I open my mouth to yell at him, but nothing comes out. Because beneath the meddling, the chaos, and the billionaire audacity, I know what he’s saying is true. And it’s unsettling how nice it sounds when he says it like that.
I’m the helper. The support. The funny one who claps the loudest for everyone else. I’m very good at standing outside the spotlight.
The announcer’s voice cuts back in. “Gwen, if you’ll make your way to the ice…”
“I don’t have to,” I say immediately.
Leo nods. “You don’t.”
Tess nods too. “You really don’t.”
The crowd doesn’t know that yet. They’re still clapping, still waiting, still assuming this is all part of the fun.
I look down at my boots. The skates. Heavy. Unforgiving. Already judging me.
My heart is racing now, but not in the panicked way I expect. It’s fast and loud, yes, but something else sits underneath it.
Defiance.
I think of every time I’ve laughed something off so no one else would feel uncomfortable. Every time I’ve said, It’s fine, when it wasn’t. Every time I’ve watched someone else be chosen.
I think of how I put my name in that bowl with shaking hands and told myself I could leave before it mattered.
It matters.
“Gwen,” Tess says gently. “Whatever you decide, we’ve got you.”
I nod.
I take a breath.
Then another.
“I’m going,” I say. I quickly take off my jacket and hand it to Tess.
“You look amazing. You’re going to do great!” she tries to reassure me. I hear her words, but they don’t fully land.
“I’m going on the ice,” I repeat, more to convince myself than anyone else.
Leo’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “If I fall, I fall. At least it’ll be on my terms.”
Tess smiles. “That’s my girl.”
Leo is behind the boards, hands clapped over his mouth, eyes bright with barely contained delight. He looks like a man watching a very expensive experiment unfold.
I narrow my eyes at him. He gives me two thumbs up.
“Ok,” I mutter to myself. “Ok. You can do this.”
It’s a lie, but it’s a familiar one. I’ve been telling it to myself for years in dressing rooms, at parties, on first dates that never made it to second dates. “You can do this”, is my emotional duct tape. Sticky. Reliable. Questionable in the long term.
I try to move forward again, but my ankles wobble. My arms fly out instinctively, windmilling like I’m trying to take flight.
The crowd collectively inhales.
I freeze.
