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“No.” He turned to face her. “Why would I have?”
Was he imagining the look of disappointment in his mother’s features? The hint of blame?
“No reason, I suppose.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Stay as long as you can, Leo. I have always found this to be the perfect space in which to heal.”
She was gone before he could respond, before he could tell her that he didn’t need to heal. He needed to be alone; he needed to forget.
* * *
Mila wentthrough the motions on autopilot, thefrissonshe usually experienced while on the ice completely absent. She moved automatically, like a robot, technically correct but lacking any spark. Her smile was glued in place, reminders from her coach heavy in her mind as she went through the routine, beat by beat, as she had been for hours and hours a day since leaving Greece. Since leaving Leo.
A familiar pang exploded in her heart. She pushed it away. She couldn’t think about him. Not now.
Not here.
He was the one person who had the power to make her feelanything,but those feelings were too overwhelming, too powerful, too awful when they weren’t returned. She swallowed and kept dancing, the song building to a crescendo as she picked up speed and then launched herself into the air, spinning like a top, form perfect, once, twice, three times, four, landing delicately and moving straight into another rotation, then catching her ankle, trying not to remember the way Leo’s hands had felt on her flesh, the way his fingers had caressed her ankle when it had yet to heal. She extended her leg in front of her and spun, faster and faster, the crowd whirring before her eyes, the stadium packed with spectators—the Internationals always drew an exceptional crowd. She didn’t focus on the crowd though, but rather, on the music, on the familiarity of her movements, until finally, the music slowed and she began to twist, low to the ice, then catching her ankle again and extending, lifting up to standing, one leg above her head, spine curved perfectly, eyes focused on the judges as she came to a stop and the crowd broke out in rapturous applause. She held her pose for a moment, breath exhaling in one long whoosh, the sense that she had just done something monumental, crossed some barrier she’d had in mind for a very, very long time, sat inside her like a piece of rock, the rest of her numb to the sweet success of that moment.
She eased her leg down, eyes briefly skimming the stadium and then stopping, freezing, as a familiar face passed before her field of vision. Her mouth went dry, her heart stopped breathing. She couldn’t believe it. She chased backwards through the crowd, looking for him, wondering if she’d imagined him, right as Leonidas turned, his back to her now, familiar and unmistakable.
A sob lifted in her throat; she covered it by dipping her head down and skating towards her team in the box, but she couldn’t push him from her mind. She couldn’t stop asking herself why he’d come. And where was he going?
She wanted to run from the stadium, to find him, to ask him, but it was impossible. The formalities of judging were required, she had to sit and await her score. And even if she could have left prematurely, what would it have achieved? They’d said everything there was to say. She’d told him how she felt; he’d told her how he felt and wanted. Six weeks had passed. Six weeks of silence, longing, aching, hurting. Six weeks of trying to move on, to put him behind herself. Six weeks of training her butt off in order to focus on something besides Leonidas, in the hope that she’d be so tired by the time she got into bed each night, she wouldn’t be able to think of him, or dream of him.
Six weeks of loving and hating in equal measure.
Six weeks of pain.
And now, he was here?
What did it mean?
Nothing, given that he hadn’t stuck around to speak to her. It was the tying up of a loose end, that’s all. She’d spoken about the importance of this medal, perhaps it would assuage his guilt if she won. Maybe he imagined this would make her happy, would compensate for the pain of losing him?
She stared at the screen, until her score was announced, but it took her coach standing and wrapping her in a hug for Mila to realized she’d broken the world record. It was a great victory, something she’d fought for almost her entire life, and yet, the success in that moment felt hollow.
She smiled her way through the applause, until she could finally leave the ice arena and move backstage. There were congratulations from other skaters, from coaches, looks of envy that she blotted out. She nodded at each, murmured ‘thanks’ as was appropriate, but kept her head ducked until she could grab a tracksuit from her bag and head to the showers.
As an afterthought, she lifted out her phone, and felt her heart bang into her ribs when she saw Leonidas’ name on her screen. With a shaking finger, she flicked the screen to open and read his text message.
Congratulations. You were amazing.
Anger had her wanting to hurl the phone against the wall. How dared he? How dare he contact her out of the blue like that? How dare he send a message that made it sound as though he gave a damn about her? How dared he?
Turning her phone off before she could pen an ill-conceived, angry reply, she hit the showers, letting the hot water pummel her skin, rubbing her body all over with soap, until it was pink, then flicking off the faucet and standing there for several moments.
He’d come to Milan.
He’d come there to see her.
He’d texted her.
Six weeks after their allegedly meaningless affair, he’d done all those things, and yet, it wasn’t enough. Nothing made sense. She was tired, and just wanted to go home.
It costher dearly to do the obligatory post-meet interviews with the press. The record she’d sought all her life was a big deal, and there was a lot of emphasis on it from all the journalists she spoke to, so Mila had to concentrate hard to give the right answers, when all she wanted was to be far away from Milan, her team, the crowds, the public.
Finally, at almost midnight, she slipped out of a side entrance of the stadium, flanked by her coach and manager, towards a waiting team car. She simply had to go through the motions for a few more hours, then she’d be on a flight back to London.
Even the thought of that brought little joy.
