Chapter Text
After slamming my ass on the ice for the fifth time in a row, I accepted that it was time to stop. At least for today.
My glutes would have to endure another two hours of impact tomorrow, so I had no choice but to figure out what the hell I was doing wrong. It was the second day in a row that I couldn't land a damn jump.
I turned my body to the side that seemed less painful and let out a heavy sigh, swallowing the curse word I really wanted to yell to the entire gym. I threw my head back and grimaced at the ceiling, but I regretted it the moment I focused my vision. I knew exactly what was hanging from that dome. It was the same sight that had haunted me for thirteen years.
Banners. Dozens of them, hanging from the beams.
And they all bore the same irritating name: MICHAELA STIRLING. MICHAELA STIRLING. MICHAELA STIRLING.
There were other names there, of course, other miserable souls who had accepted partnership with her over the decades, but hers was the only one that stood out. And it wasn't because the last name sounded familiar, but because the first name reminded me directly of Satan himself. I was absolutely certain that her parents had adopted her directly from hell.
At that moment, nothing else mattered but those damn banners.
There were five blue banners celebrating each national title she had won; two red ones for the world championships and two yellow ones for the Olympic gold medals. There was even a lone silver one, reminding the world of the only time she wasn't the best, whose physical medal was probably gathering dust in the trophy gallery at the entrance.
Unbearable. Brilliant. A complete idiot.
I mentally thanked them for not hanging banners for all the minor cups and tournaments she had won, otherwise the ceiling would be a rainbow of achievements and I would vomit daily. Among so many names and colors, there wasn't a single inch with my name on it. Not even a detail. No matter how much I bled on the ice or how many hours I trained, no one bothered to remember second place, unless you were Michaela Stirling. And I definitely wasn't.
A corrosive envy, the kind I knew I had no right to feel, pierced my chest. I hated every ounce of that feeling. Wasting energy on other people's success was a waste, I learned that as a child, seeing girls with new roller skates and impeccable clothes while I made do with what I had. Being bitter was the pastime of those who had nothing better to do, and I knew that no one builds a life by comparing their own backstage with the stage of others.
But I would take those three seconds of envy to my grave before admitting out loud what those tracks did to me.
With that bitter reminder, I forced my body to turn. I got down on my knees, stopping staring at those stupid scraps of cloth. I rested my hands on the ice, letting out a grunt as I sought balance on the blades. Getting up was mechanical, almost instinctive, but it hurt. For the fifth time in fifteen minutes, my hip and left thigh protested, the bill would come with interest and bruises the next day.
"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, making sure the young skaters around me didn't hear.
The last thing I needed was one of those little tattletales reporting me to management again. They acted as if they had never heard a swear word in their lives, as if the world were made of cotton candy and not hard ice. I brushed the snow off my pants and took a deep breath, trying to contain the frustration bubbling under my skin.
I was furious with the universe: with the shitty practice, with the coffee that stained my shirt, with the knee I almost busted on the car door, and most of all, with myself. It's easy to rationalize that a missed jump means nothing in the grand scheme of things. A bad day is just a bad day, right? The problem is that life loves to show you that you're an ungrateful idiot just when you try the basics.
The triple Salchow, a jump I had been performing with my eyes closed for a decade, had simply disappeared. Three rotations, precise entry on the inside edge, firm landing on the opposite outside edge... the theory was simple and the execution used to be pure instinct, but today? Today my body seemed to have forgotten how to be an athlete.
I rubbed my eyelids with the backs of my hands, forcing the cold air into my lungs. My shoulders rose and fell as I tried to convince myself to leave. "There's always tomorrow," I told myself, trying to sound optimistic. But the more cynical part of my brain quickly gave me a reality check: "As if you're going to compete so soon that you need that jump today."
As always happened when I dwelled on that striking fact, my stomach contracted in pure anger and something that dangerously resembled despair.
