But then I wake up the next day and in the glaring light of the winter morning I think to myself, Really, Esperanza? Being the first lady figure skater ever to land a quad sal at the Olympics? Who are you kidding? And all that courage and confidence I mustered up last night goes poof!

Dios mío.

I get out of bed and start getting ready for the day like it’s any other, because what else can I do? The big January-February poster calendar my mother made so I can count the days to the Games seems a little intimidating. I’ve been X-ing off each one since the US Championships, and already we’re at January 17. Coach and I leave for the Olympics on January 27. Exactly ten days from now.

Ten days left for my mother to get her visa.

Ten days left to make myself gold-medal-worthy.

Actually, even less, since beginning the 23rd, the rest of the figure skating team arrives in Boston for our pre-Olympic practice. That’s less than a week away, and I can’t count on getting much serious training done during those days. There will probably be drama and a lot of acting up and showing off on the ice, petty jealousies and all sorts of other unpleasant things, just because that’s the way skaters roll.

At least Hunter Wills will be there.

I am calling him back today. No more chickening out. I don’t know what my problem is. He’s been so nice to me.

“Good morning, mi cielo,” my mother says when I enter the kitchen. She’s waiting for me, house keys in hand, all dressed and ready to go to Luciano’s.

I give her a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Mamá. I’m coming with you this morning.” When she gives me a skeptical look, I remind her: “Coach and I only practice in the afternoon on Fridays, remember?”

“You don’t have to chaperone me,” she says, draining some coffee.

Tears push at the back of my eyes. “Mamá, we have only ten days left until the Games. I need to spend time with you. Especially if … you know …” I can’t seem to bring myself to say what we’re both thinking: Especially if you can’t come with me to the Games.

“While I’m chopping vegetables and grating tubs full of mozzarella?”

“I can help.” I love being in the kitchen at Luciano’s helping with prep. Though it’s possible I eat more than I prep.

“But you have other things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Studying, mija. You’re supposed to be in a self-guided program?”

“You think I’m really going to get anything done before the Olympics?”

“Espi —”

“Everyone at Luciano’s is like family and I need to see my family before going away and if I don’t it will be really hard on me!” I say all this in one big breath. My voice turns up high and thin at the end of my sentence, showing all my stress and anxiety.

A big sigh from my mother. “Fine. Go get your coat. Betty’s outside in the car.”

I give her another peck on the cheek. “Give me one minute and I’ll be out,” I tell her, then put on my coat, hat, scarf, and mittens. At the last second, just before I go out the door, I run to my room for my Team USA jacket, carefully folding it into my bag. I can’t resist doing show-and-tell at the restaurant.

“Good morning, Betty,” I say when I get into her big boat of an old Chevrolet.

“Good morning, sugarplum,” she drawls. “How’s the training going?”

“Oh, you know. Intense. But okay, I think.”

She backs down the driveway, then we squeal away down the street.

Inside Luciano’s, Marco is setting up the tables for lunch. Half the place is still bare of silverware and glasses since it’s early. Anthony, the head waiter, is nowhere in sight, and neither is Luca, but a lot of clanging and activity comes through the door of the kitchen, which is propped open to the main dining room. Gino and Marcela must be hard at work already. They sometimes arrive as early as 5:00 a.m.

Marco makes his way over. “Hello, bella. How’s our little Olympian?” He gives me the typical Italian two kisses, one on each cheek.

“You know,” I say. “Nervous.”

He runs a hand across his bald head. “Me too, me too. It’s a nerve-wracking thing, this Olympics, isn’t it?”

Marco’s worry is so sweet. It makes me love him even more. “It will all be okay no matter what, Marco,” I say, and wish that I could so easily console myself.

He nods and grabs the dish towel hanging from his pocket to wipe his face. “Marta gives us daily updates on your progress. Your new spins. Your Vera Wang dress for the ice skating.” He holds up a short, thick finger for each thing he names. “That cute ice skater that keeps calling you.”

Seriously? I put my hand over my eyes, like this might help me hide from the embarrassment I feel. “Mamá,” I yell in the direction of the kitchen, where there are many chopping-against-a-cutting-board sounds. The chopping comes to a halt.

“What did I say?” Marco asks.

“It’s not your fault,” I tell him.

My mother peeks her head through the doorway. “Yes, mija?”

I have a feeling she knows what’s coming from the extra-innocent tone of her voice. She must have been listening to my chat with Marco. “Have you been spying on my cell phone?”

“No,” she says quickly, then runs back to her vegetables. Chopping ensues again.

“Uh-oh,” Marco says. “I did say something I wasn’t supposed to.”

“It’s okay,” I call back over my shoulder since I am already marching into the kitchen. The lights are bright, the walls white, and all the fixtures other than the cutting board countertops are silver metal. Gino is behind the line where they plate and put up food. Marcela is in her pastry corner rolling out dough.

