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It wasn’t a sharp pain that danced around Brenda’s right ankle as she sat on the carpeted floor. It was just a little twinge—a small reminder that a ligament had been torn a couple of months ago. The feeling was hard to nail down to one particular spot. Like a shiver, it traveled around her ankle and then seemed to hide from her just as she was about to pinpoint its location. Maybe it was just her imagination.
Continuing to stretch her muscles and warm up her body, Brenda couldn’t help but hear the instructions from Doctor Coyle. He’d been her doctor since she was twelve years old.
“You’ve got to stay off that ankle for at least three months. That includes staying off the ice.” Then he scared her by reading her mind as well as her x-ray. “I mean it,” he said in a low and haunting voice. “Any sooner, Brenda, and you risk ending your skating career.”
In just four short days, it would be three months exactly. The more she thought about her injury and studied her ankle, the more she thought the twinge was all in her head.
Her nerves were overloaded with the excitement of the day, and so every little ailment—the hangnail on her thumb, the pimple on her forehead, the twinge in her ankle—was magnified by a thousand. She knew it. Yes, it was all in her head. Who could blame her for being nervous? This was the Pacific Sectional Ice Skating Championship. The next stop was the Olympics.
Colorado Springs, Colorado was a quiet place to live for eleven months out of the year. But come January, when the skating competition for Olympic hopefuls began, the entire town transformed into a swarming hive of activity. People from all over the nation booked every hotel, motel, bed and breakfast, and spare room available to either compete or report on the competition. Restaurants were packed for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. Souvenir shops were swamped with people buying little snow globes, magnets made in the shape of Colorado, T-shirts with crazy sayings like “I skated through Colorado Springs, Colorado” or “I-Heart-Colorado.”
Chain department stores had their racks cleared out by people from warmer states who didn’t realize places even got this cold that weren’t located at the North Pole. They’d buy thick, down-filled coats and wool hats with tassels on the top, complete with matching gloves and scarves to cover up the windbreakers and baseball hats they thought would be enough to keep out the chill. To residents of Colorado Springs, thirty-two degrees was still car-washing weather. To someone from Tennessee, it was the Arctic Tundra.
Traffic became a competitive sport in a category all of its own. People who had no idea where they were or what direction they were traveling coasted down the streets in jerking patterns, scanning street signs and merging into turn lanes, only to squeeze their way back into the main stream of cars. It was a miracle in itself that the accident rate didn’t go up more than the usual thirty-five percent this time of year. And, if it snowed, that rate climbed a tiny bit higher. Some people just weren’t equipped to deal with ice and snow.
This year, it had been mild so far with no snow in the forecast for the next ten days. The sun would blaze over the icy cold landscape in a sharp blue sky and, at night, the stars would be out by the millions.
It was a great tradition. All of it was glorious to Brenda who loved not just skating but also the fanfare, the ceremony, the entire atmosphere of competition.
Pulling herself from the floor, she stretched her arms behind her head and twisted her body at the waist, feeling the warmth of her blood starting to infuse her limbs.
“No,” she mumbled to herself. “Feels fine. No problem.” Her eyebrows pursed together as she held onto one of the stretching bars and rotated her right ankle.
PING! There it was again. Brenda’s grip tightened on the bar. Her mind darted in a hundred different directions, searching for the answer she was purposefully avoiding. She couldn’t focus. This wasn’t good. Usually, in a competition, Brenda would be going over her routine in her head, warming her muscles with gentle stretches and scanning the audience for her family, who’d attended every tournament since she began competing ten years ago. It was never hard to find them. They jumped up and down like lunatics and held up wildly colored signs that read, “Team Brenda” or “Go Brenda Go.” This time, they had a special sign that read, “Next stop: South Korea”—referring to the next Winter Olympics. The sign was in red, white, and blue glitter on a giant piece of white cardboard that had to be held by two people because it was so big.
But Brenda had temporarily forgotten about it. She didn’t scan the crowd like usual. Instead, she rotated her left ankle and then her right again, measuring the tingling difference. Was it there? Now she was beginning to think both ankles were hurting.
“This is stupid.” Her voice was quiet but deliberate.
“Are you talking to me?” A sharp voice came from behind, causing Brenda to jump just a little.
