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“Oh shoot, he’s gonna quit?”

The resurfacing machines were out on the ice, clearing the slush and resurfacing for group five, Ren’s group. I watched them sweep the surface, leaving a smooth wet trail behind them that would refreeze in seconds.

“Cam?”

“Yeah . . . he’s retiring after this.”

“Oh.”

I hated to think this would be his last competition. He was a joy to watch on the ice. He inspired so many every time he went out. Ice dance would suffer for the loss of Hasegawa. So would I.

Zoe sighed. “Then this dance is his swan song.”

Which meant he’d give this dance everything he had left to give. Whatever happened, it was going to be close.

I could lose to Hasegawa, and I’d be okay with it. I loved him, and I wanted him to win, even if it took the podium from me. Strange, how love changed your perspective. I wanted him to show his father he didn’t need him. Ren had never needed him. Ren should skate today for Ren, for the first and last time ever.

If he won, maybe then he’d realize he didn’t need anyone’s approval or permission to be himself. That alone was more important than a gold medal.

“You okay?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Whatever happened, we were about to witness history.

THIRTY-EIGHT

REN

“Somebody That I Used to Know” by Gotye, Kimbra. That was the music Tamsyn and I had practiced to for months, and the music that would accompany my final performance. The lyrics were fitting. I’d struggled to know what love was, what it meant, if it was a real thing or something meant for other people. And even when I’d looked it in the eye, I hadn’t known it for what it was and I’d let it go.

I’d pushed Cam away when I should have pulled him closer. Again and again.

He made me a better person, made me see myself as someone worthy of unconditional love.

Our program played on the rise and fall of the music, the push and pull, and the switch of vocalists in the song, with Tamsyn taking the lead partway through. It was a risk. The judges may not appreciate our interpretation, but Cam had taught me some risks were worth taking.

We were about to see if the risk paid off.

And whether I could skate for me.

I stood on the ice, poised, back to back with Tamsyn, ready. I breathed in.

The first notes hit sparsely.

We pushed away from each other. Controlled motion, sweeping apart, then pulling back in across the ice, near enough to touch. The music rose and fell, deceptively simple, and we answered it with bladework. Short, clipped steps on the percussion. Long, suspended edges beneath the drawn-out notes.

I caught Tamsyn’s wrist on the beat and drew her sharply into a closed hold. Her free hand struck my shoulder. We traveled down the rink with our bodies together but our faces angled away. The hold was technically correct, but the shape looked confrontational rather than intimate. We were telling a story on the ice. That was the point of it all, the emotion, the feeling, and I could feel it rising up within me.

The song was not about tenderness. It was about what remained when the tenderness failed.

Push, pull, release, hold, release, return. The beat built.

The twizzles.

Separation.

Perfectly synchronized.