The last note rang out. I hit my final pose, chest heaving, arms extended, face tilted toward the lights.
Silence.
One beat. Two.
And then the crowd erupted.
The roar was deafening—a wall of sound that crashed over me and nearly knocked me off my feet. I stood there, frozen, as stuffed animals and flowers rained onto the ice around me. A plush cat landed at my feet. A bouquet of roses. A stuffed bear wearing a sweater with a tiny Canadian flag.
And then, much to my complete and utter humiliation, I started to cry.
Not pretty, delicate tears. Ugly crying. The kind where your face crumpled and your shoulders shook and you couldn’t catch your breath. I pressed my hands to my face, trying to hold it together, but it was useless. Everything I’d been holding in—the fear, the doubt, the months of wondering if I’d ever feel like myself again—came pouring out in front of 15,000 people.
I waved blindly as I skated toward the exit, tears still streaming down my face, laughing at the absurdity of it all. The crowd was still cheering. Chanting my name.
I stepped off the ice and nearly collapsed into Coach Miller’s arms. He caught me, steady as always, and gave me a proud smile.
“That’s the Théo I’ve been waiting to see,” he said.
Before I could respond, a familiar figure pushed through the crowd.
My mom.
She was crying too—of course she was, she always cried at my competitions—and her arms were open and I fell into them like I was five years old again, burying my face in her shoulder.
“Little bao,” she murmured, stroking my hair. “I’m so proud of you. So, so proud.”
“Thank you for being here. I know I haven’t made things easy—” My voice cracked.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” She pulled back, cupping my face in her hands, wiping my tears with her thumbs. “You were beautiful out there.”
I laughed, still crying, and hugged her again.
And then I looked up over her shoulder and my heart stopped.
Brown eyes. Warm and steady and impossibly, improbablyhere.
Derek.
He was standing a few feet away, wearing a black cap pulled low and a black parka, trying and failing to look inconspicuous. Once our eyes locked, he broke into a face splitting grin and closed the distance between us.
My mouth dropped open and I just stared, dumbfounded.
“What—” I pulled away from my mom, glancing between them. “How? You have a game tomorrow. In Florida! Who’s watching Aspen?”
I’d told him not to come. I’dinsisted. His comeback season, his healing jaw, a flight that made no logistical sense—I’d made my peace with looking into the stands and not seeing him there.
“I flew in an hour ago and I fly out again tonight.” He stepped closer, that smile growing. “Hana’s watching Aspen. I couldn’t missthis.”
“You couldn’t—Derek, that’s insane. You have to play tomorrow. You’re still recovering from surgery—”
He kissed me.
Right there, in front of my mom and my coach and—judging by the phones raised along the boards—half the arena. His hands cupped my face, gentle and sure, and his mouth was soft against mine, and I forgot every objection I’d been about to make.
When he pulled back, my eyes darted past his shoulder: a journalist with a press badge, a spectator recording, a cluster of skaters pretending they weren’t staring.
“Derek,” I hissed. “There are cameras everywhere.”
