Page 29 of Ice Dance

The studio door opened, and I hurried to my phone to stop the music. Dylan and Alisha entered, oblivious to what had just happened. If Dylan noticed my heavy breathing and flushed face, she didn’t mention it.

“Ren, you’re already here. Good. Let’s go over yesterday’s session.”

Another week, another round of press commitments, sponsor meetings. Time on the ice, wrapped ankles, studio heat, blistered feet. Professional dancing drove a body to its limits, and beyond them. It did the same to the mind. I had everything I needed, made every step, said all the right things, but it wasn’t enough. We were perfectly adequate. But adequate was not going to win any competitions.

We were on the ice again and our blades were getting dull. The steel edges weren’t as defined, making a fall likely. Mine needed sharpening, but they’d take another few hours.

“The twizzles are out of sync. This is basic technique. I should not need to be telling you this.” Dylan clapped. “Again. We don’t leave the ice until you’re both locked in.”

Already breathing hard from an hour of endless elements back to back, I skated to the start position beside Alisha, and we pushed off together. Dylan clapped, giving us a beat, then counted us in.

Twizzles were not spins. A spin sat in one place and forgave any sloppiness. A twizzle travelled across the ice. It exposed everything you were doing wrong and punished you for it. The entry on the edge of the blade had to be perfect, the core, the shoulders, the free foot, the exit. Every mistake stayed with you.

Control made twizzles shine.

Alisha’s was lacking.

But I couldn’t look at her. I had to trust she would be exactly where she should be, trust we were together and in sync. But I sensed her entry was wrong. Too much turn, shoulders thrown, speed forced. As I came out into the curve, blades digging in, she skidded, her blades went out from under her, and she dropped hard and awkwardly onto the ice.

I heard the break before her muffled grunt tried to cover her agony.

“Shit,” from Dylan. She skated over and dropped to her side.

I looked up and waved over the rink staff on the ice. “Get your medic.” He plucked his radio free and told the rink team to send their medic in.

I stayed off to one side as a small crowd gathered around Alisha, hands on hips, skating lazy circles. I’d heard the break. Perhaps it had been a blade. They did break sometimes. If it was a bone, we were done.

After a few minutes, they managed to get Alisha up, onto one leg, and help her off the ice. So, probably not a break. That was good. If it was a sprain, she’d need a few weeks, but it would be weak.

“Damn.” I left the ice, tore off my skates, and picked up my phone as it pinged. Dylan’s message said she was taking Alisha to A&E. Suspected sprain, but she wanted to be safe. No risks.

I zipped up my bag and headed to the studio to work out the buzzing in my veins alone.

The sun had gone down outside the studio windows by the time Dylan arrived. Six hours after the fall.

I knew from her face the news was not good.

“Sit down, Ren.”

I didn’t sit down. I turned, sharp and fast, and walked to the windows. “How long?” How long was she out for?

“She’s alright, that’s the important thing.”

I supposed I should have asked that first. I clenched my teeth and stared out into the darkness, ignoring the fury of my face reflected back in the glass.

“How long?” I asked again.

“By the time the fracture is healed, she’ll need months.”

Months.

When Dylan next spoke, her voice was soft in the studio quiet. “She’s out of the competition.”

Which meant I was out of the competition too. I was done. It was over.

I closed my eyes, braced against the window frame and bowed my head. My body went cold all the way through to the tips of my fingers. Nausea wet my mouth.

“Ren?”