Her eyes settled on Stacy Richards. To say she and Brenda were rivals was like saying the North Pole could get a bit chilly. There was a genuine dislike for each other that had started the day Brenda stepped onto Stacy’s rink.
Coming from a family with money and connections, Stacy wasn’t used to having an average-looking girl with braces show her up on the ice. Brenda, having been taught that God gives everyone a talent and to be thankful for what you can’t do as well as what you can, saw Stacy as a kindred spirit. Her competitor seemed to love the sport as much as Brenda did, beginning when they were kids. But Brenda’s creative risks in her routines and her pleasant disposition when getting instructions and critiques from their coach, Pamela Dodges, gave Stacy her first taste of being second. She didn’t like it, even though both women could turn the heads of every man in the audience. Since when did a girl from a middle-class family outshine her? And even though the girls had skated next to each other for years, Brenda knew nothing about Stacy except that her father was a pillar of local politics. Her mother had her skating costumes custom-made by Tania Bass out of New York City, and, before every competition, Nika Babikov, a former Russian champion skater, would call her to wish her luck and offer her a few pointers.
“No, Stacy. I was just mumbling to myself.” Brenda shook her head and offered an awkward smile to Stacy’s judgmental look. She stared at Stacy’s outfit, not because she was jealous but because the outfit looked dazzling on her competitor. The amazing, black, sequined costume hugged every curve of her slim body and seemed to grab the light from everywhere and reflect it like silver stars on a pitch-black night.
Brenda’s thoughts drifted to the evening before when her mother had added a few finishing touches to her costume. “You don’t need all that flash when you skate the way you do, honey,” her mother had said as Brenda paraded her outfit in front of the dresser mirror. She smiled as she gazed with appreciation at the dusty-blue costume festooned with Swarovski crystals that her mother had carefully sewn around the collar and along the hem of the tiny skirt. The truth was, Brenda was never disappointed in what her mom made for her.
“How much did this one set you back, Mom?”
“Oh, well, the fabric was reduced because it was two odd-sized pieces. But I was able to match them up on the seam almost perfectly. The crystals were a little pricey, but, all together I think it only came to about sixty-five dollars.”
“You should go into the costume design business, Mom. People would be thrilled to own such pretty creations for that price.”
“Well, if you ever stop skating, maybe I’ll do just that.”
Brenda watched as Stacy stared at her like a rare monkey on exhibit at the zoo. Stacy’s hair was perfectly smoothed back from her face, making her look like royalty. Her teeth were perfectly straight and white, and her nails were painted to match her costume. For a second, Brenda worried about the hangnail on her thumb, but then quickly forgot about it.
“It looks to me like that ankle might be giving you a little trouble. It did keep you off the ice for a looong, long time,” Stacy said, stepping past Brenda toward the small ramp that led to the ice.
“Stacy, you always do make such a fuss over me. Don’t you ever get tired of worrying about other people instead of yourself?”
Stacy stopped and stared at Brenda, rolling her eyes. She rotated her ankles easily and then leaned in toward Brenda. “See you in the winner’s circle. I think your name is already on the second-place trophy.”
Brenda couldn’t help snickering. Normally, this kind of banter would just roll off, but not today. Today it seemed like everything was bothering her. Her laces needed to be retied three times. She’d forgotten her music in the car and had to flag her father to run out and get it for her. And then there was her ankle, which she still couldn’t tell if it was hurting or not.
Brenda’s stomach jumped as she watched Stacy talk and smile with Pamela for a minute before gliding elegantly out onto the ice after her name was announced. She looked terrific on the ice, like those black goldfish with the scarf-like tails that waved so beautifully in the water. If Stacy had a more humble spirit, Brenda would be going nuts cheering her on. But nope. The girl left such a sour taste in Brenda’s mouth she rarely watched her performances anymore. Instead, Brenda would spend those precious minutes concentrating on her own routine and staying warmed up.
It was just a little twinge, and it only hurt if she twisted her ankle to the right as far as it would go. In her routine, she had no need to do that, so there was no need to worry.
“Lord, just let me get through this routine without a mistake, and I promise to take it easy and make sure I tend to this ankle. Just this one, last routine,” she mumbled again to herself. “I’ve worked so hard. I can’t let a little twinge derail everything.”
