Chapter 212

Chapter 212

Elora

The ice feels foreign beneath my blades.

Not wrong, exactly—just unfamiliar, like a language I haven't spoken in years suddenly demanded of me without warning. I push off, testing my edges, feeling the familiar burn in my thighs as I transition from a simple glide into a backward crossover. The movement comes automatically, muscle memory kicking in even though my conscious mind is screaming that I'm not ready, that two days of brutal training can't possibly compensate for ten days unconscious in a hospital bed.

But here I am anyway. Standing on the ice at the Winter Classic International. The most prestigious competition I've ever entered in my life.

The arena is massive—easily three times the size of any venue I've competed in before. Tiered seating rises on all sides, already packed with spectators despite the fact that we're still in warm-ups. The lighting is professional-grade, harsh and unforgiving, designed to capture every detail for the cameras positioned at strategic intervals around the rink. Above the ice, massive LED screens display rotating images of the competitors, their names and countries flashing in bold letters.

I catch a glimpse of my own face on one of the screens and barely recognize myself. The girl staring back at me looks older somehow, harder. Her eyes hold a wariness that wasn't there three weeks ago, before everything went to hell. Before Sienna. Before the hospital. Before I learned exactly how far people will go to destroy you.

I shake off the thought and focus on my warm-up, running through a series of simple jumps to test my body's readiness. Single axel. Double toe loop. Double salchow. Each landing sends a jolt through my joints, but the pain is manageable. Acceptable. I've competed through worse.

Around me, the other skaters move with the kind of effortless grace that comes from years of elite training. I recognize most of them from videos I've studied obsessively over the past year—Yuki Tanaka, the reigning Japanese Junior National Champion, with her signature triple-triple combination. Chen Wei, the Chinese prodigy whose artistry makes grown men weep. Isabella Costa, the North Korean whose jumps defy physics.

These are the best in the world. The ones who've dedicated their entire lives to this sport, who've sacrificed everything for a chance at glory.

And I'm supposed to compete against them after ten days unconscious.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, I feel something else entirely—a strange, fierce joy that catches me off guard. Because this is it. This is what I've been working toward since I was six years old and first stepped onto the ice. This moment, this competition, these opponents. The chance to test myself against the best and see if I measure up.

I complete a double axel, landing cleanly despite the slight wobble in my free leg, and allow myself a small smile. My body remembers. The countless hours of training, the endless repetitions, the muscle memory built through sheer force of will—it's all still there, buried beneath the rust and fear. I just need to trust it.

A movement in the stands catches my eye, and I glance up to see Cade settling into his seat. My father sits beside him, looking uncomfortable in a suit that's slightly too large for his frame—weight loss from his time in custody, probably. On Cade's other side, Grandmother holds court, flanked by Marco and Giulia. Even Marina is here, my coach's familiar face a reassuring presence among the sea of strangers.

They're all here. Watching. Waiting to see if I can pull this off.

I raise my hand in a small wave, feeling my smile widen as Cade returns the gesture with that infuriating smirk of his. My father's expression is harder to read—pride mixed with something that might be guilt or worry or both. Grandmother simply nods, regal as always, her confidence in me unwavering.

The weight of their expectations should crush me. Instead, it steadies me, giving me something to anchor myself to when the doubts creep in.

I turn my attention back to the ice, running through a series of spins to loosen up my upper body. My back feels strange—too smooth, the absence of raised scales disconcerting after years of their constant presence. The treatment Cade arranged has already started working, the inflammation reduced to almost nothing, the plaques fading day by day.

I should be grateful. I am grateful. But there's also a part of me that misses them, those scars that marked me as a survivor. Without them, I feel exposed in a way I can't quite articulate.

A flash of movement to my left pulls me from my thoughts. One of the other competitors—a Czech skater whose name I can't quite remember—has drifted closer during her warm-up. I recognize her from the roster: sixteen years old, European Junior Champion, known for her technical precision. She seems approachable enough, her expression open and friendly as she executes a flawless triple lutz.

I skate toward her, intending to introduce myself properly. It's good sportsmanship, after all, and besides, I could use an ally among these elite competitors who've been training together for years while I was stuck in suburban obscurity.

"Hey," I say as I pull up beside her, offering what I hope is a warm smile. "You're Petra, right? I've seen your videos. Your edge quality is insane."

She glances at me, and for a split second, something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or annoyance. Then her expression shutters completely, going blank in a way that makes my stomach drop.

Without a word, she pushes off, skating away from me with deliberate speed.

I stand there, frozen, wondering if I imagined the whole thing. Maybe she didn't hear me? Maybe she's just focused on her warm-up and doesn't want distractions?

But then I watch as she glides over to another skater—Russian, I think, based on the flag patch on her jacket—and they immediately huddle together, heads bent in conversation. Petra gestures in my direction, not bothering to be subtle about it, and the Russian girl's eyes cut toward me with unmistakable disdain.

They're talking about me. And whatever they're saying, it's not complimentary.

I drift closer, trying to look casual, but they don't bother lowering their voices. Either they don't care if I overhear, or they actively want me to hear.

"She actually tried to talk to me," Petra says, her tone dripping with disbelief. "Like we're friends or something. I'm not trying to associate with her, you know? Not when she's got the whole thing rigged in her favor."

The Russian skater—Natasha, I remember now, silver medalist at Junior Worlds—nods sympathetically. "Smart. With her in the competition, the rest of us are basically fighting for second place. You know how Americans love their heroes. First she's the brave psoriasis warrior, then the bullying survivor, and now the skating prodigy who overcame it all. Add a gold medal to that narrative, and she's the perfect idol. Marketable as hell."

My blood runs cold. They think I'm—what? That I'm going to win because of some predetermined outcome? That my entire story is just manufactured drama designed to sell tickets and sponsorships?

Petra shakes her head, her expression disgusted. "Did you see her back? Completely smooth now. She's already preparing for her media debut, getting ready to cash in. Probably doesn't even care about the actual skating anymore."