But, true to my survival instinct, I pushed those emotions deep into my soul. So deep that I could no longer see them, touch them, or smell the failure. They were useless. I knew that. Absolutely useless, and I wasn't going to give up.
I took another deep breath, unconsciously rubbing my throbbing buttock as I took one last look at the rink today. I watched the much younger girls, still immersed in the ecstasy of training, and suppressed a grimace. There were three there my age, but the rest were just teenagers. Maybe they weren't as good as I was at their age, but still... they had their whole lives ahead of them. Only in figure skating, and maybe gymnastics, can you be considered a relic at twenty-six.
"Yes, I need to get home, bury myself in the couch, and let the TV lobotomize me to forget this shitty day," I thought. Nothing good would come of me if I stayed there, feeling sorry for myself.
It took me a few seconds to maneuver between the other bodies on the ice, calculating each movement so as not to collide with anyone before reaching the wall. In my usual spot, I grabbed my blade guards. I slid the plastic over the four-millimeter blades attached to my white boots and finally stepped onto solid ground.
I tried to ignore the tightness in my chest. I convinced myself it was just frustration at having kissed the ice so many times today, but part of me knew the hole ran deeper.
I refused to accept that I was wasting my time coming to the Stirling Skating Complex twice a day in the hope of competing again. The idea of giving up seemed like an unforgivable waste of the last sixteen years. It was admitting that I had given up my childhood for nothing; that I had sacrificed relationships and a normal life for a dream that, once, had been so big it seemed unshakeable.
It was my golden dream. The dream of winning a world championship, or even a national championship, now reduced to tiny pieces, like torn confetti, which I still clung to with my fingernails and teeth, even though I knew that holding on to these shards cut me more than it protected me.
No. It wasn't these possibilities that made my stomach ache and made me feel sick now.
"I need to relax. Or maybe masturbate. Anything to get me out of this hole," I muttered mentally.
Pushing away the feeling of defeat, I skirted the track and headed down the locker room hallway. The flow was already changing; parents and children were beginning to circulate for evening classes. The same classes I started at age nine, before moving up to the elite groups and eventually to the isolation regime of private lessons with Natasha. The good old days.
I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact. I was an expert at avoiding eye contact, and most people there seemed to return the favor. But as I walked down the hallway toward my locker, I ran into four teenagers pretending to stretch. Pretending, because it's impossible to stretch a muscle properly when you're too busy gossiping. At least, that's what I was taught.
"Hi, Francesca!" one of them exclaimed. She was a nice girl, one of those who always made an almost annoying effort to be friendly to me.
"Hi, Francesca," the girl next to her repeated automatically.
I just waved back, already counting down the minutes until I could get home, throw something my mom made in the microwave, and collapse in front of the TV. If practice had been decent, I might have had the energy to go for a run or visit my sister, but... that wasn't going to happen. Not today.
"Have a good workout," I muttered to the two kind girls, glancing sideways at the other two who looked familiar. There was an intermediate class starting, and I figured they were enrolled. I had no reason to pay attention to them.
"Thanks, you too!" the first one exclaimed, before closing her mouth and turning a shade of red that I had only seen in one person: my sister.
A genuine and unexpected smile appeared on my face... that girl reminded me of Little One. I pushed the swing door of the locker room with my shoulder, but barely took a step. With the door still ajar, the sound of a sharp voice hit me:
"I don't know why you get so excited to see her. She could have been a good skater, but she always screwed up. Her career in pairs isn't even worth mentioning."
I froze. Right there, with my body half in and half out. I did exactly what I knew was a bad idea: I decided to listen. Eavesdropping never ends well, but my body ignored common sense.
"Bianca Valli is a much better pairs skater..."
Low blow. Right on the open wound.
Breathe, Francesca. Breathe. Shut up and feel the air coming in. Think about how much you've already endured.
"...otherwise Julian wouldn't have teamed up with her this past season," the girl concluded, with the authority of someone who thinks she knows everything.
Was hitting a teenager a crime? Would it be worse if she was a clueless brat?
Breathe. Be the adult in the situation.
