Chapter Text
Skate America, Boston, 3 years ago
Kate knows she’s fucked up when she lands the triple flip, her weight slightly too far over her left side, and yes, there goes her left hip opening up just that millisecond too early. But it’s Skate America in front of a home crowd. Her father and Mary are in that audience. And anyway, it’s too late to bail on this jump because her muscle memory is already eking out the triple loop and it’s all wrong, the way her axis spins in an uncontrolled arc. She knows what’s going to happen just before it does.
Her toe pick hits the ice first. For a split second she thinks she might pull it off (“ underrotated is better than a fall deduction, Kate, but if you’ll land it clean if you’re worth anything” ). But then her blade is flat on the ice and it’s pulling her to the right while her body continues to twist away and out of the landing circle.
She hits the ice then, of course she does.
What she doesn’t expect is the crack.
What she doesn’t expect is not being able to get up again.
***
Toronto, less than 1 year until the Olympics
Stepping back onto the ice today feels a little like swimming upstream. It’s not the smooth glide like it used to be and she’s no longer the young prodigy, out there landing triple loop combos like there’s no tomorrow. Her body feels old and achy and she has to stretch a good few hours a day to make it back into her layback position. It’s still better than a year ago when it felt like she was being washed out to sea.
Some things are still the same though. The ice is still crunchy under her blades as she grinds through her warm-up. The wind still whips around her hair the faster she goes. She huddles deeper in her puffer jacket. She’ll have to shed the layers sooner or later - though later sounded better.
The other skaters zip around her. Their patterns are familiar - she’s trained alongside most of them for what feels like her entire life. All but one.
“What’s Anthony Bridgerton doing here?” Kate hisses, coming to a swift stop next to the barrier where her coach is sipping her coffee.
Agatha Danbury looks askance at her. “Anthony moved here in the off season. Have you not been following my emails? Also when are you going to go to your dress fitting?”
Kate looks away, pretending to take a sip of water instead. Thankfully her coach gets distracted by the loud thump as Meg Smythe-Smith crashes into the barrier. “MARGARET. What have I told you about staying over your right?”
Kate takes advantage of Agatha’s distraction to flee, pushing quickly away and continuing on her laps of the rink. Pushing through some turns now - one foot then the other. Her muscles are starting to come to life, even as her right leg groans a little in protest. Push through it.
It doesn’t bother her too much these days - just a little achey after a long training session. Sometimes too on winter mornings when it’s colder outside the rink than inside. It’s more her form that bothers her - somehow during that year off the ice and then the year after that, learning to skate again, she’s gone and lost her stamina. These days she’s lucky if she makes it through a short program clean, let alone a long.
Lost in her reverie and self-pity, it takes her by surprise when Anthony clips her with his hand as he launches his body into the air. Kate is entirely in his flight path as he aborts the jump to avoid hurting her, but the sudden contact startles her and she’s falling before she knows it. She lands safely on her bottom, the pain already receding, even as the panic rises. She’s reaching for her right leg before she even knows that she’s doing it. It’s fine of course.
A shadow falls over her and when she looks up, Anthony’s laughing face is filling her vision. “Sorry,” he says, grinning. “Shouldn’t snooze in the lutz corner hey. I’ll forgive you though - it’s probably been a hot minute since you’ve been at training proper.” He holds out his hand to help her up.
But his stupid face is so handsome and so smug and it fills Kate with rage. But rage is better than panic, and that is the chief explanation for the way Kate eschews his hand, glaring at him instead. “Shouldn’t be an ass either after knocking someone over,” she spits. “But I guess we’ll both have to deal with this disappointment.”
She turns away, skating as fast as she can away from him before Agatha can yell at her too. She doesn’t see the way his eyes follow her for the rest of the session.
He lands all his jumps though.
She? She doesn’t.
“Who even fucking starts jumping ten minutes into the session,” Kate bitches to Sophie later.
“Fucked if I know,” Sophie shoots back. “I gave up jumping for a reason.”
“Ugh, maybe I should switch to dance,” Kate says, slumping over on the bench. “The session was dreadful - I fell on every single triple loop.” A skate towel thwacks into her head. “Ow!”
