Fans of Davidson express concern about his choice of partner, given Covington’s storied history, though a small minority looks forward to their debut.
All eyes will be on Davidson and Covington as they take the ice in three months.
Chapter 5
Isla
Ishould’vedeletedtheGooglealert on my name years ago, but the masochistic type-A in me wouldn’t allow it.
My eyes skim over the article again. Nothing is inaccurate, but the framing casts a shadow on me. I’m used to this reporting, but I’m frustrated that this could hurt Spencer’s reputation and deter him from wanting to partner with me. He made it clear that this is a trial run. My “storied history” in the sport could make me more trouble than I’m worth.
And did they need to mention my divorce? If North Carolina didn’t require a year of separation, I would’ve been free from Chip a long time ago. We had a prenup in place, neither of us cheated on the other, and our lawyers handled negotiations. I didn’t need to see or talk to Chip to dissolve our marriage, making it surprisingly painless to finalize after the obligatory waiting period. The pain that lingers comes from being too fucking blind to see what eventually led to our downfall.
“Isla Covington,” a voice filled with sunshine interrupts my regret spiral.
I look up from my phone into the smiling face I’ve seen so often over the years—on the rink, magazine covers, and billboards. He’s earned the attention based on his talent, but it also doesn’t hurt that he could model in his own right. Spencer has an approachable attractiveness that tricks people into thinking he’s within reach, but all of us in the sport know the truth. He’s on a whole other level.
I shove my cell phone into my bag. “Spencer Davidson,” I reply. “It’s good to meet you.”
“We’ve met before. Shared a podium once or twice.”
“No, of course, I know,” I stutter. Less than five minutes. That’s all it took before sticking my foot into my mouth. “I meant as your partner. It’s good to meet you again and under these circumstances.”
Please, God, make it stop. I bite my lip, hoping that ends the word vomit.
Spencer’s smile grows brighter. “You’re nervous.”
I’ve never liked admitting weakness, but I swore that I would act differently with Spencer. I suspected my last partner had feelings for me, but I ignored it, not wanting to rock the boat of our partnership. Being in a relationship allowed me to tiptoe around the issue. After my divorce, I had nothing to hide behind, and my refusal to address the issue head-on imploded our partnership.
“A little,” I begrudgingly admit.
“It’s a big deal, what we’re doing.”
My shoulders relax hearing his response, knowing I’m not alone in my cascade of nerves. “What you’re doing. You’re the one taking the risk,” I say, the words from the article still replaying in my mind. “You’re the golden boy.”
“You saw that article too?”
I nod.
He motions with his head toward the hallway, his short brown hair shifting with the movement. “Let me give you a tour of the facility.” He starts walking across the hall toward a set of double doors, and I follow. “You gotta tune them out. And if you can’t, then don’t go looking for their opinions. And by ‘them,’ I mean anyone who isn’t you.”
He pauses in front of another door and flashes me a boyish smile. “Or me, of course.”
“I’m used to ignoring the voices, but I didn’t know…” I trail off, not wanting to insult him.
But he reads me like a book. “You thought I might rethink my decision?”
He holds open the door for me. “This is the gym. We’ve got every exercise equipment you could need—treadmills, rowers, weights, pull-up bar.”
“You built all this?” Most skating rinks I’d been in had a gym, but this local one rivals some of the biggest facilities I’ve competed in.
“My brother,” Spencer corrects, leading us out of the room and down the hall. “You’ll meet him later. Full kitchen is on the right, along with a small yoga-slash-meditation space on your left with some ballet barres as well. My brother should use that room more, but he’s always in his office doing curmudgeon-y things. He’s a good guy, just a Grumps MaGee from time to time.”
He flings an arm out to the right toward a large tunnel. “His office and locker rooms are down that hall, which also leads to the ice. Andthis”—a large room with three walls, one open to the hallway—“is where we can practice off-ice. Our coach will arrive next week. She’s home in the Netherlands, visiting family. She’s been with me my whole career. A hardass, but fair.”
I wander into the open room, dropping my bag in the corner. “We’ll probably butt heads.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He huffs a laugh as he trails me, depositing his bag beside mine. “So, you want to practice some lifts?”