I was old enough to be prudent. I was old enough not to let myself be affected by a girl who probably hadn't even gone through puberty, but... well, my doubles career was a festering wound. A wound I poked at daily. Bianca Valli and Julian, the piece of human trash I'd love to see burn in flames.
"Have you seen her videos on YouTube? My mom says she was difficult, that's why she never won. The judges hate her temper," the other one tried to whisper, failing miserably. Her voice was as crystal clear as the ice on the rink.
I didn't have to do anything. They were kids, I tried to repeat to myself. They didn't know half of it. No one did. I had already gotten over it, or at least that's what I told myself in the mirror. But the next sentence was the last straw.
"My mom said the only reason she still trains here is because Natasha feels sorry for her, but the atmosphere is terrible. Supposedly, she and Michaela Stirling hate each other."
I was one step away from snorting. Michaela and I didn't get along? Was that how the office gossip labeled our story? "Great," I thought, "let them think that."
"She's kind of a bitch," one of the voices fired off.
"No one was surprised she couldn't find another partner after Julian dumped her."
And there it was. The limit.
Maybe if they hadn't used the word "bitch," I could have pretended to have a spiritual evolution that I don't possess. But fuck that. I was five foot seven and I wasn't cut out to swallow that kind of crap.
Before reason could stop me, I turned around and stuck my head out the door, catching the four of them exactly where they were.
"What did you just say?" I asked with dangerous slowness, burying deep inside me the desire to call them "talentless bitches who would never get anywhere." I focused my gaze on the two who hadn't greeted me. Their heads almost turned inside out from the shock.
"I... I... I..." one stammered, while the other seemed to be on the verge of suffering an intestinal collapse inside her own leotard. "Excellent," I thought. "I hope she shits herself and that the texture is that of uncontrollable diarrhea, the kind that runs down your legs."
I held their gaze for a minute that seemed like an eternity, watching their faces turn scarlet. I felt a bitter satisfaction, although I was more angry with myself than with them. I arched my eyebrows and nodded toward the hallway, flashing a smile that didn't carry a hint of joy.
"That's what I figured. Go to practice before you're late."
Somehow, the "bitches" didn't escape. On days like this, I deserved a medal for not losing my temper with amateurs. If there were a podium for patience with idiots, I would be at the top. They shot down the hallway with an agility that would put Olympic sprinters to shame. The two "cool" girls gave me looks of pure horror and apologies before disappearing.
Girls like those two little shits were the reason I gave up making friends on the ice years ago. Little pests. I raised my middle finger to the void they left in the hallway, but the gesture didn't ease the weight on my chest.
"I need to get out of this," I muttered to the walls. "I really need to."
I entered the locker room and collapsed onto one of the benches. The pain in my hip throbbed from the effort of walking. I had suffered cinematic falls before, but the pain never became routine; you just learn to process it faster. The truth was that my body was starting to fail. Without a partner and without a coach correcting me to exhaustion, I was losing my technique.
It was just another reminder that time doesn't stop, even when you're stagnant.
I stretched my legs, ignoring the group of teenagers in the other corner of the locker room, all huddled together and chattering. They didn't look at me, and I returned their indifference. As I untied my shoelaces, I gave up on showering. The effort of washing myself there seemed Herculean; I preferred to wait twenty minutes for the comfort of my own bathroom. I took off my right skate and removed the beige bandage covering my battered ankle.
"Oh, my God!" one of the teenagers practically screamed, bursting the bubble of silence I was trying to maintain. "You're not kidding, are you?"
"No!" someone replied as I struggled with my left skate.
"Really?" another voice echoed. I didn't know who it was and didn't want to know.
"Really!"
"Really?"
"REALLY!"
I rolled my eyes, focused on my foot.
"No!"
"Yes!"
"No!"
"Yes!"
"For God's sake," I thought. Had I ever been like that? So annoying? So... juvenile? Impossible.
"Where did you hear that?"