“You deserved that,” Sophie says smugly. “You’re Kathani Sharma. Four years ago you won the Grand Prix final. Three years ago you were on track to becoming world champion. You fucking love jumping even though that makes you certifiably insane. Sure, you had a bad fall, but there’s no reason why you can’t get back up there again.”
Kate rolls her eyes. Taking the abandoned towel, she starts to dry her blades. “A bad fall, Soph? I broke my whole ass leg.”
“Okay, a really bad fall then.”
They look at each other in silence for a moment before bursting into laughter. Their mirth fills the room, only lightly edged with bitterness.
Still, Kate is in a much better mood by the time she leaves Sophie warming up in the locker room. Sophie’s partner, Phillip, hasn’t shown up yet but neither of them are entirely surprised. Kate had received a Snapchat from him the night prior, drunk in a club. Sophie hadn’t received anything.
“Heading out Miss Kate?” The rink manager, George, waves at her from behind the skate rentals.
“Just going to grab a coffee and then head to physio,” she waves back. “I’ll be back to coach learn to skate this evening after practice though, so don’t miss me too much!”
She turns back around, only to walk into one Anthony Bridgerton’s very firm chest. “Jesus,” she exclaims. “Do you need a bell on you?”
He is smirking - he is always smirking. “I’d wear a collar if you wanted. You’d have to buy me dinner first though.”
Kate winces. “Gross,” she says, brushing past him. The rink doors slide open for her as she stomps away. There is a brief blessed minute of silence, then the clattering of his blade guards echoes behind her.
“Wait, Kate.”
She whirls around. “For god’s sake, Anthony, can you take off your skates? You’re going to ruin them. And I know you can afford to run through like five pairs of boots in a year probably, but not all of us can, and you should really show some bloody respect.”
His eyes are wide and Kate instantly feels like she’s just kicked a puppy. A smarmy smirking puppy, but a puppy all the same. “I’m sorry? I have skate guards on though?”
“Sorry,” she forces out. “That was uncalled for.”
His stupid face brightens again. “That’s okay - I get pretty frustrated after a bad training session. Not that your training session was bad - just it’s frustrating not being able to land something you know you can.” His eyes are all crinkly and worried, like he’s scared she’ll go off at him again, and it softens her.
“Yeah,” Kate says begrudgingly. “It’s been a frustrating year.”
“Can I buy you a coffee?” he asks eagerly. “We could chat maybe. I’ve only recently made the coaching change and moved here - I don’t really know many people and I’d like to - I’d like to get to know - you.”
It’s so natural, the way he’s smiling at her like he isn’t the world number one and she isn’t a failed washed up has-been. She can’t quite forget it though, and it makes her voice rough.
“Maybe another time,” she says. “I have to get to my physio appointment.” He looks crestfallen for a moment before he manages to rearrange his face. “But … welcome to the rink and the town I guess, Anthony.”
The last thing she sees before she walks away is his brilliant smile, brighter than the sun. It does things to her insides - rearranges them temporarily. She ignores this too.
She sees him at all her practices, though they don’t collide again. He is always flawless and his genial demeanour belies that. He doesn’t ask her out for coffee again, though he does seem to linger by the rink doors every time she leaves. His face lights up every time she waves. She doesn’t think on that too long though.
The upcoming season is fast approaching. Everyone is a little tenser as June slips into July and the first competition of the Challenger series approaches.
“It’s so important for you to do well here,” Agatha tells her sternly. “No one has seen you compete for three years now. You have no world ranking points so you’re not going to automatically be allocated to the Grand Prix series and you’ll need to do well in that series of competitions if we want you to have any chance at building a body of work to make your case for Olympic selection. We could use the comeback rule to get you a Grand Prix spot, but if we don’t have to that would be preferable. So do well in the Challenger series and at the national evaluation camp - Champs Camp - and you might get a host pick spot for a Grand Prix or two. Ideally you’d want to make the Grand Prix final - really, win the whole thing.” She looks down her nose at Kate. “But let’s start with the first Challenger event and we’ll see what we’re working with here.”
Kate resists the urge to roll her eyes as she listens to Agatha’s monologue. Her coach continues on. As if the dates of all these competitions hadn’t been drummed into Kate’s head since she was a junior. As if she hadn’t been through it all before.
