Breathe.
Scotty’s voice threads through every single instruction, stronger than my own thoughts. Calm. Steady. Confident in me in a way I’ve never been in myself.
I hear him so clearly it doesn’t feel like memory—it feels like he’s right here beside me, matching my stride, keeping me from tipping over. Like his hand is hovering just above my back, ready to catch me if I fall.
I picture the way he stood behind me yesterday, his chest warm against my sweater, his hands guiding my hips, his fingers curling around mine as he said, “You’ve got it. Trust your body.”
My body doesn’t feel trustworthy right now.
It feels like a panic factory running on fumes and terror, but Scotty’s voice stays with me, circling my mind with every tiny correction, every gentle cue he drilled into me.
Somehow, with all of that noise and fear rattling in my chest, I move.
I do a basic lap around the rink, letting my muscles remember the movements. Forward strokes. A simple two-foot glide. My body starts to relax, muscle memory taking over.
This is fine. I can do this.
I try a forward crossover and surprisingly, it’s clean. I try another, and it’s better.
Shit. I'm actually doing this.
One of the judges signals me to the microphone in the middle of the rink. I head straight for it. Slowly, of course.
“Name, please,” she asks.
My legs are trembling as I stand in the middle of the ice, the cold seeping up my skirt and spreading through my spine.
I clear my throat and lean toward the mic.
“Hi. I’m Laura Conners, and I'll be auditioning for Princess Blanca.”
My voice sounds soft to my own ears, but at least it doesn’t crack.
“Great,” one of the judges says. “We’ve got your information right here. Do you know the choreography to the song ‘Mr. Nibbles and Me?’ We sent it out with the audition confirmation.”