I was typing the code for my locker when an explosion of euphoria forced me to look over my shoulder. One of the girls seemed to be having a seizure, baring all her teeth in a maniacal smile as she clapped her hands frantically. Another was jumping up and down with her hands over her face, as if she had seen a miracle.
"Did you hear? I saw her walking in with Coach Lee just now!"
Yuck.
Of course. Who else could they be talking about? The name didn't need to be said; the air in the gym vibrated when she arrived.
I didn't bother to snort. I just grabbed my bag, unzipped it, and retrieved my phone, keys, and a small Hershey's bar that I kept for emotional emergencies. I shoved the chocolate into my mouth in one go and unlocked the screen. The green light flashed: messages waiting.
I scrolled through my phone screen and didn't read all the messages, but I knew it was some silly fight between Eloise and Anthony.
──── ୨୧ ────
"Have you heard the news?"
I tightened the laces on my boots, pulling the knot hard enough so that my feet would survive the next hour without complaining. I didn't need to turn around to know that there were two teenagers on the bench behind me. They clocked in there every morning, usually spouting nonsense. If they spent half as much time training as they did gossiping, they might get somewhere, but the money wasn't coming out of my pocket. If they had my mom on their tail, they'd change their habits in a heartbeat.
"My mom told me last night," the taller one revealed as she got up.
I stood up and kept my eyes fixed ahead, rolling my shoulders to release the tension, even though I had already spent an hour warming up. Maybe I didn't skate six or seven hours a day like I used to when stretching for an hour was a matter of survival, but old habits die hard. Suffering for weeks with a strained muscle wasn't worth the time I'd save by skipping the warm-up.
"She said she heard someone comment that she thinks she's retiring. Seems she's had too many problems with her latest partnerships."
That caught my attention.
Her. Retiring. Problems with partnerships.
It was a miracle I finished high school without failing any classes, but even I knew exactly who they were talking about. Michaela Stirling. Who else could it be? Besides a few younger kids and Julian, the benchwarmer who spent three years training with me at the Stirling Complex, Michaela was the only force of nature that really mattered in that place.
"Retiring?" I thought, feeling a strange twinge in my stomach. If Michaela Stirling left the ice, the roof of that gym would probably collapse from lack of purpose.
"Maybe when she retires, she'll become a coach," said one of the girls, sounding like she was daydreaming. "I wouldn't mind at all if she yelled at me all day long."
I almost laughed out loud. Michaela retiring? No way. There was no chance of that happening at twenty-nine, especially when she was still at the top, destroying any competition. Months ago, she had won the national championship with irritating ease. And shortly before that, she had secured second place in the Grand Prix final. She wasn't human; she was a machine made of ice and stubbornness.
"Why the hell am I still paying attention to this?" I asked myself.
I didn't care what she did. Her life was her problem. We'd all have to hang up our skates someday, and the less I had to face that perfectly annoying face, the better for my liver.
I decided I couldn't afford to start my meager two hours of training with such a distraction, especially Michaela, the last person who should be occupying space in my mind. I left the locker room, leaving the two teenagers behind with their useless gossip. Even though it was early, there were six people on the rink, the usual crowd. I no longer arrived at dawn; there was no point in that now, but the faces were the same as years ago.
Some, unfortunately, more familiar than others.
Natasha was already settled in one of the side stands with her thermos of coffee. I knew from experience and taste trauma that this beverage was so strong that it had the consistency and taste of pure tar. She wore her favorite red scarf wrapped around her neck and ears, over a sweater I had seen at least a hundred times in the last decade, plus a heavy shawl. I swear Natasha added a new layer of clothing every year. When she took me out of beginner classes almost fourteen years ago, she wore only a long-sleeved shirt; today, she would probably freeze without that woolen armor.
Fourteen years. Some of those girls on the ice were barely a blip on the radar when I started.
"Good morning," I said, risking the broken Russian I had been forced to learn over the years.