Because she hadn’t been competing for the most part of the last Olympic quarter, her world standing had dropped significantly. Selections for the Olympics were made based on body of work, which meant that she had to show that she was in good shape and competitive in the year leading up to the Olympics. And what that meant was medals. Not just any medals either - medals at high level competitions, namely the Grand Prix Series. This was a series of six competitions leading up to the Grand Prix Final, each competition hosted by a different country - Skate Canada, Grand Prix de France, the Japanese NHK Trophy, Finlandia Trophy, and Cup of China. Skaters who had finished within the top twelve places at the previous World Championships automatically got two spots and those within the top twenty-four could be invited. Unfortunately Kate met neither of these criteria and so she would be relying on one, if not two, of the wildcard host picks.
She could use the comeback rule which was a one-time-use rule that virtually guaranteed her two spots based on her previous world number one placement, but if Agatha didn’t want her to use it that meant that she was anticipating that Kate would get injured again or drop out of competition. So she could save it for later. Stupid, really, Kate thinks. This season felt like now or never - if she didn’t qualify for the Olympics this round, she would be too old for the next.
“I want you to do another choreography session,” Agatha says. “Your arms were a mess last time. The footwork is better, but I think you should work with Violet Bridgerton when she comes to visit Anthony.”
Violet Bridgerton had been a beautiful pairs skater well known for her musicality back in the day, until the tragic death of her husband and skate partner, Edmund. She’d retired quickly from competition and had virtually disappeared from the skating scene, until her son had had his breakthrough season. Despite not being a singles skater, she had coached him until this last season when he had moved to this Club. It was unclear how acrimonious the split had been, but given Anthony rarely mentioned his mother - or, in fact, the rest of the family, the signs all pointed towards bitterness.
“When is she coming?” Kate asks.
“Next week, I think. She’s bringing Benedict with her - he’s still looking for a partner.”
“I’m surprised,” Kate says. “Aren’t male ice dancers rarer than hen’s teeth? Surely he should have skaters flocking to him.”
Agatha shrugs. “He’s particular. Think he’s looking for the next Tessa Virtue. Good luck to him.” She waves Kate away, signalling the end of their interview.
Kate’s mind isn’t on her warm up but the upcoming competition, as she moves slowly through her dynamic stretches. She has just started on some small jumps when she hears shouting from the locker rooms.
“In an Olympic year, Phillip Cavender? You want to split up in an Olympic year?”
The hush that falls across the rink is deafening. Kate’s feet in the ground in a loud thud. She is frozen, staring across the rink as Sophie and Phillip emerge.
“Sorry, Soph,” he says, without a single attempt at placation. “You know how it is. Rosa’s really good. And she’s smaller than you so it’s easier to lift her.”
“What the actual fuck,” Sophie says. “We’re the second ranked team in the country. You’re really going to throw that all away?”
He turns around then to look her dead in the eye, when he says, “I want to be number one. And you’re holding me back.”
This time when he leaves, Sophie doesn’t attempt to stop him. All the skaters watch as he turns and heads out the rink door, presumably for the last time. The moment he leaves, scandalised whispers break out. Kate catches Sophie’s eye, raises her brows in sympathetic question, but her friend shakes her head. Not bothering to go back for her skate bag, she leaves also, but through a different set of doors.
“Whoa.” Without turning around, she knows that it’s Anthony standing just over her shoulder. “I wish I could say I’m surprised, but Phil and I go back a long way, and he’s always been a little shit.”
Kate turns to face him. Today he is in a dark blue shirt and it clings to his torso so tightly that she can almost imagine his abs through it. She inhales sharply. “You‘ve known him a while?”
“Yeah,” he says. “He’s awful. Some of the things he did at my old rink ... Thing is though - your friend Sophie is better than him. He was holding her back, not the other way around.”
“Where is she going to find a partner in an Olympic year though?” Kate asks rhetorically. “He’ll have his pick of partners and then it won’t matter that Soph is better than him if she doesn’t have anyone to skate with.”
He is silent, but when she turns to look at him, his brow is furrowed in thought. “I might have an idea,” he says. “But no guarantees. I’ll tell you when it’s firmed up a bit.”
