“Will do. Now you need to get your game face on,” she says. She pulls my jersey from the hanger that’s sticking out of the locker and tosses it on top of my head. “And your jersey, too.”
I pull the heavy blue jersey off my face, happy to have a task and a distraction from the nerves and the guilt and the anxiety dancing a conga line in my stomach. I look down at the fabric in my hands and see the stitched-on white block letters spelling out JACOBS. I have to keep myself from tearing up. I may be pretending, but I am Sloane Jacobs. That’s my name.
I get dressed, then give myself one final once-over in the mirror. My phone rings. I dig it out of my bag and see a text from James on the screen.
Surprise! Came to see your big comeback. What time are you on?
I don’t even have time to get nervous or freaked out or formulate a lie. That’s all over now. Now it’s just me. I tap a reply, then toss my phone back into my bag.
Come to McConnell Arena. 3883 University St. I’m in blue. I’ll explain after.
CHAPTER 28
SLOANE DEVON
I’ve been pretending to be someone else for four weeks. For four weeks I’ve put on someone else’s clothes, I’ve trained in someone else’s sport, and I’ve told someone else’s life story. I really should be used to it, but looking in the mirror in Andy’s room right now, I absolutely don’t recognize myself.
And it’s totally freaky.
Andy has used some kind of industrial sealant to slick my hair back in a high, tight bun. The effect has my eyebrows arched in a look of mild yet constant surprise. It’s only accentuated by the heavy black cat’s-eye liner he’s painted on. My lips are coated with a color that should be called “Harlot” or “Streetwalker.” I’ve got a sweep of bright blush on my cheeks extending almost to my hairline. And that’s just above the neck.
My torso is covered in a ruched black spandex bodice with little rhinestones buried in the fabric. The top is sheer so as to make the dress appear strapless, but there are a few tiny rhinestones scattered across my shoulders. The skirt—if you can call it that, since it barely covers my behind—is A-line. No flounces, which I appreciate. Cover me in rhinestones, but don’t give me a stinking ruffly skirt. That’s where I draw the line.
“Now for the finishing touch,” Andy says. He comes at me with a fuzzy black caterpillar-looking thing pinched between his fingers.
“Oh no you don’t,” I say, swatting his hand away.
“Shut up, close your eyes, and think of England,” he says. Then he jams his finger into my eyes, first the left, then the right. I blink a few times, feeling like my eyelashes have been dipped in molasses. Fake eyelashes. I never, ever thought I’d see the day.
“You look good.” Andy takes a few steps back to admire his work.
“I look like a drag queen,” I say, trying to restore my normal blinking function.
“Grab your skates, RuPaul. It’s time to go.”
Andy and I take the last shuttle to the arena. As soon as we arrive, he shoves me into a broom closet underneath the stands. When he pops his head in to motion me out, I nearly pull the door shut again and tell him to go away. The only reason I follow is that I’m pretty sure he’ll drag me out by my bun if I refuse. We make our way down the narrow hallway and around the corner that leads to the ice, both waddling like cowboys with saddle sores, thanks to our skates.
Roman and his partner, Elizabeth, are just finishing up their routine. They’re in matching yellow spandex outfits, his a jumpsuit, hers a feathery minidress. They look like figure skating Big Bird impersonators. Thank God Andy has style. He took one of Sloane Emily’s old white dresses and dip-dyed it black and glued on all those rhinestones himself. I can’t believe I’m saying this about a spandex minidress covered in glitter, but I look pretty badass.
“You know I said all that crap about how I made you?” Andy whispers to me.
“Yeah?”
“Well, a sculptor is only as good as the clay, or whatever,” Andy says. Then he reaches down and squeezes my hand. I feel a tiny lump rise in my throat, but a couple deep breaths push it away. I’ve become a lot of things these last few weeks, but a crier will not be one of them.
Roman lifts Elizabeth high over his head. As Elizabeth whizzes by, I’m nearly blinded by her toothy white grin, which serves as a reminder to me: Must. Smile. It’s not something I’ve ever had to think about when playing sports before. “Game face” means something entirely different out here.
The music swells as Roman and Elizabeth enter their final footwork pattern, which will end in impressively fast camel spins. Then there will be thunderous applause. Then it will be our turn out there. I have to swallow hard to keep from throwing up in my mouth. I distract myself by removing the plastic guards from my skates and placing them on the ledge.
“You have some nerve.”
The syrupy whisper jolts my jitters away.
“Get away from me,” I say back to Ivy. She’s standing next to me in something hot pink and glittery that manages to incorporate rhinestones, feathers, and tassels. She looks like a cabaret act on acid.
“What do you think you’re even doing here?” Ivy’s voice rises well above a whisper, but it’s masked by the booming timpani of the music in the arena. It’s loud enough that some people on the sidelines take notice, though, and Katinka comes striding over. Crap, an adult.
“What ees dee problem?” Katinka crosses her arms and glares at Ivy, ignoring me completely.
“She’s a fraud,” Ivy says. She points one long, pink-polished finger at me, so close that she’s practically poking me in the eye. Thank God for those false eyelashes. They provide a bit of a buffer from Ivy’s talons.
“What are you talking about?” Katinka still doesn’t look at me. She just stares Ivy down so hard that Ivy drops her finger and sort of shrinks into herself. Katinka is a tiny lady with a huge dose of scary.
“She’s not who she says she is.” Ivy’s voice is a little quieter now, but she’s still spitting venom. Katinka turns to me for the first time.
“Are you Sloane Jacobs?” she asks.
