SLOANE DEVON
I was worried someone was going to snag me the moment I walked through the front door at BSI; worried that maybe they’d even send Sergei to use some of his Ukrainian muscle to get rid of me.
But no one pays any attention to me at all.
Skaters rush past me, some already dressed in stretchy, shiny, sparkly skating costumes, skate bags slung over their shoulders and makeup kits clutched in their hands. Ella St. Clair is in the corner on one of the antique chairs with Caitlin Hanson towering over her, furiously french-braiding her hair. Two other skaters linger next to them waiting for their turn. There’s a visible cloud of glitter hanging in the air like a haze.
Good. Maybe it will help me stay incognito.
A group of junior girls dart past me, probably on their way to catch the next shuttle to the rink. Today’s performance will take place at a huge arena at the University of Montreal, with full lights, even a kiss-and-cry: a spot off the side of the rink where, after our performance is done, we’ll sit and wait for our scores, and cry out of either happiness or total despair. I had to get Andy to explain to me what exactly that is, and I’m dreading it almost more than the actual performance itself.
Suddenly, a hand clamps down on my elbow. My first thought is that I’m busted.
“Are you okay?” Andy spins me around to face him, gripping both my arms like it’s some kind of intervention, and I exhale. He’s already in his solid black spandex jumpsuit, sleeveless to show off his arms. I never knew a guy could rock a unitard so hard.
“I don’t know. You tell me.” I have no idea if everyone heard why Ivy and I were engaged in fisticuffs, or if people just assume I’m some psycho who beats up the competition. Dear God, please let it be the psycho theory.
“Well, after your little food fight and your quick departure, Ivy stood there carrying on about how you were an imposter. It was an epic meltdown. Katinka shut her down and sent her off to get ready for the competition. I think thanks to her almighty hysterics, no one really heard the truth; or if they did, they don’t believe it. Thank God she always was a drama queen.”
“Thank God,” I say, and I actually feel my pulse slow down by about half. I didn’t realize my heart was staging a rave inside my chest. “Are you sure no one saw the magazine?”
“Girl, these kids have had nothing but rhinestones and lutzes on their minds for weeks. None of them are paying attention to CNN.” Andy sizes me up. “Does this mean you’re skating?”
“If you’ll let me,” I say, and I feel my pulse quicken again.
Andy raises his eyebrows practically through his forehead. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you could get in trouble for helping me,” I say. “Or at the very least, I could make you look bad out there.”
“First of all, I don’t give a rat’s ass if people know I helped you, because second, you’re not going to make me look bad.” Andy crosses his arms. “When people see what I’ve done for you, they’re going to be begging me to coach them. How do you think I’m going to make a living someday? You, girl, are my golden ticket.”
“No pressure, then, huh?” I try to laugh, but all that comes out is a squeak.
“Quit it with the ‘woe is me’ crap and go get dressed,” he says. He spins me around and points me toward the stairs.
I look over my shoulder and stick my tongue out at him, and he swats me lightly on the butt. We head up the stairs and I turn left to go to my room. Andy grabs my arm again.
“No need to run into Ivy until you’re actually on the ice. Why ruin the surprise? You can get ready in my room.”