Page 65 of Ice Dance

“No.”

That was the total of our conversation for the next four hours. We flew economy. Hasegawa organized his airplane food into categories, or it looked as though he did. Half my wrappers ended up on the floor, which meant he had to lift his tray so I could bend down and retrieve them for when the steward came around with the trash bag.

I hated pretty much every minute of it, until partway through the flight. The air was too hot, then too cold, then scratchy. My head thumped. Hasegawa’s head kept nudging my shoulder as he drifted off. Then at some point, he gave up fighting it, and snored lightly, head fully on my shoulder now. Dylan read with earphones in, and didn’t notice Hasegawa sleeping on me, or pretended not to notice.

Maybe the flight wasn’t so bad.

We landed at night. I had no idea what time it was, where we were, or generally what was happening, but pretended it was all good. By the time I got to my hotel, thankfully attached to the airport, I was exhausted and felt like a stranger in my own skin.

The next day, we’d begin four weeks of intense training, and all I had to do was show up, give it one hundred and ten percent for all the hours I wasn’t sleeping, and not screw around with Hasegawa.

How hard could that be?

TWENTY-FIVE

REN

We landed in London on a Wednesday and hit the ground running.

Two rented apartments, in the same building.

Local gym in the mornings. Core control, resistance bands, posture and guarding against injury.

Ice sessions from eight to ten. Technical, brutal. Edges, steps, twizzle, rhythm and timing.

Studio work before lunch, and physio. Leg strength, balance, cable pulls. Controlled power—not just power, not just control. Both.

Early afternoon. Video reviews, watching playbacks of our routines. Hands, posture, breath timing.

Second ice sessions for much of the afternoons.

Evenings. Dance studio, into admin and media.

We ate late, with Dylan, going over the day’s debrief.

Ten p.m. Icing muscles, and massages.

Collapse into bed at eleven.

Every day the same, like clockwork.

It felt good, being back on ground I knew well. I thrived on routine, on schedules, on expectations.

I was with Navarro all day, every day, but never alone with him.

We touched because we had to, because it was dancing.

We were watched, studied, corrected, honed.

After two weeks in London, it felt as though we had something worthy of the preview panel. Dylan had been working with us together, but also at separate intervals, honing our skills and correcting our weaknesses, so that when we came together to train, we were better for the break away.

Navarro joked with the staff everywhere he went. He stretched on the gym floor, or in skate rink corridors. He ate messily, laughed easily, and he did not stop. Whenever he fell asleep during the evening debrief, I’d nudge him awake. If he looked to be lagging, I’d slide an electrolyte drink across the table or bench toward him. One night, at the end of the first week, we’d somehow ended up in the apartment building’s laundry room together, both watching our gear tumble, and we’d sat, side by side, not speaking, just . . . existing. Too exhausted to do anything more.

There was a routine to it, a quiet, soft intimacy of familiarity. Of two people going through the same thing, hurting the same way, finding that rush on the ice, and breathing through it.

Two became one.

And then, one morning of the third week, I arrived early to the rink and caught the opening bars of Hanz Zimmer’s “Cornfield Chase” filling the cavernous space. And there, alone on the ice, Navarro glided, arms out, fingers spread, head back, moving like a leaf on the wind.