"Hello, yozik," she greeted me. Her eyes darted toward the track for a brief second before returning to me. Natasha's face was the same as when I was twelve: tough, stern, with skin that looked like it was carved from bulletproof material. "Did you have a good weekend?"
I nodded, vaguely remembering going to the zoo with Benedict and Hyacinth, ending the night at his apartment eating pizza, two things I rarely did in the past, especially the pizza part.
"How was yours? Was it good?" I asked the woman who taught me lessons I could never give proper credit for.
The dimples she rarely showed appeared. I knew that face so well that I could describe it to a forensic artist if she disappeared. Round, thin eyebrows, almond-shaped eyes, and that scar on her chin from when a partner's blade hit her in the middle of a competition. Another mark on her temple, courtesy of the ice. Not that she was going to disappear; any kidnapper would return her in an hour just to stop hearing her screams of technical correction.
"I saw my grandson."
I did the math in my head. "It was his birthday, right?"
She nodded, but her gaze had already returned to the rink, toward the skater she had been working with since I left her to try my luck in pairs four years ago. I didn't want to leave, but circumstances... anyway. I tried not to feel jealous of how quickly I was replaced, but lately that sight bothered me. Just a little. Enough to sting.
"Did you finally buy him the skates?"
My former coach tilted her head, her gray eyes still fixed on the ice. "Yes. Used skates and a video game. He's almost the same age you were when you started. A little older, but it works."
She had finally given in. I remembered when he was born and how we planned his start in the sport. Her children hadn't made it past the junior level, but her grandson was the new hope. Thinking about him starting now made me feel overwhelmingly homesick. I missed when skating was just... fun. Before the crushing pressure, the behind-the-scenes drama, and the damn critics. Before I knew the bitter taste of disappointment.
There was a time when the ice made me feel invincible. I didn't know it was possible to fly without leaving the ground. I felt special for transforming my body into unlikely shapes and tearing across the oval rink at high speed. I had no idea that years later, it would become my greatest prison.
Natasha's laughter broke my melancholy. "One day, you'll train him," she blurted out, laughing as if she could already imagine me being as harsh with him as she had been with me.
I laughed too, remembering the hundreds of times I was slapped on the back of the head during the ten years we were a duo. Some wouldn't be able to handle her "tough love," but I thrived on conflict. My mother always said that if you gave me an inch, I'd take a mile. And the last thing Natasha Petrov would do was give an inch.
But it wasn't the first time she had suggested I become a coach. In recent months, as desperation grew and the chances of finding a new partner dwindled, she would drop the bait. "Just be a coach, Francesca. Okay?"
But I wasn't ready. Coaching would be admitting defeat. It would be giving up... and I wasn't ready yet, damn it.
"Is it time?" a cowardly voice whispered in the back of my mind, making my stomach churn.
As if she could read my thoughts, Natasha snorted.
"I have work to do. Practice your jumps. You're not engaged, you're overthinking, that's why you're falling. Remember seven years ago," she said, without taking her eyes off the rink. "Stop thinking. You know what to do."
I didn't think she was noticing me while she was coaching the other girl. But I clung to her words. Seven years ago. The worst season of my life, when I was without a partner and trying to find myself. It was the catalyst that pushed me into pairs. If I made a mistake in that transition, it was too late for regrets now. Life is made up of choices, and I had made mine.
I swallowed the rest of my remaining shame. "I'll do my best. See you later, Tasha," I replied, adjusting the wristband on my wrist before shaking the tension from my hands.
Natasha lifted her chin haughtily and went back to yelling at someone on the rink about a jump performed "at the speed of a lame turtle."
I took off my pads, put them in their usual place, and stepped onto the ice. The cold rose up my legs, but my focus was unshakeable. I could do this.
──── ୨୧ ────
Exactly one hour later, I was sweaty and exhausted as I always was after an intense session. I was getting weak, damn it. I ended up doing a few jump combinations, a sequence, or at least one immediately followed by another, but my heart wasn't in it. I landed, but barely, swaying and struggling to stay on my feet, trying my best to focus on the movements and only on them.
