Page 122 of Ice Dance

“The scary old woman from the posh English gala?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “You remembered.”

How could I forget that disaster of a night? “Is it a fine for causing an inappropriate scene?”

“Probably something like that.” He almost laughed, and for a few seconds, I sat there and didn’t open the letter all the way, just looked at him. He’d done so much for me. Taught me so much. I wouldn’t even have had a shot at the podium without our dance. And when it had mattered, I’d let him down. I didn’t know how to say any of that without breaking down.

I swallowed, and croaked out, “I’m sorry.”

“Cam, don’t.” He reached out and laid his hand on my good leg. “I’m just relieved you’ll be alright.”

I pulled the slip of paper free and unfolded it. Five colored rings. The unmistakable Olympic logo. I gasped, folded it again, and put it down in my lap.

Ren was fully smiling now. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

I couldn’t. What if it was a pointless congratulations letter or a ticket to another gala? Which would be lovely, maybe, but also too terrifying to read, because what if it wasn’t that? What if it was something that might change my life?

I shoved it into his hands. “You read it.”

Ren chuckled and straightened the crumpled piece of paper. “Dear Mr. Navarro.”

“At least they have the right person.”

“I hope this letter finds you recovering. I wished to write personally, before the machinery of committees, federations, and sporting calendar begins to make itself felt. Your performance at the Meridian Cup was exceptional.”

Ren glanced at me. I nodded and chewed on my thumb nail.

“This is not a word I use carelessly. There are many talented skaters. There are many brave ones.”

Ren’s voice wobbled. He wet his lips and continued.

“There are fewer who understand how to turn risk into precision, and fewer still who are able to make an arena believe it is witnessing the future of a sport as it happens. You did that in Montreal.”

He paused to breathe.

“I have participated in ice dance for most of my life, first from inside it, and then from the rather less forgiving position of the judging box, commentary desk, and committee table. I know the difference between spectacle and substance. Your performance contained both. Please allow me to say this openly: you were never in anyone’s shadow. Mr. Hasegawa is a remarkable skater⁠—”

“Did you add that bit yourself?”

“No, it says it, see?” He pointed at the sentence. “But perhaps we should stop there, as she has said all the important things.”

I laughed for the first time in days, and thumped him on the arm. “Get on with it.”

“Very well.” He grinned. “Mr. Hasegawa is a remarkable skater.”

I rolled my eyes. “You said that.”

“It was worth saying again . . . You know that better than most. But what you achieved together was not the result of one man lending legitimacy to the other. It was a partnership in the truest and rarest sense, neither diminished by the other. That is why I’m not surprised by the second matter contained in this letter.”

He paused, for dramatic effect or because he’d genuinely choked up, I couldn’t tell.

“I have been asked to confirm, formally and in writing, that the Canadian federation has requested your inclusion on its provisional selection list for the forthcoming Winter Olympic Games in Sapporo.”

Ren cleared his throat.

“She goes on to explain some small print, and ends with . . . This is a significant step in what I hope will be a promising career in ice dance. I do hope I have the pleasure of seeing you perform in Japan. You have been seen, Mr. Navarro. More importantly, you have been taken seriously. I trust you understand the difference.”

I leaned my shoulder against Ren’s and pinched my lips together, keeping a swell of emotion locked down. The Olympics. Me. The kid from school who would never amount to much. The dropout, the waste of space, the guy who almost hadn’t made it.