Chapter 219

Chapter 219
Elora
 
The crowd's roar pulls me back to the present. Natasha has just finished her free skate, and the applause is thunderous. Her score flashes on the board: 149.86. Third place, behind Yuki and Chen Wei.
 
The remaining skaters complete their programs one by one, each performance solid but falling short of the top three. By the time the last one finishes, the leaderboard is set: Yuki Tanaka in second with 154.73, Chen Wei in first with 156.82, and Petra claiming third with 149.91 after Natasha's score was adjusted down for an edge violation.
 
The other competitors begin to gather their things, their expressions resigned.
 
"Well, that's it," Isabella mutters, shaking her head. "We're just background noise at this point."
 
"Yeah." Petra lets out a bitter laugh. "Another competition where we're the supporting cast. At least the top three earned it—they're on a completely different level."
 
"Might as well head out," Natasha adds, zipping up her skate bag. "The winners have already been decided."
 
I speak before I can stop myself, my voice cutting through their defeated murmurs like a blade through silk.
 
"I haven't skated yet."
 
They freeze. Turn to stare at me.
 
"So maybe," I continue, my tone ice-cold, "the top three isn't as settled as you think."
 
For a moment, there's only stunned silence.
 
Then Petra explodes. "Fuck, Elora! We're already in a shit mood—do you have to make it worse with your delusional bullshit?"
 
Isabella crosses her arms, her smile vicious. "Fine. You want to play? We'll stay. We'll watch you get humiliated, and then we'll leave."
 
"Agreed." Natasha smirks. "Hell, maybe she'll come in dead last. That'd be entertaining."
 
The others laugh, cruel and dismissive, but I don't react. I just meet their eyes, one by one, and let the silence stretch until their laughter dies.
 
Then I turn away, blocking them out entirely.
 
The announcer's voice booms through the arena, crisp and formal.
 
"Next to skate, representing the United States of America: Elora Frost."
 
I step onto the ice.
 
---
 
The cold bites at my skin as I glide to center ice, but I barely feel it. My focus narrows to a single point: the music that's about to start, the routine I've drilled into my bones, the jump that will define everything.
 
My program music begins—L'Ultima Danza, an Italian piece that translates to The Last Dance. I chose it because every time I step onto the ice, I skate as if it's my final performance. As if this is the last chance I'll ever have to prove what I'm capable of.
 
The opening notes are soft, almost mournful, and I let my body flow with them. My edges carve deep, controlled arcs across the ice as I build speed, my arms tracing elegant lines through the air.
 
The first jump—a triple lutz—comes quickly. I take off clean, rotate three times in the air, and land with precision. The crowd reacts with polite applause, but I'm already setting up for the next element.
 
A triple flip. Another clean landing.
 
Then a combination spin, my body a blur of motion as I pull my arms in tight and accelerate.
 
The music swells, the piano cascading into rapid arpeggios while the violin surges with raw, unrestrained passion. The tempo shifts, faster and more urgent, and I know the moment has arrived.
 
I glance up at the stands.
 
Marina is on her feet, her eyes blazing with that same fierce intensity I saw six months ago. Do it, her expression says. Show them what you're made of.
 
I look to my father next. He's gripping the armrest of his seat, his knuckles white, his face tight with worry. Beside him, Cade leans forward, his jaw set, his gaze locked on me with an intensity that makes my chest tighten.
 
Finally, I let my eyes sweep across the other skaters, still gathered near the boards. Their expressions range from bored to smug, their arms crossed as they wait for me to fail.
 
I take a breath.
 
My legs coil beneath me, every muscle in my body tensing as I prepare for the setup. The quad toe loop—the jump I've spent months perfecting, the jump that will prove I belong in this arena.
 
I push off, building speed as I approach the takeoff point.
 
But something feels… different.
 
The power in my legs isn't just adequate—it's effortless. My edges grip the ice with perfect precision, my body alignment flawless, and as I launch into the air, I realize with a jolt of shock that I have more than enough rotation.
 
Far more.
 
The thought hits me like lightning, wild and impossible: I could go for five.