“Yes, I do.” Again, my voice cracks a little, because yeah, I know it. Actuallydoing itis a completely different story.
“Great. So then you know it starts with thirty seconds of singing and then you need to move across the ice. We usually suggest you focus on the moves required in the choreo, but if you have any special technical skills, we would also like to see those.”
“Perfect.”
It isn’t.
It’s absolutely not, but I say it anyway.
All I have to do is wow them with my voice. Dazzle them straight out of noticing I can barely spin without turning into a human toppling domino.
This is it.
Come on, Laura. You can do this. Youhaveto do this.
I try to discreetly shake out my hands, then blow out a slow breath, but nothing calms my nerves enough to stop my knees from knocking.
The opening notes float through the rink, and I remove the microphone from the stand.
Okay.
Okay, this I can do.
I close my eyes, inhale, and let the first line roll out of me.
My voice comes out strong. It’s clear, grounded, familiar. It feels like stepping onto a stage in shoes that fit, slipping into a skin I recognize. This is my territory. This is the part of the audition that doesn’t terrify me.
For a few seconds, it’s perfect.
The rink is silent because my voice booms through it.
Then the choreography kicks in.
I shift my weight, push forward into my first glide, and the ice beneath me suddenly feels less like a stage and more like a warning. The wobble in my kneesreturns, sharper than before, and the confidence in my voice flickers as my blades scrape forward.
Singing while skating.
Skating while singing.
Why did anyone think this was a good idea?
I keep going, but the moment I try to do a crossover, the panic that had been simmering breaks wide open in my chest.
Only my legs are shaking so badly that even a simple glide feels unstable. I extend my arms, trying for a slow, graceful spin—something smooth, something safe—but my balance is completely off.
I wobble.
I overcorrect.
And—
My skate catches.
There’s a split second where time stretches thin and useless, where I’m aware of every tiny detail: the sharp slice of my blade snagging, the tilt of my body, the gasp from the judges, the song still playing the high note I should be hitting instead of yelping.
I hit the ice hard.
The impact knocks the air from my lungs and my microphone skitters across the ice, screeching with feedback that echoes through the cold, empty space.