Natasha was right. I was distracted, but I couldn't figure out what exactly was stealing my focus. Maybe I really needed a run or anything that would clear my head, or at least get rid of that strange feeling that followed me like a ghost.
I went back to the locker room, frustrated, and found a yellow post-it note stuck to my locker. I didn't pay any attention to it at first. A month ago, the general manager of the complex had left me a similar note. All she wanted was to offer me, once again, a position as a beginner's trainer. Why she thought I would be a good candidate to teach babies, I had no idea. My answer was still a resounding "no."
I picked up the paper and read it slowly: "Francesca, stop by the management office before you leave." I read it twice to be sure and didn't think much of it, except that if they wanted to talk to me, it would have to be quick. I needed to get to work.
My days were timed down to the minute. I had lists with my schedules scattered everywhere, on my phone, in my car, in my bags, on the refrigerator, so I wouldn't freak out. Being organized and punctual was what kept me sane. I would have to rush through my shower and makeup so I wouldn't be late, unless I told my boss.
I took my phone out of my bag as soon as I unlocked the locker and started typing the message, mentally thanking the spell checker for existing and making my life easier.
Holding my breath, I knocked on the manager's door. I really wanted any conversation to last no more than ten minutes so I wouldn't be late for work; the last thing I wanted was to have to explain myself to Anthony. He was already strict enough as an older brother, and I wasn't in the mood to hear a lecture about responsibility or have to ask him to "cut me some slack" with my schedule just because our mother would ask him to.
I turned the doorknob the second I heard "Come in!" from inside.
"Let's get this over with," I thought.
The problem is, I've never been a fan of surprises. Not even when I was little. I like to know exactly where I stand. I never had a surprise birthday party; the only time my grandfather tried, my mom warned me beforehand and made me swear I would pretend to be surprised. And that's what I did.
I was ready to face the general manager, Vivienne, a woman I've always gotten along with. Some called her tough, but to me she was just determined and didn't take any nonsense from anyone.
So I almost fell over when the first person I saw wasn't Vivienne. Sitting in the office was a familiar face in her fifties, wearing a navy blue suit and a bun so impeccable that the only times I've seen anything like it was in elite competitions.
And the shock doubled when I saw the second person sitting across the table.
My third surprise? Vivienne was nowhere to be found.
It was just... them.
Michaela Stirling and the woman who had spent the last decade sculpting her for the podium. Someone I couldn't exchange two sentences with without wanting to argue, and another who probably hadn't spoken twenty words to me in eleven years.
"What the hell is going on?" I wondered, staring at the coach, trying to figure out if I had misread the post-it note on my locker. I read it slowly. I read it twice. I didn't usually make reading mistakes anymore.
"I was looking for Vivienne," I explained, trying to ignore the immediate frustration of perhaps misreading the note. I hated being confused. And looking like an idiot in front of them was my ninth circle of hell. "Do you know where she is?"
Coach Lee smiled with disconcerting ease. It wasn't the smile of someone who had been interrupted, nor of someone who had ignored me for years. It was a smile that made me even more tense. She had never smiled at me before.
"Come in," she said, maintaining her welcoming expression. "I was the one who left the note in your locker, not Vivienne."
I should have felt relieved that I wasn't going crazy, but I was too busy trying to process what Michaela was doing there, silent, watching everything.
As if reading my thoughts, Coach Lee's smile widened. "Sit down, Francesca," she said, in that authoritative tone of someone who had trained the girl on my left to two world titles. The problem was that she wasn't my boss, and I didn't like taking orders.
For two years, I competed on the same circuits as Michaela. We were competitive, and they were even more so. It's always easier to want to beat someone you're not friends with. I tried to remember a time when she or the coach had been friendly to me... and the result was a complete void.
So she shouldn't have been surprised when I just raised my eyebrows. Apparently, she decided that returning the gesture was the best response.
"Please?" She almost sounded sweet.
