Page 16

“She is a good woman,” he added. “Intelligent. From respectable family. The sort of person who could bring stability to your life.”

I rubbed my forehead. “I’m not thinking about this now.”

His expression hardened. “Everyone needs someone eventually. You cannot spend your entire life chasing medals and expecting that to be enough.”

I closed my eyes and tried to wish the ache in my chest away. “I’ll consider it.”

“Good.” I heard the paper rustle. “Now, let’s go over the step sequence part of the program again.”

I had the sudden, terrible urge to grab all his sketches, screw them up, and throw them in the trash. I would then tell him I’d had an affair with a man, and I wouldn’t—couldn’t marry a woman, no matter how intelligent and respectable she was. I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t the son he wanted me to be. I never had been and never would be. And if he didn’t like me as the person I was supposed to be, he could go back into retirement and stay there. I didn’t care if I never saw him again. I wanted to yell, and throw my hands up, and do all the things Camden would have done.

I took a breath.

Opened my eyes.

Looked down at the sketches, scribbled out the flower, and nodded. “Alright, father.”

Morning ice practice started well. Tamsyn and I had control of the routine and control of the ice, and each other. We’d been dancing the same program now for months, and we had it down to precise perfection. Our blade edges were deep and clean, and our bodies held the muscle memory of each step in time to the music.

Tamsyn stepped into the left outside edge of the blade, and I matched her on the right. Three crossovers to build speed. I turned beneath her arm, changed edge, and took her hand behind my back. She followed without hesitation. Left rocker. Right bracket. We separated for the twizzles, three rotations each, traveling at speed, side by side, across the center of the rink.

Everything as it should be.

A flash of red caught my eye in the stands.

As she came out of her twizzle slightly ahead, I caught Tamsyn around the waist. She placed one hand on my shoulder, set her leg free, and I lifted her. One rotation.

Flash of red. Camden.

Two rotations.

I lowered her onto a clean outside edge, and we moved into the closed hold, but my blade traveled too far. I corrected, knowing it was already too late. She came in, mistimed, and we lost the hold.

A mistake. Mine.

Tamsyn caught my eye. She didn’t need to say anything. We both knew the blame lay with me.

“Do better,” she said, no viciousness or malice, just fact.

And we went again.

Second time was flawless.

But the first error should not have happened at all.

Pausing on the ice, I bent at the waist, braced my hands on my knees, and looked up. All around the rink, other teams watched, waiting for their allocated times. They would have seen my mistake, small as it was.

I did not make mistakes.

To make it worse, there wasn’t any red in the stands. I’d seen a flag or some other red thing. It hadn’t even been Camden.

I’m better than this.

Tamsyn and I left the ice, sat on the benches, and removed our skates, not speaking. There was nothing to be said. It was too late to be making rookie mistakes. I almost apologized, but the words wouldn’t change anything.

We’d work on it in the afternoon.

But when the afternoon came around, it only got worse.