Bittersweet (26 page)

“No problem. You guys have a lot in common—cold hearts.” I grab my gear from the staff closet, stomp out the back way, and slam the kitchen door behind me. From the ledge of the Dumpster, the Hurley’s mascot squawks into the air.

“You got something to say to me, bird? Take a number.” I zip into my jacket and tighten the backpack over my shoulders, but the seagull is still giving me dirty looks.

“What?!”

He shrugs and dives under a loose cardboard box.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I yank on my mittens and march across the lot, Hurley’s disappearing in the snow behind me.
Stupid bird. Can’t you see it’s still winter?

Cold banana cupcakes topped with milk chocolate icing, sliced strawberries, and Rice Krispies; served in a bowl with a spoon and a splash of spilt milk (to cry over)

That sorry excuse for a triple ain’t happenin’, sweet stuff. Back on the glass
until you nail it.

After the tenth consecutive wipeout, I pick myself up off the Baylor’s ice for another go, Lola’s voice scolding me at every turn. I pump my legs and rush toward the center line, but when I try the lift again, I lose my balance, crash, and skid to a halt on my ass.

Again!
Lola shouts.

I stand and dust the cold from my hands, thinking about Parallel Life Hudson. She’d probably be doing this exact thing right now—prepping for a chance at Lola’s once-in-a-lifetime skating scholarship. If I’d stayed strong at Luby Arena that
night, showed up at regionals, continued working with elite private coaches, I might’ve ended up exactly here anyway. Maybe I didn’t get that far off course. Maybe our divergent paths have finally fused. Maybe there’s still a chance.
The
chance.

I push across the ice and leap into a double axel/double lutz combo, pulling off a perfect landing. The crowd roars in my head, and when I close my eyes, it almost becomes real. The shouts and whistles from the stands, the crisp white smell of the air over a freshly smoothed rink, the chill rising from its surface.

Hudson Avery, ladies and gentlemen. The Cupcake Queen of Watonka, back for another shot on the ice. Can she impress the judges one last time?
The crowd stomps their collective feet in a unified march, their energy a force field propelling me into another double/double combo.

A perfect score! Folks, this is figure skating history in the making….

I coast forward for one more go, taking the hard turns with speed and grace as I lap the rink. My lungs ache and my cheeks are numb, but I can’t stop now. I twist into a death spiral, the white of the ice swirling against the stands above until I stop, take a deep breath of chilled oxygen, and pump my legs toward the other end of the rink.

Swish
…

I can do this.

Swish
…

I have to do this.

Swish …

I push off from the back edge and spring forward, curling into the air for a single … a double … a triple flip. Ice-air-air-air-ice. Landing. First one I’ve nailed in weeks. And the crowd goes …

“Damn, girl. You still got it.”

I whip my ahead around toward the sound. A single spectator leans against the rails, arms crossed over her chest, strawberry blond braids poking out the bottom of her light blue hat.

Only she’s not a spectator. She’s laced up.

I swallow the lump in my throat to make room for the sarcasm. “You packin’ that ice pick today?”

“Not this time.” Kara glides toward the center of the rink, hands clasped behind her back. “Will said you’d probably be here, so I thought … I don’t know.” She looks down at her skates, black leg warmers pulled down over the tops. “Figured I’d dust these things off and see if they still work.”

“You talked to Will?”

“Texted him after I saw him on the news. That’s it.”

I shrug. “Free country.”

“Did you catch his interview?”

“Yep.” I swizzle backward toward the penalty box, putting some distance between us.

“Hudson, wait.” She follows me, her strides as graceful and balanced as ever. “I came to apologize for harassing you at your locker. New Year’s, too. I’m sorry I cornered you in the bathroom. I wanted to talk, but I had a couple drinks, and by the time you got there … I don’t know. Can I blame the booze?”

I grab a bottled water from my pack and take a swig. “You know what they say. Don’t drink and … stalk people in bathrooms. I mean … okay. I don’t know where I was going with that.”

Kara laughs. “Guess things got a little ridiculous between us, huh?”

“A little bit, yeah.” I tuck the bottle back into my pack and skate to the center line. “So, what’s up? You trying out for the Capriani thing after all?”

“Think I have a chance?” Kara laughs and follows me to the line. “I don’t want to compete, Hud. I told you that already. And I don’t want this to come out wrong, but I need to say something about Will. One thing, then I’ll shut up.”

“Again with the Will threats?” I know she liked him first, but that was forever ago. They had their chance, and it didn’t work out. She’s the one who dumped him, anyway. And it’s not like Will and I are
together
together. And even if we were, it’s none of her business. “Sorry, Kara. I don’t—”

“Just be careful. I know you’re helping with the Wolves, and you two are hanging out now, but as charming as Will is … look, once he gets what he wants, he moves on. You saw his interview today. Gorgeous smile or not, Will is all about Will.”

“Hockey boys, right? Comes with the territory.” I laugh to show her how much she’s not getting to me, just in case she missed it.

“I know, but Will—”

“We’re not having this conversation.”

“Point taken.” She fingers a loose thread on her jacket, the sleeve fraying at the end as she pulls. “Speaking of hockey boys … is Danielle Bozeman trying to talk to Frankie?”

My stomach knots up at the mention of Dani. “Frankie Torres? Doubt it. Why?”

“Ellie said … well, she thought they went out or something. And—”

“They hung out once before Christmas, but it was kind of a joke. She’s not into hockey boys.”

Kara laughs. “Smart girl.”

“Yep.” I skate away from her and twirl into a camel spin.

“Your moves are tight,” she says, skating a backward circle around me. “You ready for the competition?”