I didn't trust that tone. Or her.
I looked away toward the chairs. There were only two, and one was occupied by Michaela, whom I hadn't seen since she left for Europe. Her long legs were stretched out under the table. Michaela always seemed more comfortable in skates than in regular shoes, but it wasn't her relaxed posture that caught my attention.
It was those dark brown eyes, so deep they seemed indecipherable. I never forgot the intensity of that gaze; there was something about them that always left me bewildered, as if Michaela could see every flaw in me through those long, dark eyelashes that framed the judgment she seemed to cast upon me.
"Ugh."
So many girls lost their breath over that perfect face, the flawless dark skin that glowed under the lights of the rink, the always-perfect hair, and the powerful skating silhouette... it was exhausting. Even Benedict called her "the pretty Stirling." The girls drooled over the strong, defined shoulders that carried her glory with absurd ease. I've seen people sigh over glutes that I didn't need to look at to know were the gold standard of the sport; years of ice sculpt the body in a very specific way.
If I had to choose her most striking feature, those dark, frightening eyes would be the answer. But I refused to give in. Michaela had no redeeming qualities for me.
I looked at her, and that "golden girl" face stared back at me. She didn't look away, frown, or smile. She just... watched me. She kept her hands hidden under her armpits, in a posture of someone who didn't need to prove anything to anyone.
If I were someone else, that look would have intimidated me. But I wasn't a fan of hers. I knew her too well to be distracted by her athletic beauty and commanding presence. She didn't impress me. Besides, I was there when her mother scolded her for talking back once, years ago. That helped keep her image far from any pedestal.
"What's going on?" I asked slowly, staring at Michaela for another second before turning my attention to Coach Lee.
"It's nothing bad, I promise," she replied carefully. She pointed to the empty chair next to Michaela. "Can you sit down?"
Bad things always happen when someone asks you to sit down. Especially if the invitation is to sit next to Michaela Stirling.
"I'm fine standing," I replied, my voice sounding as tense as my stomach.
What was going on? I couldn't be kicked out of the complex. I hadn't done anything wrong. Unless those bitchy girls had reported me for the little scene in the locker room. Damn it.
"Francesca, all we need is two minutes," Coach Lee said slowly, still pointing to the chair.
That didn't make any sense. Two minutes? No one does anything meaningful in two minutes. It took me longer than that to brush my teeth.
I didn't move. They were starting to annoy me. Confirming that I wasn't making any effort to hide my bad mood, Coach Lee sighed. I couldn't help noticing how her eyes slid briefly to Michaela before returning to me. In her navy blue suit and white shirt, she looked more like a ruthless lawyer than the former elite skater she was. She settled into her chair, pressing her lips together before firing off:
"I'll get straight to the point. How do you feel about being... retired?"
How did I feel about being retired? Was that what everyone thought? That I was a damn retiree?
I hadn't chosen to be without a partner and miss an entire season, but... whatever. My blood pressure took a strange leap, but I decided to ignore the damn word, at least for now, to focus on what really mattered.
"Why do you ask?" I asked slowly, my guard fully up. I should have called Natasha before coming in here.
In a direct, blunt move, something I would appreciate in any other situation, she dropped the bomb. It was the last thing I would expect to hear from her. In fact, it would be the last thing I would expect to hear from any living human being.
"We want you to be Michaela's next partner," the woman said. Just like that. Short and sweet.
There are moments in life when you wonder if you've been drugged without realizing it. As if someone had spiked your water with LSD and forgotten to tell you. There, in Vivienne's office, I experienced one of those moments. All I could do was blink.
What the hell was going on?
"If you're ready to come out of retirement, of course," she continued, hammering the word again, while I tried to process whether I was having a collective hallucination. There was no way those words could have come out of Coach Lee's mouth. No way.
I must have misunderstood. I must have missed a crucial part of the conversation while I was daydreaming about Natasha's coffee, because...
Because...
Me and Michaela? Teammates? There was no way. No chance....
Right?