The Favorites: A Novel(7)

“Don’t worry about them,” Heath said. He could always read my moods like a weather report. “If we do our best, that’s all that matters.”

I had no interest in “our best” unless it was the best. We’d been the best at our small-town rink for so long, it had ceased to mean anything. If we wanted to keep improving—if we wanted to become Olympic-caliber athletes—we needed to be pushed, to be challenged. Well, here was the perfect challenge, passing right by us in a blur of blue sequins.

I took Heath’s hand, and we stepped onto the ice. As we completed a few circuits, the other team finished their program—then cut a path to the center of the rink. Their music started up again, and they repeated their choreography, step for step, smile for smile. They didn’t even look winded.

Heath raised his eyebrows, as if to say, Shall we? I grinned and pulled him into a hold, not bothering to correct the way his hand drifted too low, settling into the crease of my waist.

We were off, whirling around the rink, syncing our movements to the song. This was how we stretched out our training time at home—we’d show up early and improvise to whatever music happened to be playing, whether it was the Top 40 pop they blasted during public skate sessions or the perky cartoon themes that accompanied kids’ birthday parties.

Our feet followed the bombastic harmony of the horn section first, then sped up to chase the driving string bass line. We spun faster and faster, my ponytail coming undone, wild curls whipping around my face, the competition forgotten. For a few blissful moments, it was only me and him, only the ice and our blades and the beat.

And suddenly I wasn’t in Heath’s arms anymore.

I was sprawled facedown, my hip wrenched at a strange angle, ice burn all over my palms. Snow sprayed in my eyes as a pair of skates skidded to a stop a few inches from my nose.

“Are you okay?” a voice said from somewhere above me.

The skates were so clean, they looked brand-new—blinding white leather, carefully knotted laces. I polished my boots every night before bed, and they were never that spotless.

“Katarina.” Heath’s voice now. His breath at my ear. “Can you stand?”

I blinked melting snow from my eyes. Or maybe I was crying, I couldn’t be sure. I kept staring at those skates, studying them. There was something engraved on the blades too. Words, in delicate, flowing text. A name.

Her name. Isabella Lin.





Kirk Lockwood—who we previously saw in news footage from the Sochi Olympics—takes a seat by the bay window in the parlor of his Boston home.

Kirk Lockwood (Former Ice Dancer): Is it time to talk about Sheila?

Jane Currer: To fully understand Katarina Shaw, first we have to discuss Sheila Lin.

Kirk Lockwood: Sheila started training at my rink in the summer of 1980. She was between partners. I guess she’d gone through a couple different guys already—which isn’t uncommon. She was so good, though. I couldn’t understand why anyone would let her go. Or why I’d never met her before.

Exterior shot of the Lockwood Performance Center ice rink in the suburbs of Boston.

Narrator: While Sheila Lin seemed to come out of nowhere, Kirk Lockwood came from a long skating bloodline. His family founded the Lockwood Performance Center, which is known for turning out champion figure skaters—including Kirk’s mother, Carol, who won silver in ladies singles at the Cortina Games.

Jane Currer: It was quite the scandal, when Kirk left his partner for Sheila. He and Deborah Green had been together almost ten years, and they’d just won gold at Junior Worlds.

Kirk Lockwood: Maybe if I was a nicer person, I’d say I regretted it. But I don’t. Teaming with Sheila was the first decision I made on my own, without my parents telling me what to do.

Jane Currer: Sheila manipulated him. He was the best, and she wanted him for herself.

Kirk Lockwood: She was better than I was, and I knew she’d make me better than I could’ve ever been with Debbie. You had to skate up to Sheila’s level, because she wasn’t gonna skate down to yours.

Old, glitchy camcorder footage shows Sheila and Kirk practicing synchronized side-by-side rotations, also known as twizzles. Kirk loses his balance and falls. Sheila doesn’t even slow down.

Kirk Lockwood: And if you couldn’t get on her level? Well, too damn bad for you.





Chapter 6





A hand reached down, and I took it.

I didn’t realize until I was back on my feet that it belonged to the boy with the blue sequined suspenders.

If the girl was Isabella Lin, he must be her twin brother, Garrett. Their resemblance to their famous mother was unmistakable. They both had Sheila’s high cheekbones, her full lips, her shampoo-commercial hair. And they’d clearly inherited her skating talent as well.

Winning two consecutive gold medals was a rare feat, but Sheila Lin had accomplished something even rarer: managing to stay competitive after motherhood. The twins were born following her first Olympics. At her second, they had front row seats.

I knew Isabella and Garrett had followed in their mother’s footsteps, but I still thought of them as the little kids I’d seen on Sheila’s lap during the Calgary coverage. They were younger than Heath and me, though not by much: fifteen, and already competing at the senior level, skating circles around teams a decade older. Amazing what you can accomplish when you’re born with the best coach in the world.