She shrugs, unconvinced and makes to resume her warm up.
“Can I make one suggestion and not have you bite my head off?”
Kate freezes. “Try me.”
“Just before you take off on your triple loop, try to keep your free foot more parallel to the seam of your other skate. I know Agatha says it’s your left arm that you’re letting whip around but … cause and effect, and I think that’s the effect not the cause. Focus on your leg instead.”
He leaves before she can reply.
She lands her triple loop in combination three times that session. Tries not to think of his dark brown eyes and cheeky smile. Sends him a text that evening anyway.
Thanks.
He doesn’t reply but the three dots hover on her screen for long time before he simply heart reacts.
Sophie lives in the same dingy apartment block that Kate does - the only apartment block that skaters on a federation scholarship can afford to live in. Most days Kate is grateful for this, especially on drier summer days when the mould in the bathroom stays at bay. It’s within walking distance of the rink, which is the centre of her universe these days, and the walk is pretty well-lit, even at night. She still carries her keys between the pads of her fingers though - just in case.
When she knocks at Sophie’s door, she still has Sophie’s skate bag slung over her shoulder. In one hand she holds a cup of coffee, in the other, a bottle of wine. She brandishes both at Sophie when she emerges. “Chat?”
Sophie’s smile is watery and her eyes are red and swollen, but she takes the coffee from Kate anyway. Kate bumps her with her hip gently as she stands back from the doorway to let Kate enter. The old couch that they collapse on is soft and familiar. The faded fabric from the countless hours spent watching the Bachelor and livestreaming competitions. The stain on the left seat from where Kate spilled red wine, the night that she won her first Grand Prix event. The crumbs tucked into the seams.
“Phillip’s an arsehole,” Kate cuts to the chase. “You’re better than him and everyone knows it. But because he’s a rare male ice dancer he thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”
Sophie shrugs. All of it is true, except it doesn’t help. “Anthony Bridgerton texted me today,” she says. “His brother is apparently visiting next week. He said he’d help me set up a trial.”
“That’s great news!” Kate exclaims. “Ben is excellent. And you two would be so much better suited - he can actually control a turn for one, and you wouldn’t have to spend all your time towing him around the ice.”
“I was surprised that he thought of me,” Sophie admits. “I suppose it was very public split. And I probably looked really pathetic. But he said he spoke to you and that’s what made him think of me.”
“I don’t think it had anything to do with me,” she says, ignoring the silly little thrill that courses through her. “You’re amazing Soph. Of course he’d want to help you out.”
Sophie raises her coffee to her in a mock toast. “To me then,” she says. “Fuck Phillip Cavender.”
“Fuck Phillip Cavender,” Kate echoes, raising her water bottle to meet her friend’s cup. The clink that echoes through the kitchen is strangely satisfying.
The following week, she makes a point to approach Anthony in the gym when they’re both working through their off ice training. Sophie had done a closed trial with Benedict the day before and had emerged beaming. The matching smirk on Benedict’s face said everything. Even his stern coach had been smiling.
“It went well,” Agatha had told her during her lesson. Even though she had nothing to do with ice dance, as head coach she still liked to oversee everything that happened at the rink. “I think Ben will take a week or so to trial with some other girls, but I’d eat my skates if he doesn’t pick her. He’d be a fool not to pick her. They have a certain … je ne sais quoi. They fit together.”
She had been right, it would seem, because Sophie and Benedict were in another closed session now. Kate almost wished Phillip were still around to see the burgeoning partnership, but he had left for Colorado last weekend, according to his Instagram story.
“Hey,” she says now. Anthony stills, his jump rope swishing to a stop from where he had been doing an exhausting looking series of double-unders. His face brightens when he realises it’s her. “I just wanted to say thank you for thinking of Sophie. She’s really enjoying working with your brother.”
Anthony nods, taking a moment to catch his breath. A bead of sweat slips down his neck. His arm muscles ripple. “Ben’s really enjoying it too. He’s pretty tightlipped usually, but I think he’s a bit blown away by your friend.” A pause. “I get that.”
“Well,” Kate says, “I hope it works out, but even if it doesn’t, I really appreciate you thinking of her.”
