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ONE

REN

I saw Camden Navarro again amid the glitz and glamor of the British Ice-Skating Federation Exhibition Gala in Sheffield, UK. An elaborate event without judges, designed to showcase the Olympic teams and promote ice dance. So of course, given the press-friendly and less restrictive nature of the event, Camden shone like a star on ice and made sure every phone, every camera, every headline, was pointed at him.

I hadn’t meant to watch him. My program was done. I’d taken off my skates and was busy drying them. My father was already talking about how to tighten my step sequence, and I wasn’t looking at the ice until the music played and the announcers said his name alongside the rest of the Canadian team.

There he was, Camden Navarro.

It had been eighteen months, but the sight of him on the ice still stole my breath.

His messy blond hair needed a trim. How he saw anything through those bangs was beyond my understanding. Bright blue eyes, which I couldn’t see from my booth at the side of the rink but remembered far too readily. He wore Canadian red and white, and glittered with sparkling studs. He smiled, waved, then performed a butterfly jump, because of course he did. And they weren’t even performing yet.

I watched the Canadian team on the ice, showcasing their sequences. Teasing their performance for the up-coming Olympics.

Cam performed a fun, fast-paced, crowd-pleasing routine. Lots of kicks, a second stunning butterfly jump, the obligatory spread eagle. I hadn’t forgotten how good he was, not really, but seeing him on the ice again spilled shivers down my spine. The way the lights sparkled off his blades, like sunlight glittering on the surface of a stream. His flow, his strength . . . He had a magnetism few could emulate, myself included.

He’s good.

There was no sign of the hip injury that had taken us both out of the Meridian Cup final months ago.

He moved with exquisite precision, although his free foot was too low on the exit of the twizzle. He’d need to fix that for the Olympics in Japan. He only had a month, so he’d better get on with it.

“Are you listening, Ren?”

I dragged my gaze from Camden and briefly caught my father’s calculating stare. Lines gathered at the corner of his mouth, digging deep into disapproval. The cold rink lights highlighted the gray in his hair. “Yes, of course.”

“Are you ready to go?” His cold tone slammed me back down to reality where I didn’t have time to spectate.

“Yes.” I stowed my stakes in their bag and zipped it closed.

Camden’s routine continued behind me. I didn’t look back, and when we left the rinkside, the closing doors muffled the music, shutting him away from me again.

Seeing him again shouldn’t mean anything. It had been eighteen months since I’d left him on crutches rinkside in Montreal. Months of qualifying competitions, Olympic selection, and team training. Months of events during which we’d been close, almost met once, but never quite made it work.

I’d known the Canadian team would be in Sheffield, but I hadn’t believed I’d actually get to see him on the ice. And now that I had, I wanted nothing more than to return to the rink to congratulate him on his recovery, to perhaps ask him out for a drink in a bar somewhere. He would probably be too busy with his team to spend time with me. He’d never asked to meet since Montreal, not once. Perhaps it was better we maintained the distance that had grown between us. We had separate lives, what use was there in meeting up only to be torn apart again?

Distance was good. Separation kept us focused.

Any distractions this close to the Olympics would be ill-advised.

But as I sat in the private hire car with my father on the way back to London, I stared out the window watching the nighttime city blur by, going over and over in my mind the short section I’d seen of Cam’s performance. I remembered too easily how his body had felt under my hands, both on and off the ice. I’d wanted more of him then, and after seeing him again now, that want returned fierce and acute for being ignored for so long.

He wasn’t meant for me, I knew that. There was a better life for him somewhere, probably with someone who would make him shine his brightest. I could not be that man.

But it hurt more than it should have to see him so close and let him go again.

Would the ache ever fade?

I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened our neglected text chain. Two months ago:

I’m sorry, I can’t make our meeting. We’ll rearrange?

sure, it’s fine

Nothing since.

I quickly thumbed out and sent,