The Favorites: A Novel(18)
Up to that point in our career, we’d stuck to relatively basic lifts. If we wanted to be competitive at the international level, though, we needed to step it up—which meant Heath had to do far more than simply pick me up and put me down again without falling.
The lift we were practicing that day involved me performing a backbend while standing on Heath’s thighs. Doing it on solid ground was hard enough; pulling it off while moving at breakneck speeds across the ice seemed almost impossible. The longer we worked, the more Heath’s hands kept slipping against my sweat-soaked leggings. Every time I came crashing down, his noble efforts to catch me ended with both of us on our asses.
But I was determined. And having the Lins sailing through their foxtrot a few feet away only motivated me more. I couldn’t understand how they made it look so goddamn easy. They were somehow fast and slow at the same time, the staccato scrape of their blades picking up every pluck of the strings, while they flowed over the ice in time with the languorous vocals. When they finished their program, I had to curl my hands into fists to keep from applauding.
Then it was our turn. Our original dance, created by one of the resident choreographers, was set to a Cole Porter medley. The concept had us playing celebrities at a Golden Age Hollywood soirée. Heath hated it—all that fussy footwork and formal posture, with little space for our natural chemistry to shine through. We were used to selecting our own music, spending hours sprawled on the floor listening to song after song until we heard a beat that made us want to get up and move. But that wasn’t how things were done here.
Whenever he grumbled, I told him to trust Sheila. Nothing happened at the Academy without her approval, and she knew what she was doing. I hoped it would be easier to get into character once our costumes were finished. Heath’s was a tux with tails, rendered in a movement-friendly fabric, while mine was a knee-length gown with a high halter neck. Even in the muslin mock-up I’d tried on for the Academy’s in-house designer, I felt like a movie star—until the sizable down payment reminded me I was a middle-class Midwestern nobody.
As we took the ice, I tried to imagine how we’d look in competition: Heath, the sharp lapels of his tuxedo setting off the line of his jaw. Me, wearing lipstick the same color as the sequins on my dress, my hair swept up into a sophisticated twist. We assumed our starting positions—facing each other, my hand pressed to his chest as if I were torn between pushing him away and dragging him closer—and met each other’s eyes. Focused, calm, ready.
Our music started, and the fantasy fell away. We were an exhausted, wrung-out mess, behind the beat for the first few measures, nearly tripping over each other as we rushed to catch up. We made it through the foxtrot pattern without disaster—though my knees were too stiff, and Heath kept looking down at our fast-moving feet. Then came the lift.
I knew we were in trouble from the moment my blade touched Heath’s leg. He didn’t have a solid grip on me, and I couldn’t stand up in time to execute the backbend properly. My knees started to buckle. I engaged my core, squeezed my calves, clenched my teeth—anything I could think of to save it. But it was too late. I was going down.
Heath bailed out of the lift, skidding to a halt with his arms lashed around my waist. I braced myself for us both to slam into the ice, but miraculously we stayed upright.
“Are you okay?” His breaths came fast and shallow. “I’m so sorry, I thought I—”
“Why did you stop?”
Sheila. She was there. Standing right beside the rink, watching us.
Chapter 14
I hadn’t known Sheila was on the premises. No one else had either, judging by the uneasy hush in the space after our music cut out.
“I asked you a question, Mr. Rocha.”
She folded her hands, waiting for his answer. Some coaches yell at their athletes, but Sheila Lin’s silences were more harrowing than any scream.
Heath swallowed. “I thought she might be hurt.”
“She’s fine,” Sheila said. “Aren’t you, Ms. Shaw?”
I nodded. Heath’s hand fell away from my waist, though I could still feel his heart against my back, beating faster.
“I just wanted to make sure,” he said. “What if—”
“What if you were at the World Championships? The Olympic Games? Would you take a nice little rest in the middle of your program then, Mr. Rocha?”
Heath was smart enough to keep his mouth shut that time.
“You have to keep going,” Sheila said. “No matter what. Every skater makes errors, but the best skaters fight through their mistakes to continue the program. Now do it again. And this time”—she looked directly at Heath—“do not stop.”
Heath was practically vibrating with rage as we moved back to our starting positions. I pressed my hand to his chest harder than usual, trying to soothe him.
“It’s okay,” I whispered.
He took a deep, shuddering inhale. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
Heath looked uncertain. But when the music started up again, he was with me.
We were perfectly in sync. Shoulder shimmies with each thump of the solo tom-tom that started the song. Moving smoothly into the promenade step as the horn section came in, gliding through the rest of the foxtrot as Ella Fitzgerald crooned you are the one.