“I did it for you,” he blurts out, catching her as she turns to walk away. “Well, I mean I did it for her, but I wouldn’t have thought of it if not for you.”
Kate can’t help herself then: not the the little smile catching the corners of her mouth as she turns back to look at him, nor the little flutter of her heart. Shamelessly, she looks him up and down, blatantly giving him a once over. “I guess I owe you that coffee then,” she says. It is possible that her hips sway a little more than usual as she walks away. She catches his incredulous grin in the mirror.
It’s her turn to watch him at training now. Really, she’s not even discreet about it, opting to do her college homework at the big glass windows that overlook the rink. He is fire and ice, all long sweeping limbs and tight muscles. The way he launches into the air for his jumps sends her heart to her throat. If she spends a little too much time staring at his ass when he does his edge work, well, what of it?
“What are you doing here?” Sophie asks when she sees her the first time. “Since when do you train in this session?”
“I don’t,” Kate agrees. “I just wanted a change of environment. Couldn’t focus in my apartment.”
Sophie follows her gaze. Hanging off the barrier, Anthony is laughing with his coach. A junior skater is running a program to a mash up of Vogue and Like A Virgin. As the music fills the rink, Anthony has started hip thrusting along. “You’re definitely focusing on something here,” Sophie says dryly.
“A girl’s got to have hobbies,” Kate says, but her mouth is dry and she can’t look away.
Even though she tries to sneak out of the rink between sessions when everyone is in the change room, Anthony still manages to catch her at her car.
“Hey wait up, Sharma.”
She freezes at the sound of his voice. “Oh hey, Anthony.” Her voice is steady, but she cannot turn around because her face feels hot and flushed.
“Didn’t expect to see you at the rink this afternoon,” he says knowingly. “I thought you’d already skated a few hours this morning?”
“Uh,” she stammers. “I had some work to get done. Thought I might be able to get it done here.”
She can smell him, fresh despite his training session. “What did you think of my skate today?” His voice is low and gravelly and in her ear. Kate shivers and turns around. He is standing just that little bit too close to her - not touching, but he could be. The anticipation is delicious.
“You looked amazing,” she says honestly, hoping her voice doesn’t waver. “I love watching you skate.”
He lingers there just a moment too long, eyes flickering down to her lips. She’s staring at his too, but they train together and this is just another unwanted complication; nothing but a feeling that will pass. Maybe he sees that in her eyes, because he takes a step back then.
“You’ve been looking good in training,” he says as he walks away. “I’ve been watching too.”
Despite telling herself not to be stupid, Kate still feels a warm glow at his words. It lasts all evening.
The first Challenger competition rolls around sooner than anticipated and it feels like barely any time has passed at all, before they’re all ready to be loaded into Agatha’s seven seater. Meg has called dibs because of her motion sickness, and no one else had been particularly keen to ride up front next to Agatha, so that had gone unchallenged. Alice and Simon were jostling around in the middle row, to the loud complaints of Marina Crane who was stuck in the row with them. Sophie and Benedict, now officially a very new team with significant catching up to do, had stayed behind.
Currently, this meant that Kate is being squashed into the very back row with one Anthony Bridgerton who had practically leapt into the car when she had volunteered to sit up the back.
“Do you have enough room back there?” Alice asks over her shoulder as Simon attempts to sit on her.
Kate is barefoot and cross-legged in the back seat, and accidentally-on-purpose taking up entirely too much room, just so that her thigh is flush against Anthony’s. Occasionally when the car jostles she can feel the denim of his jeans rubbing against her skin. “We’re fine,” she says. Agatha swerves into a hard right turn then, and Kate pitches into Anthony.
“Whoa,” he says, arms folding around her body to steady her. For a moment, Kate is pressed into his chest, hands splayed over his firm abdomen. She has to fight the urge to slide her hands up over his body, and maybe down lower. Her face is almost nuzzling into the crook of his neck. She breathes in deeply, has to fight the urge to close her eyes. When she looks up at him instead, he is looking down at her. It is a jolt in her belly, that look in his eyes. He doesn’t let her go.
“Bit cozy back there,” Simon remarks. Kate springs away from Anthony, reorganising her limbs to remain on her side of the car. She is so busy staring blankly out of the window that she does not see the look Simon exchanges with Anthony.
