Page 30 of Ice Dance

I turned, threw on my shoes without socks, didn’t bother with my jacket.

“There are other options.”

I grabbed my bag and shoved through the door.

“Ren? Wait.”

I strode down the corridor, out the front door, and walked. My apartment was a ten-minute car ride away. I could walk it. I was walking it. The cold damp Nottingham night air made the chill in my body solidify. Traffic splashed through puddles in the road, taillights glowing red in the mist.

I shouldn’t have picked her. I should have followed my heart, not my head. My head had been wrong. And now it was over.

My bag cut into my shoulder. I walked faster.

Rain wet my face and soaked my shirt.

It was over.

She was out.

Not her fault.

She’d been nursing the ankle for days. I’d seen her massaging it. She should have told me.

But it didn’t change the outcome.

I reached my apartment, dumped my bag, and flicked on the lights. Hands on the kitchen counter, I bowed my head. The walk hadn’t helped. I was still ice cold. Colder, in fact.

I looked up, at the neat apartment. The empty living room on the other side of the kitchen island. Everything in its place. Generic art on the wall. Creams and beiges, white cushions. I stood, dripping water in my kitchen, dressed in black. Hating everything. At least the hate was warm.

Done.

Over.

I opened the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of wine, tore off the foil, dug a corkscrew out of my drawer, pulled the cork and poured a glass. I stared at it. Bubbles clinging to the curved sides. If I had one glass, I’d have more, the whole bottle, and I didn’t want that.

I’d done everything right.

I had worked myself to breaking point, worked until it had consumed me, become my life, my soul, my reason for living. Sacrificed a father’s love, and for what?

What had it gotten me?

Alone.

I poured the glass into the kitchen sink, then emptied the bottle and dropped it in the bin.

I showered, turning the heat too high, scorching my skin, then wrapped myself in a gown and sat on the sofa. Dylan had called multiple times. I ignored the notifications and scrolled aimlessly.

Camden Navarro denies rumors he practiced with Ren Hasegawa at Montreal selection week.

What?

I stopped on the blurred image taken at the local Montreal rink we’d been training at. It could be us. It could also be anyone else from selection week. I clicked the article. A source had told someone who had told someone else that Navarro had performed a sexy number and challenged Hasegawa to out-dance him. Navarro denied it happened, according to the writer.

Nobody had contacted me for a comment, or if they had, Dylan had dealt with it.

I searched the hashtag #HaseVarro and wished I hadn’t. The rumors were picking up. People had begun to edit unrelated clips of us skating together and ask if #HaseVarro would ever be a real thing. But among all the gossip and noise, I found the original interview from a few days ago. Like Alisha and me, Navarro had been doing sports TV spots. In one of the clips, he sat on a too-large sofa, draped in sponsor-branded clothing, looking bright and loose. His maple-syrup-colored hair was its typical mop, flopping over his eyes. His grin was at maximum wattage.

I hit play on the clip, and Navarro’s warm, loose, Canadian-accented voice filled my quiet apartment.