To Brenda, it felt like Stacy’s routine was everlasting. Finally, getting to her feet, rotating both ankles, stretching her neck, and listening to the crowd going wild for Stacy’s 9.7 score, Brenda took a deep breath, trying to calm down. But the screaming behind her kept her distracted. She looked and saw Stacy’s parents waving a dozen roses and holding out a full-length fur coat for the poor dear to wrap herself in while she suffered through the remaining performances. She walked confidently off the ice and to her parents, who were always to be found in this particular area of the seats to ensure everyone saw them. Standing on the tips of her blades, Stacy hugged and kissed them both.
Brenda looked at Stacy’s parents. Her competitor’s mother had raven-black hair, and her father was as bald as a cue ball. Brenda couldn’t help wondering if her father had blond hair at one time. Maybe Stacy would be balding in a couple years, too.
“Not nice, Brenda, not nice,” she could hear her mother’s voice saying. Maybe it wasn’t nice, but it caused Brenda to chuckle a little devilishly to herself. She gazed to her right. One girl was performing before Brenda—a tiny little thing named Brittany, who didn’t look any older than fourteen but showed a lot of promise.
“... the promise of a gold medal,” Brenda remembered Kyle Hastings saying as he hounded her the minute she’d arrived at the stadium this morning. He was an older man with a hardened face, born to be a newspaper journalist. He had a balding head and a nose that must have been broken several times for all the directions it took before ending in a round knob. His smile looked alien and uncomfortable on his chubby face. Nope, she thought. No news program on television would rush to have him as one of their newsreaders.
Having spoken a great deal to the press in the last couple of weeks, Brenda liked Kyle the least. He enjoyed stirring up controversy and drama, and often asked questions like, “What do you think you’ll do if you lose points over your weak knee?” Or, “Are the rumors about such-and-such love interest dissolving going to affect your performance?”
Like the most ruthless of reporters, Kyle relished playing mind games with whoever he was interviewing. Brenda could almost swear the man had a sadistic streak to his personality, often smirking as his victims squirmed under the barrage of questions fired from his thick lips. Then the pompous man would have the nerve to pat himself on the back in his follow-up story for successfully predicting a win or loss, citing his gifted ability to unnerve a skater before a competition as the real reason for their failure. “Stirring the pot” was the term Walter Wagner liked to use about Kyle.
But Brenda was mentally prepared to resist his callous methods of interrogation. Her eyes focused on the athlete’s entrance door as he shuffled to keep up with her, his roly-poly body jiggling with each step like angry ocean waves in the middle of a storm.
He spoke as he struggled to keep up with her. “We’ve all heard you say this was your year, and you were making yourself a promise to get the gold medal. Are you still feeling that way, even with your ankle?”
Brenda squinted her eyes and looked hard at Kyle. “I’m ready for anything.”
“You’re the lead filly in this race. Do you think Stacy Richards could pull the rug from under your dreams of making it to South Korea?”
“Stacy is a great skater. I’d be honored to share the platform with her. There are three medals. More than enough to go around.”
The two had stopped now, and Kyle was panting. “But this is the Sectionals. Only two of you can make it to South Korea. One slip with that ankle and that could be it. Have you considered what you’d do if that happened? What would be your next step? Would you give up skating for good?
The idea was laughable to Brenda. She didn’t think this way and found Kyle’s blatant attempt to fan the flames of competition into a blazing inferno of jealousy to be childish.
“It sounds like that’s what you’re hoping for, Kyle,” she said, staring him straight in the eyes. “Is that what you want? What, did you place money on a bet against me?” she asked coyly, feigning an anguished expression at the thought he wouldn’t gamble on her.
“No. No. Just asking the hard questions, Brenda. You know that,” he said, his face crinkling into that forced smile that looked almost painful.
“Kyle, I’ll talk to you after the competition, if I have a minute.”
She strode into the rink, letting the heavy door slam on Kyle, keeping him outside to loiter around and harass the other skaters as they entered. Brenda was lucky she’d come early, and he was the only reporter out there. Judging by his wrinkled jacket and the little bit of stubble on his chin and cheeks, Brenda was pretty sure he’d spent the night in his car.
By the time this sort of event was ready to start, it wasn’t uncommon to see a dozen or more pushy and rude reporters out there asking stupid questions like, “Are you nervous? Do you feel you’ve trained enough? Do you want to qualify for the Olympics?”
