She exhales the tiniest breath, and I angle myself just enough to catch her eyes. “Ready, Princess?” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear.
She nods, but I can see the fear in her eyes. Her fingers curl more securely around mine, and her shoulders drop half an inch as she starts to focus.
“Three. Two. One.”
One of the judges’ countdown echoes around the rink, and right before the first note hits, I lean in and whisper, “Let them watch you shine.”
The opening notes of “Winter's Heart” begin to play as we glide into thestarting position. My hand settles on Laura’s waist, steady, grounding, guiding her through the first pass like we’ve done a hundred times now.
Then she starts to sing.
Fuck, her voice.
It pours into the space like warm light, clear and bright, threading through the music as if the song was written just for her. I feel her body shift beneath my hand, the tremor gone, replaced by something fierce and certain.
I've heard it a hundred times in practice, but something about performing brings out a new level of emotion. Clear and strong and absolutely perfect. This is Laura on fire. This is Laura becoming every dream she’s ever chased.
The crowd leans in. I do too.
In the frozen north where snowflakes dance, I found a love I thought I'd never chance
I spin her gently, and she nails the landing. I can feel her confidence building with each note, each movement. We flow into the first crossover sequence, the one we've practiced until we could do it in our sleep.
Then disaster strikes.
Her blade catches. Not just a little stumble this time, but a full loss of balance. I see it happening in slow motion: her weight pitches forward, her arms flail, and panic flashes in her eyes.
She's going down. Hard.
I react without thinking. I dive for her, my arms locking around her waist just before she hits the ice. There’s no making this look intentional.
It's obvious.
Painfully, gut-wrenchingly obvious that she fell.
The music keeps playing but her voice has stopped. I can feel her body rigid with panic in my arms.
“It's okay,” I whisper, helping her back to her feet. “Keep going. We've got this.”
She's shaking as we resume position, and when she starts singing again, her voice wavers for just a moment before she pushes through, but the damage is done. I can see it in the judges' faces—concern, disappointment, doubt.
We keep going because we have to, but everything feels different now. I hold her tighter than we practiced, my hand firm on her waist, my arm a barrier she can lean on if she needs it. I don’t trust her balance anymore. Not after that. Notwith the way her breathing has gone sharp and shallow, like she’s trying not to choke on panic.
Every move becomes smaller, safer. The edges we usually carve with confidence turn into careful glides. The lifts and spins we rehearsed a hundred times shrink into simplified versions, nothing that might risk sending her down again.
It kills me, dialing back the routine we learned together, but the thought of her falling a second time? No. I won’t let it happen. Not on my watch.
I guide her into the next pass, our pace steadier than it should be, and murmur just loud enough for her to hear, “I’ve got you.”
Because right now, that’s all I can give her. And all I can hope she believes.
Through winter's cold and darkest night, You were my warmth, my guiding light
The music swells and right on cue, Erik bursts onto the ice in full Mr. Nibbles glory. He tumbles across the rink right before launching into an exaggerated martial-arts battle with the invisible Ice Troll.
The judges sit up a little straighter, clearly entertained by the addition.
It’s exactly what we planned. Comedic. Loud. Distracting in all the right ways.
