Page 54

We stepped onto the ice alongside four other pairs.

The announcer ran through the introductions for Germany, Finland, Italy . . . “From the UK, Tamsyn Ward and Ren Hasegawa.”

We raised our hands and waved at the crowd.

“Skaters, you may now begin your five-minute warm-up.”

We were all set loose on the vast expanse of ice, to get a brief last-minute feel for the surface beneath our blades, and to warm up, keeping us loose for the dances to come. The announcer briefly summarized each pair over the speakers.

“Hasegawa and Ward have been skating together for almost a year now, after achieving multiple wins at the Grand Prix . . .”

I only half listened, concentrating on moving across the ice with Tamsyn at my side.

“Skaters, this concludes the warm-up, would you please clear the ice.”

The ice was good. Clean. It might not be after four pairs cut it up, but it should be fine. I said as much to Tamsyn when we stepped off the ice and the other dancers began. The announcer called the first pair. I stayed in my head, working through our program, and stretched, keeping my body warm and loose.

Almost too quickly, it was our turn.

“Skating for the UK, Tamsyn Ward and Ren Hasegawa.”

We took our places on the ocean of flat ice, locked in our poses, and everything outside the rink fell away. The nerves, the rush, the mild panic and last-minute doubts. Millions of people, a lifetime of work, my father’s expectations. Camden.

Gone.

Clear, absolute clarity.

The opening beat struck. Tamsyn and I pushed forward together, knees compressed, bodies angled into the first lobe. I took a deep left forward outside edge, letting the curve build beneath me before changing feet though the progressive. No scraping. No hesitation. Just the clean hiss of two blades moving as one. Fast, smooth movement. Balance, grace, flow.

Tamsyn came into the closed hold. Her hand settled against my upper arm, mine firm beneath her shoulder blade. Our hips stayed parallel, gazes locked, upper bodies lifted, the distance between us exact.

Three beats.

I guided her through the turn, shifting onto a rich backward outside edge, while she rotated against me. Counter, then bracket. Change of lobe. Every movement arrived precisely on the musical beats.

It was good . . . Better than good.

There was no room for Camden here.

No room for anything but the next edge, the bite of the blade in the ice.

Speed without rushing.

Depth without forcing.

Lift without resistance.

Control.

Flow.

The judges would be watching our feet. Looking for a shallow edge, a flat blade, a fraction of daylight between our timing.

They would find none.

We separated for the twizzles, travelled across the ice. Three rotations on the right foot. My core held, arms drawing inward. Speed. Change of foot. Three more rotations, traveling straight across the ice with Tamsyn perfectly level beside me.

The exit came clean. Precise. Blades down. Choreography on point.