It amazed Brenda that as soon as the door slammed shut, she felt a pain in her ankle, a pain she hadn’t felt since she first twisted it three months previous. Had Kyle unleashed some subconscious fear about her ankle not being completely healed, a fear she’d successfully ignored until now? Or was it just nerves? Anxiety began to grow inside Brenda’s chest.
Why did it have to happen now?
This wasn’t just some routine tournament with a gold trophy at the end. This competition was to qualify for the United States Figure Skating Championships and eventually the Winter Olympics.
“Brenda!”
The voice sounded distant as if she were inside a tunnel. Brenda wasn’t sure if it was real or imaginary. But then she heard the voice again, only this time it was much louder.
“Brenda!”
She snapped out of her daydream, letting her gaze drift to her right, not recognizing anyone who seemed to be calling her name or trying to get her attention. Refocusing on her skates, she put her full weight on her ankle without realizing she was testing it again.
“Brenda! Over here!”
Maybe it was her nerves, she thought. Pivoting her body almost completely around, Brenda saw the culprit. Along the edge of the stands, behind the skater’s booth where the girls warmed up and waited for their turns, stood a tall, slim man waving frantically with a single rose in his hand.
Scott Nichols.
He raised his hand with hesitation as if Brenda might reject his heartfelt greeting, leaning carefully over the rail with an awkward smile, his hand clutching the long-stemmed rose as if it was the last one in the world.
“Really?” The words came out of her mouth with a massive sigh. This was all Brenda needed on top of her health concerns. She folded her arms over her chest and stood staring at Scott for what seemed like an eternity before carefully plodding over to him in her skates.
Brenda hadn’t seen Scott in about three years and, as far as she was concerned, it wasn’t long enough. Even though the sight of him made her clench her teeth, she couldn’t help admiring how handsome and strong he still looked after all these years, as if he survived on some secret, anti-aging diet. But, in spite of his good looks, she had the urge to plant her size six-and-a-half skate right between his eyes for what he’d done to her. Instead, she gave him a confident, maybe even conceited smile as she stared silently at him and said nothing.
“I just wanted to wish you good luck. I know how hard you’ve been training.” He offered her the rose, but Brenda didn’t reach up for it. She continued looking at him, her eyes steady and as cold as the ice Brittany was currently skating on.
“This isn’t really a good time, Scott,” she said, pushing her feelings deep down into the toes of her skates.
His eyes looked hurt.
“Now isn’t a good time to wish you luck?” he asked, the smile slowly fading.
“I have to finish warming up.” She gave him as big a grin as she could without looking totally psychotic, then turned and headed steadily over to Pamela’s side for her last-minute pep talk. Scott remained frozen, his eyes blinking with confusion as if he wasn’t sure what had just happened. The rose hung limply from his hand.
“You need to focus now, Brenda,” Pamela said, looking at Brenda’s ankle. “Just a few deep breaths, and then when the music starts let it carry you. You know the steps, the routine. You’re ready for this. So just do it.”
Brenda liked Pamela. It was at moments like this when she wasn’t screaming at Brenda to point her toes or to remember to spot if she wanted to land correctly or to extend her legs further because she was so short the other skaters were going to overpower her that Brenda could see the motherly worry in her eyes.
It was a tough love that could break even an NFL player in half that Pamela used on her students. She wanted the girls to win. She liked to win as much as they did. Who didn’t? But one thing Brenda admired most was Pam’s attitude of not winning at any cost. As Brenda looked deeply into Pam’s eyes, she thought maybe, just maybe, she should step down from this competition. Her ankle was hurting, and there hadn’t been the three months’ respite the doctor had recommended. While Brenda was afraid to let her coach down, a tiny voice inside told her she should sit this one out.
She opened her mouth but snapped it shut quickly. Hoping her symptoms had miraculously vanished, she applied pressure to her right ankle, grimacing as she felt the familiar jolt of electricity radiating through her foot.
“How’s the ankle?” Pamela’s eyes narrowed as she studied Brenda’s face. “You can forfeit. You don’t want to risk an accident if you feel any pain. Does it hurt at all?”