But my mother is nowhere to be found.

“Where is she?” I ask.

Gino jerks his head in the direction of the giant fridge.

“The walk-in?”

He shrugs. Then gives in and nods.

I open the tall door to find my mother standing there, red pepper clutched in one hand, between a big bucket of sliced onions, some tubs of butter, and an entire shelf of fresh broccoli. “You realize the fact that you’re hiding makes it seem like you are guilty of something,” I tell her.

“Oh, Espi, mi amor, mi vida, mi cielo, mi niñita —”

“Ma,” I interrupt. “Terms of endearment aren’t going to help. You told the entire staff that Hunter Wills has been calling me — a fact that I have not shared with you previously — which means that the only way you know this is because you have been spying on my phone!” I wrap my arms around me for warmth. It’s worse than an ice rink in here. “Can we go back into the kitchen?”

My mother’s eyebrows go up. “I thought you might like to talk about this with some privacy?”

“Privacy? Why would we need to have this conversation in private? Everyone already knows everything anyway.”

“I’m just proud of you, mija. I can’t help myself.”

This softens me a bit. But not completely. “You’re proud that Hunter Wills is calling me? Why is that any of your business?”

“Because it’s exciting! He’s very cute. I think you’d look good together.”

“Mamá!” My cheeks would turn red if it wasn’t so cold in here. “That’s not the issue. The issue is that you were looking into places that are private.”

“But you left your phone on the table and it lit up with a call and I saw his face on the screen. It was an accident. Then the missed calls list came up and I noticed he’s called more than once. He’s a nice skater, Espi.”

I take a deep breath, inhaling the freezing air, which is not terribly helpful. “Okay, Mamá. But try not to tell everyone else about that particular stuff next time? I know you’re proud of me. The Hunter Wills thing is private, though.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I understand.” She zips her lips with her fingers.

Then we walk back into the kitchen, where warmth happily greets us. I shut the fridge door behind us and clamp it tight.

“All better?” Marcela asks.

My mother looks at me.

“Yes,” I sigh.

Gino is still filleting chicken. “You should call him back.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Marcela gets there before I can.

“You really should,” she says. “We’ve been eager for more updates.”

I seal my lips into a straight line. Then I grab my bag, head back out into the dining room, and pull up a chair in the farthest, most private corner of the place. I take out my phone and stare at the dark screen like it might talk at any moment.

I look both ways and behind me, then find Hunter’s info and send him a text.

Hey. Sorry I hvn’t calld.

Then I set my phone on the table.

It immediately lights up with a message.

Call now then is all it says.

So I do.

He picks up on the second ring. “Hi, Espi.”

“Hi, Hunter.”

“How’s things?”

“Oh, you know. Training. And more training.”

“I do know.”

Then there is a pause. The silence makes me a little panicky. What does one say to the famous Hunter Wills, male skater phenomenon? But suddenly I think of something relevant. “I got my team jacket yesterday,” I say, all eager and excited because I can’t help sounding that way when I talk about it.

“Isn’t it the best?” he says, which is the perfect response.

“It is,” I respond enthusiastically, and somehow with just this little tidbit, we fall into a real conversation. I tell him about my mother probably not going to the Games and how bummed I am and he commiserates. He tells me about a disagreement he had with his coach and I sympathize, even though Coach Chen and I never fight, so it’s hard for me to imagine. We talk about life pre-fame and post-fame, and he reminds me that I’d better get ready to be famous myself. Then we talk about dumb stuff like our favorite bands and television shows and apps and what our non-skater friends think of having a friend going off to the Olympics, even though all my friends are non-skater ones, which I have to explain to him.

Hunter Wills talks to me like he’s just some regular guy, talking to a regular girl.

It’s kind of awesome.

Just before we hang up, I say something to try to impress him. I do it without thinking, because Hunter has eased me into the kind of intimate conversation that makes me feel like we’re already close and I can trust him, and it seems like the most natural thing in the world that I would tell him this detail.

“So I’m adding a quad sal to my free skate,” I say.

There is a long silence. “You could win gold with that,” he says.

“I know. That’s the idea. I was hoping you might have some pointers.”

“Let me think about it. I’ll text you a list.”

This makes me smile. “That would be amazing.”

Hunter Wills is going to help me with my quads!

When we say good-bye, I think to myself that maybe Hunter’s support is just the kind of boost I need to survive the Olympics. Maybe with his advice I could take home gold. And he is really cute, just like everyone says.

Suddenly, becoming the Quad Queen doesn’t sound half-bad.

In my post-call delirium I don’t even get mad when I turn around and see the entire staff eavesdropping on me. Instead, I model my Team USA jacket for them, basking and smiling in all this love.