“Mostly. I’ve been working my ass off after every Wolves practice and whenever I can sneak away from work. I just hope it’s enough.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. You have, like, crazy talent.”

“Crazy talent that’s been hibernating for three years without a coach.” I bend down to adjust my leg warmers, pulling them off my laces a bit. Maybe they’re too heavy. Maybe that’s what’s throwing me off. “I’m still perfecting my triple/triple. I keep screwing up the first jump.”

“Looked good to me.”

“That was a one-in-a-hundred shot. I can’t replicate it consistently, which means I don’t have it.”

“Let me see.”

“What, here?”

“Better than Amir’s bathroom, right?” She skates back to the box. “Maybe I can give you some pointers. I remember stuff too, you know.”

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

“Why not? Come on.” Kara resumes her spectator position on the sidelines and I skate back to the center line. This was our routine for so long. For weeks leading up to our events, we’d practice together at Buffalo Skate Club every night, swapping critiques until we’d nearly broken every bone, perfected every move.

Now, after years of not speaking, it’s so strange to be skating for her like this again, but it’s kind of nice, too. I go through a quick version of some of my program moves, launch into my triple flip, and … crash and burn.

“See what I mean?” I stand up and check my laces. Everything’s tight. The leg warmers are clear of the blades. The skates aren’t a perfect fit anymore, and they’re definitely not in mint condition, but I don’t think that’s the problem. I try two more for her and get the same results: Ass, meet ice. Talk amongst yourselves.

“Your left foot’s dragging after the jump,” she says. She slides out to the center and demonstrates a version of my pre-jump in slow motion. “You’re pushing off the ice strong, but your trailing foot lags. You’re not pulling in tight enough for the triple.”

“You sure that’s it?”

She nods. “Try it again, but this time, lift you left foot a half second earlier.”

I skate back to the center, close my eyes, and lean into a glide. I speed up, concentrating on that lagging foot, counting my strokes, two … three … four … and launch …

“Yeah! That’s it!” She claps from the sidelines, and I open my eyes. I really did it. Triple flip, perfect landing. No missteps, no wipeouts.

“Try another, just to be sure.”

I skate back into position, glide up the center ice, and bang out another perfect triple.

“And there you have it,” she says. “Put it together with your triple toe loop, and you’re golden.”

I skate back to the box and grab my water. “Thanks. I’ve been crying over that move for weeks.”

“Should’ve called me sooner.”

“Um …”

“Kidding. You still have your old DVDs, right? Might help to watch them again. Make some notes from the outside looking in, you know?”

I nod, picturing the dusty box in the basement.

“You look good out there, Hudson. I’m sure you’ll kick ass next month.” She looks at me with shiny eyes, and my stomach lurches sideways. If I didn’t screw up that night in Rochester, maybe she’d still be competing. Maybe we’d be practicing for the Capriani Cup together, sharing tips and tricks, shouting out cheers and encouragement, may the best girl win. Instead,
I’m training alone, lying to basically everyone I know, and she’s here apologizing about some stupid half-drunk bathroom exchange at a party when all she really wanted to do was warn me about Will. Protect me from getting hurt by the boy that was once hers.

I think I’m in love with Will Harper….

“I’m so sorry, Kara.” The words sting my throat on the way out. I take a deep breath and try again. “I’m sorry about kissing Will at that party when I knew you liked him. And I’m sorry about throwing the Empire Games. I got out there that night and I was pissed at my dad and kind of in shock and I just … I gave up. And after that, I disappeared. I couldn’t face up to anything. My parents got divorced, and I went into hiding because I thought it was my fault.”

Kara knew that my parents officially split up soon after Empire—everyone did—but by then we were no longer speaking. I never told her about everything that came before the divorce: The nights my father slept on the couch. The clipped arguments and silent breakfasts, forks scraping angrily on plates. All the endless pretending. How that night at the event, just hours after discovering the cheetah bra, I let my own dreams melt, right there on the ice in front of my parents, my coach, my skate club, and my best friend.

“He was having an affair,” I say. “I’m pretty sure Mom knew it all along, but I found the real proof that day, fifteen minutes before we left for Rochester. I didn’t fully realize what it was in the moment, but somehow I knew they’d split up.
That night at the event, I saw it coming, and I freaked.” The ice machines tick below our feet and a shiver passes through my bones. “It’s not an excuse, but that’s what happened.”

Kara lets out a long, slow breath. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that by yourself. But you could’ve told me the truth. Maybe not that night, but after. Yeah, I would’ve been mad about losing our shot at the Empire sponsorship, but I would’ve understood. I would’ve … I don’t know. Maybe we’d still be friends today, instead of … not.”

I look out across the rink, tears blurring the ice into a white sea. “I know.”

“I thought I’d moved on,” she continues. “It was so long ago, I wasn’t competing anymore, we weren’t friends, why bother, right? But then I heard you were working with the hockey team, training again, hanging out with Will … I’m not the psycho jealous ex here, Hudson. Seriously. But every time I see you with him, it’s like watching the last three years unravel in reverse. I didn’t … I never forgave you.”

I turn to face her again and whisper over the tightness in my throat. “And now?”

She sighs, scraping a line in the ice with her toe pick, back and forth, back and forth. “So much happened; things are so different now.
We’re
different. But the other night at Amir’s, I realized something: Friends or not, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hating you.”

“Same,” I say.

“So let’s call this a mutual understanding. It’s the best I can
do.” She smiles and holds out her hand. Despite the heaviness of her final words on my chest, I take it.

“Does this mean no more bathroom brawls?”