Brenda saw movement out of the corner of her eye and stole a glance over her shoulder. It was Stacy, hovering dangerously close to their conversation like a spider waiting for a jittery, spastic fly to fall accidentally into her web.
“Nope. It’s fine. I’m good.”
It was easy to see that Pam didn’t believe Brenda one hundred percent. But, as Brittany made her way off the ice, smiling and waving after the 8.9 score on her performance, Pamela couldn’t stop Brenda on just a hunch. Without another word, Brenda left the skater’s booth. Striking a pose in the middle of the rink, she let all other thoughts fall away.
It was invigorating. At once Brenda felt like a goldfish that had jumped out of its bowl onto the carpet, only to be gently tossed back into the water by a kind soul. The ice gave off a coolness that gently wrapped around her body.
“God, please help me remember my balance. Don’t let my mind become clouded with nonsense. Help me to use the talent you gave me to the best of my ability.”
With the first, rich sounds of the stringed instruments, Brenda fell into her performance and became one with the ice, the music, and the audience. She smiled as she glided in elegant patterns, performing her upright spin at mind-blowing speed before coming to an abrupt stop. Then she quickly broke away into a perfect, graceful extension that made her look like a gazelle as she completed a layback spin with catch foot.
It was going perfectly. Her confidence shone through every movement on the ice. As she skated to the far end of the rink, she saw her parents and gave a quick wave, sending cheers through that side of the audience.
All the skaters’ routines had to incorporate individual moves to qualify for the Olympics. The final piece of Brenda’s ensemble was the double axel. She was down the rink, following the music, chasing it like a cat after a dangling piece of string. There it was, her cue. Her heart pounded. The audience became a blur. She counted in her head. In one superb effort, Brenda launched herself perfectly into the air. The cool air rushed over her face, her body spinning like a top as she completed two flawless rotations. But, the instant her right foot came down and made contact with the ice, Brenda knew something was wrong.
Who had electrocuted the ice? Or did she land on a giant spike that had suddenly appeared out of the frozen floor? Everything was going perfectly, and now there was a problem—a big, painful problem. Before Brenda’s mind could register that her right ankle had completely given out underneath her, she stumbled and fell. Her eyes snapped wider as her body lurched forward and sailed through the air like a clumsy football player making a tackle. She watched helplessly as the ice rose up to meet her face. Her body tensed as images of previous accidents in Ontario and Los Angeles flashed across her mind. And even though Brenda could predict what was about to happen, something inside told her this fall would be different, terribly different. Her mouth opened to scream for help as if her God or someone in the audience had the power to save her from what she knew was coming. But before any sound could escape her lips, the sound of her head cracking against the ice caused the entire audience to gasp in horror.
But Brenda didn’t hear them. She didn’t know the ligament in her ankle had torn away from the bone. Nor did she know that her head injury was worse than her ankle injury. There was arctic silence in the rink for what seemed like an eternity; fans watching with open jaws as Brenda’s family rushed onto the ice. She lay unconscious and lifeless while paramedics made their way to her from behind the judges’ booth.
Brenda was unaware of any of this. She didn’t know her mother was holding her breath watching the medical personnel working on her daughter. There was a whirlwind of activity going on, and Brenda had no idea any of it was taking place.
Stacy Richards watched with wide eyes, secretly rejoicing over Brenda’s pending disqualification. If it weren’t for this accidental stroke of tragedy—or luck, as Stacy saw it—her competitor’s flawless performance would have knocked Stacy into second place. But now she’d receive the gold metal and proceed to the United States Figure Skating Championships to qualify for her lifeline dream of going to the Olympics.
Brenda couldn’t see the smug look on Stacy’s face. Her mind had drifted to a place with no sight or sound. Her family buzzed hysterically around her, and the audience could see the look of fear on their faces. EMTs hurried her off the ice and into an ambulance. Scott climbed in beside her and held her hand, his eyes filled with tears as he spoke words of encouragement, hoping that somewhere in the recesses of her mind she could grab hold of them and pull herself out of her involuntary sleep. But Brenda’s eyes remained closed. Scott bowed his head and desperately prayed to God she’d be all right.
Brenda knew nothing about the anguish Scott was feeling or the look of desperation on his face because she was too busy swimming in a sea of complete darkness, searching for light—any speck that could lead her up and out of it.
