Page 89 of Ice Dance

I took two of the Tramadol, washed them down with warm water, and waited. Thirty minutes in, the pain had subsided, and by the time I’d gotten back to the apartment building, it had gone altogether.

I hadn’t been without pain in weeks. Its absence felt almost euphoric, like I had my normal body back. Like I was a normal human again, not a machine with no more grease left in its gears.

Feeling pretty damn good, and better than I had any right to, I texted Hasegawa, to see if he was awake, then headed over. Hasegawa’s apartment was on the same floor as mine, at opposite ends, linked by a short hallway with the stairs and elevator.

“It’s open,” he called, after I’d knocked.

He lay on the couch, bare legs elevated on cushions, draped with what were probably warm towels. He wore only his underwear and a black T-shirt, and he so rarely showed he was hurting that I slowed on seeing him there. I wasn’t going to ask him to move, so I sat next to him on the floor, legs folded under me, and leaned my head against the couch cushion. He lowered his arm, draped it over my shoulders and we stayed like that, not speaking, just being together. No expectations, no Dylan barking orders, no endless musical beat driving our bodies into motion. His fingers traced lazy little circles on my shoulder and neck.

I almost told him. “Hey, Ren, so . . . my hip’s fucked. It’ll probably ruin us. Guess I’ll crash out of this too, huh?” But I couldn’t, because the second I said those words, more than the dancing would be over. This would be too. His arm around mine, the quiet of us being together, the steady support of him. His hands on me, the warmth of his mouth on my body, the way he treated me as though I wasn’t a tool to be used, as though I was the most precious thing in his whole world. Nobody had treated me like that, ever. There was a word . . . reverence, that was it. He worshipped me in the bedroom like I worshipped him on the ice. If I lost this, lost him, I didn’t know how I’d get back up from that. So I said nothing.

I’d take the pills, I’d dance, and together, we’d win.

It was simple. And impossible.

THIRTY-ONE

REN

Navarro was entering the cross sequences too soon, taking the exit early, and not putting enough through-effort into his kicks. The differences between elite dancers like me and those who weren’t familiar with the strains of full-time competition training were becoming clear.

He was tired, I understood that, but we didn’t get to be tired.

We were on the ice in Nottingham, a few hours from London. The change of scenery had been welcome, and I’d been looking forward to our performance really solidifying. But after an hour of intense warm-up, Navarro wasn’t dialed in. And he was getting worse.

We were due to practice the quad axel today. Perhaps that had him nervous?

We came out of a messy setup on the ice, and Navarro dug his skates in, carving a deep turn, putting his anger into all the wrong things.

He swore, but came back around fast to line up and begin again. I watched him closely on the circle back, watched his body lean, his legs cross over, skates hissing on the ice. I knew every inch of him physically. He’d been favoring his left side, taking pressure off his right leg. Or so I’d thought, but I couldn’t see it now.

“Again,” he said.

We went again, and he failed, again.

“Fuck.” He sped off and came back around on the edge of his skates, slicing the ice hard.

“You need a break,” I called across the ice.

The laugh that came out of him sounded sharp, and almost ugly. “Don’t tell me what I fucking need.”

He was too wired for this. One of us was going to get hurt. I glanced at Dylan, on her skates in the middle of the rink, positioned between us. She held my gaze. We both knew this wasn’t going to work, not while he was fighting himself.

He hopped off the ice and spent a few minutes with his bag, taking water. Then he came back on, shaking his hands out. “I’ve got this.” His glance was as sharp as his blades.

Navarro was a casual, easygoing individual, for the most part. But he had another side to him, where he went when things got hard. He shut down, grew cold, gaining hard edges and whiplike, knee-jerk reactions that were likely what had gotten him into many problems in the past. If channeled, that precise fury could be very useful or equally destructive.

He skated to within a few steps of me, cut to a stop with a dramatic fan of ice, and planted his hands on his hips. “You ready, Ren? Let’s go.”

This was no good. I wasn’t working with him like this. I sighed and looked around the rink. There wasn’t anyone of note around, just Dylan and some of the rink staff. It was still early in the day.

“Do the surrender sequences with me.”

His top lip curled. “What?”

I raised my hand in the classical dance pose, waiting for him to step in and complete the partnership. He shook his head, then closed the distance between us. As soon as his hand came into mine, I brought my other hand, the one that was supposed to go onto his hip, up his back. Dylan couldn’t see, not from where she watched. I had my back to her.

I pulled him in, chest to chest, and bowed my head, bringing my mouth close to his ear. “What do you need from me?” I whispered.