As they enter a tunnel though, she runs her foot up his calf. Pretends that it’s an accident. Feels, rather than sees him shiver.
Standing on the ice, waiting for the music to start: it feels like déjà vu. Even though she is at a different competition, in a different city, wearing a different dress and skating to different music. All her muscles are tense, the unfamiliar ice hard and unforgiving beneath her blades. The skirt of her borrowed dress flutters ever so slightly, even though there is no wind in the arena. Her hands feel naked without her usual gloves on. Her wrists feel thin and fragile, her bare shoulders cold. She sways slightly on the spot. The short program had gone reasonably well yesterday. She’d managed to eke out most of her spinning and jumping passes to get a reasonable technical score - only the triple flip triple loop combination had been doubled. With the buffer of her artistic score - the PCS score - she’d managed to sit in second place, just behind Cressida Cowper.
The free skate feels different though - it has always felt different. Longer for one, and with more jumping passes. More ways to mess up. All this runs through her head as she stands there, shaking ever so slightly on the ice. The judges sit in a row before her. The audience stretch like a sea behind.
And then the music begins. It’s militant and vicious, austere but tragic. The magic of Prokofiev, the madness running through her veins. Not the soft Romeo and Juliet themes though, but the war-like Montagues and Capulets, running amok on the streets. It sounds like how she feels: like she’s fighting for her life.
The first three jumps are as easy as blinking - the double axel, the triple lutz, the triple salchow. Her breathing starts catching up with her in the middle of her combination spin, but she tries to force the oxygen into her lungs. Gulps down the air like water. The next combination jump, the triple flip double toe is more of a struggle now. She can feel it getting away from her, the axis slightly wrong, the edge between the jumps pitching just that little bit forward. And still. The double bass pounds in her lungs. The violin wails in her ears. Step sequence. Flying camel. Double axel, triple toe, double toe. Then the jump she’s been dreading: the triple flip triple loop combination. Why had she put it so late in her program? At the time she had thought it would give her time to warm up into her muscles, to sit into the bend of her knees and ankles, but now - mid competition, she’s just so exhausted.
She goes for it anyway. Lands slightly too forward on the triple flip. Can’t quite get over her blade for the loop. Doubles it. Again .
Still, it could have gone significantly worse, Kate thinks to herself, as she eventually slides to a dramatic stop on her knees to finish out the program. The rest of the jumps were relatively clean - she’d probably lose a level or two on one of her spins, and maybe the step sequence if they were being pernickety - but all in all, it felt like a reasonable re-entry to competition.
She comes second. Cressida Cowper puts together another clean program and climbs to the podium just above her. The girl smiles superciliously as they pretend to hug and congratulate each other, but honestly, with a mother like hers, Kate is willing to forgive almost anything.
“It’s nice to have you back in competition,” Lucy Abernathy, who has come in third place, tells her.
Is it nice to be back? She’s not quite sure yet.
The pairs skaters still have another day of competition, which is how Kate finds herself drinking alone at the hotel bar that night. She’s scrolling on her Twitter feed, primarily reading the Lady Whistledown reactions to her skate.
Kind of sad seeing Kate Sharma struggle to get through a free
Sometimes people need to know when to quit
She reaches for her glass of wine grimly, but a hand closes around her wrist. It’s Anthony.
“Nice skate,” he says. He looks like he means it too, the way he’s looking at her admiringly. Like he’d drink up any crumb of attention she gives him.
“No, you,” she replies. He’d slipped easily into first place, his score absurdly high - too far above any of his opponents to catch up .
He smiles, and she cannot help her body leaning towards him. A magnet. The sun. He is curving his spine down towards her too. It feels like he cannot help it anymore than she can. She’s tired of resisting.
“How about a drink instead of that coffee?” he murmurs in her ear. It’s entirely too practiced and smooth, but she cannot stop looking at him. He is beautiful, this man with the tousled hair, this man of the languid movements. It is easier than breathing to close the distance between them, her palms finding his face, cradling it, to cover his lips with hers.
“This is a terrible idea,” she says against his mouth. She can feel him smiling.
“I’m okay with that,” he says. She might be too.