Page 48 of Ice Dance

“Well, I do have parents,” he laughed. “Great people. A little overprotective.”

“They care.”

“Yeah.”

“Which is more than I can say for my father.”

He looked over, not asking, but clearly wanting to.

An STM bus groaned away from a stop at the end of the block, leaving the street strangely quiet again.

“We don’t talk, haven’t done for years. He . . . disapproved of some of my choices.” That was a little too close to the bone. “But we were talking about your parents?”

“They still live in Saint-Jérôme. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Dropped out of school, or they kicked me out, not sure which.”

“I’m sure there were reasons.”

“Oh, there were a lot of reasons.” He held back, not telling me. Perhaps he assumed I already knew. I hadn’t researched his past, none of that mattered to me, but I knew the press had painted him with the troubled upbringing brush. “Bad boy of ice dance” had been used to describe him more than once. The tattoos and occasional social media mishaps had reinforced their assumptions. He was impulsive, fiery, impatient, but I hadn’t seen any evidence of his so-called bad-boy persona. But then, I’d only really known him for a week.

We crossed another street and the neighborhood changed again. Fewer apartments. More garages and old commercial buildings, their brickwork faded. Navarro cut though a narrow gap between buildings without hesitation, clearly knowing exactly where he was headed.

“Is this actually a street?” I asked.

“It gets there.” He laughed and kept on walking. “So, is there anyone back in England waiting for you?”

“Anyone how?”

“You know, girlfriend, whatever?” He looked away.

“Oh, no. No. I travel. Competitions. There’s not really enough time⁠—”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear that.”

“Uh, what about you?” It felt as though I should ask, as he’d led us there.

“No. Nobody. Uhm, same. Busy, you know.”

“Yes.”

We emerged beside more brick buildings. Music babbled from a passing car, then faded around the corner.

“Do you actually know where you’re going?” I asked.

He shot me an offended look. “These are my streets.”

A thumping beat sounded from behind walls up ahead. It was difficult to tell where it came from at first. There was no sign advertising a club, only another building wedged between garages and apartments. A chain-link gate stood open, with colored lights strung on the fence. People gathered outside a building with painted windows, and I suspected that was where we were headed. Yet another unofficial establishment with inadequate fire safety standards.

“This is someone’s back garden,” I said.

He grinned and ducked inside. I followed, and let the press of bodies and loud music wash over me. It was a bar, I noticed, although calling it a bar was generous. Someone had knocked through most of the rear wall and extended the place outward beneath strings of lights and mismatched canvas awnings. A large dance area spilled out onto a terrace that may once have been a basketball court. Faded white court markings were still visible beneath dozens of moving feet. Clearly, the neighborhood had decided this was their local drinking hole, including some of the faces from Saga’s studio.

Saga was here. He high-fived Navarro at the bar, once we’d fought our way to his side.

“Hello again,” Saga said, having to raise his voice over the too-loud music. He ran his gaze down the length of me.

“Good evening.”

Saga’s eyebrows jumped. “Isn’t he a little green for this place?” he asked Navarro.