The Favorites: A Novel(6)
In a home video taken by Ms. Bradford during one of their first practices together, Katarina and Heath attempt some simple forward crossovers, skating hand in hand.
Nicole Bradford: But they had this…connection.
Heath’s skates keep getting tangled up as he tries to match Katarina’s rhythm. She squeezes his hand. He stops focusing on his feet, looking at her instead. Soon, they’re moving in unison.
Nicole Bradford: It was like they were reading each other’s minds. His technique needed a ton of work. But I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as Heath.
Ellis Dean: Imagine being down so bad you’d master a whole Olympic sport to spend time with someone.
Nicole Bradford: By the time they turned thirteen, I was starting to think bigger: Nationals, Worlds, maybe even the Olympic Games. I never made it that far myself.
Katarina and Heath wave from the top podium step at a regional competition.
Nicole Bradford: One afternoon, I found them together on a bench outside the rink. They were embracing, and I thought for a second they might be…(She clears her throat.) Anyway, it turned out they were crying. They were both so upset, I thought someone must have died.
A series of candid snapshots show young Katarina and Heath at the rink and at the Shaw house: wading in the lake, cartwheeling on the lawn, cuddled in a nest of blankets watching television.
Nicole Bradford: I finally got Heath calmed down enough to tell me he was being transferred to another foster home, hours away. He had to leave in less than a week.
Jane Currer: Mr. Rocha’s departure most likely would have meant Ms. Shaw had to give up skating, unless she could find another partner. Since switching to ice dance, she’d developed a body type that was…less than ideal for the jumps required in the ladies singles discipline.
Nicole Bradford: I was sad too. But what could I do? I thought it was over. Then the next day, in they walk, holding hands, big smiles on their faces. And Katarina says Heath isn’t going anywhere after all.
A snapshot of preteen Katarina and Heath, standing on either side of Katarina’s father outside the Rosemont Horizon arena after the 1996 Stars on Ice tour performance headlined by Lin and Lockwood. Mr. Shaw has his arms around their shoulders, and all three are smiling wide.
Nicole Bradford: She’d convinced her father to become the boy’s legal guardian.
Chapter 5
The heater in Lee’s Chevy pickup didn’t work, and frigid wind cut through the cracked window seals. Even so, my memories of that drive with Heath are drenched in warmth.
Our gloved hands entwined over the gearshift, winter sun caressing our faces as we sang along to Savage Garden and Semisonic on the radio. The prickling heat that spread across my chest, then pooled lower, every time Heath turned to smile at me.
After miles of fallow cornfields, dairy farms, and industrial smokestacks, Cleveland finally appeared on the horizon. We were hours earlier than we would have been if we’d had to take the bus—right on time for an open practice session on competition ice.
Walking into the arena, even with my unwashed hair in a haphazard ponytail and the burnt taste of gas station coffee on my tongue, I felt impossibly glamorous—which seems ridiculous to me now. A multipurpose sporting complex in Cleveland, Ohio, is not exactly the height of sophistication. But that day, staring up at the cresting wave of blue stadium seats, I felt like I’d finally arrived.
As we stretched out the tension of our sleepless night and all those hours in Lee’s icebox of a truck, I watched—and judged—the other skaters.
Right away, I spotted last year’s silver medalists, Paige Reed and Zachary Branwell, both clean-cut Nordic blonds from Minnesota. They showed enviable technique, but despite being a couple off the ice as well as on, there was about as much heat between them as two untoasted slices of white bread. Paige favored her left leg too, thanks to a preseason injury.
The other two teams, I didn’t recognize. So either it was their first time at Nationals, like us, or they’d been ranked too low last year to make it into the TV broadcast. There was a skinny, flat-chested girl and a freckle-faced guy who weren’t a serious threat; they had decent edges, but no flow in their movements, and they held each other at arm’s length like they were at a middle-school dance.
The last pair—both sporting ponytails: his dark and tied with ribbon like a nobleman, hers platinum and pulled so tight she looked like a face-lifted divorcée—weren’t half bad, but they lacked connection too. They were skating next to each other rather than with each other.
Heath and I could beat them, I thought, a giddy buzz growing in my chest.
Just then a big band track trumpeted over the loudspeakers, and a new team took the ice.
Instead of typical warm-up gear, they were in full costume and makeup. The girl’s dress was a retro confection that sparkled like an ice blue disco ball. Her partner wore matching suspenders over a black shirt perfectly tailored to emphasize his impeccable posture. And they weren’t simply warming up or running through their program. They were performing all-out, finishing off every step with a smile up to the rafters, as if the arena were full of adoring fans.
This was our real competition.
I twisted my ring, trying to settle my nerves. Since my very first juvenile competition, I’d worn my mother’s Art Deco engagement band as a good luck charm. When I was small, it hung on a gold chain around my neck. By sixteen, the ring fit my middle finger—and I’d started keeping it on my person at all times, because I knew if Lee got his hands on it, he’d pawn the diamond and drink the proceeds.