I gulp. “Yes,” I say, though my shaking voice makes the word six or seven syllables long. I look her right in the eye, and just as I’m about to crumble and run—not that I’d get very far in these skates—I see a faint sparkle there. She stares at me hard, just like she stared at Ivy, and for a split second I see a nearly imperceptible wink.
“But she’s not the right Sloane Jacobs!” Ivy cries.
Katinka just holds up a slender hand. “I don’t care about personal life. I care only for skater on ice. She ees Sloane Jacobs. She skate on ice. Ees enough for me.”
“But—but—she’s a liar!” Ivy sputters.
“Miss Loughner,” Katinka says, and her voice turns so icy, for a moment I fantasize it will freeze Ivy altogether and she’ll splinter like a Popsicle. “You are familiar with international skating rules, are you not?”
“Of course,” Ivy spits.
“Then you know you can be disqualified for unsports-womanlike conduct, no?”
“Disqualified? But she—”
“Miss Loughner.” Katinka raises an eyebrow.
Ivy sucks in a breath. She’s shaking so hard I think she might explode. Finally, she turns to me. “Break a leg, Sloane,” she growls with such venom that I actually think she’s going to do it for me right now.
I smile sweetly at her. “Thank you, Ivy.”
“And now, Sloane Jacobs and Andy Phillips, performing a program to ‘Hedwig’s Theme.’ ”
My name echoes across the arena and bounces around in my head. It’s my name, and I’m really going to do this.
“Go. And kick butt,” Katinka clips in her multinational accent.
And with that, Andy and I take our first step out onto the ice.
CHAPTER 29
SLOANE EMILY
The red team is warming up on the ice. Melody has them organized in some kind of military-like drill situation, jump
ing and weaving in parallel lines around the rink. Watching them is just making me more nervous, so I have to turn away from the glass barrier.
The blue team is lined up around the outside of the rink. We start in five minutes; we’ll have fifteen minutes to warm up. Then there will be intros, and then the buzzer will start the game. The thought of it sends my gaze straight down to my skates. I think I’m going to throw up.
“Jacobs, look alive! What, are you praying over there?” Coach Hannah strolls up and thumps me hard on the back, but I can barely feel it through the padding. I give her a weak smile, and she just laughs at me. If only she knew this isn’t just game-day nerves. This is first-game-day nerves.
I try to take my mind off the game by people-watching in the crowd, which is growing larger by the minute. There are plenty of friends and family, but it also looks like people have come in off the street to watch. It looks like close to two hundred spectators.
One woman catches my eye. She’s sitting about six rows up. Her face is tired, and a few laugh lines betray her age, but her long hair is still jet-black and braided. She looks oddly familiar, but I can’t place her.
Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest. She scans the ice, then leans over to whisper something to the man next to her, tall and sort of burly with a dark beard and a flannel shirt. The woman uncrosses her arms and uses her hand as a shield from the bright stadium lights. She’s wearing a bright yellow shirt with black letters printed across the chest.
MAMA JACOBS.
Oh. My. God.
A big part of me wants to run and hide—maybe stuff myself back into a locker and let Trina have her time on the ice with varsity.
But I’m through running. And I’m through hiding. So I hop out of the rink and sprint up the stairs, ignoring the surprised looks and murmurs from the crowd.
“Mrs. Jacobs!” I say, shoving my way over to her. “Hi! It’s really nice to meet you. I’m a friend of Sloane’s. My name is also Sloane Jacobs, if you can believe that.” Mrs. Jacobs just stares at me. The man next to her, who must be Sloane’s dad, tilts his head slightly like a dog does when it hears a high-pitched noise.
“You—you know my daughter?” she asks. I notice how her accent spreads out the word “daughter” and ends it with an ah sound.
“I do,” I tell her.
“Where is she? I don’t see her on either team.”
“She’s actually not here,” I say, and I see the blood start to drain from her face, signaling the start of full-on mom emergency mode. “She’s fine! Don’t worry. She’s only a few blocks away at another arena.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize there were two different games,” she says, looking at her husband.
“The email said all the games were here,” Mr. Jacobs says. He has the same accent as Mrs. Jacobs, the same accent I heard a trace of in Sloane Devon’s voice.
“Oh, well, you know—it’s a long story,” I say lightly, trying to laugh. I end up sounding like I’ve swallowed my mouth guard. “And I’m sure she’ll want to tell you all about it. But you should go on over to the ice arena at the University of Montreal. Take a cab, it should only take you a few minutes.”
They both stare at me for just a few seconds before gathering their things and hustling out of the arena. I hope they make it in time to see her.
A sharp whistle brings my attention back down to the ice. Back to my ice.
“Jacobs, get your butt down here!” Cameron looks like she’s about to throttle me.
“I’m ready,” I say. And I am.
CHAPTER 30
SLOANE DEVON
The lights are so bright that I can’t see a soul in the crowd. All I can see is the white expanse of ice surrounding me.
Our music starts with a cymbal crash and a deafening timpani roll. Andy’s left hand on my waist squeezes slightly, and then we’re off. Our routine starts with some side-by-side footwork. Then we have our first jump early. It’s just a waltz jump, nothing fancy. Andy calls it a rust-buster, but once when I was whining he told me to quit it and do “the baby jump.” It’s meant to get me warmed up for later, when we’ll go for our double axel. As we whiz past the judges toward the far side of the ice, Andy catches my eye and gives me a wink. I relax a little. He’s having fun with it. So can I.
I take a breath and extend my left foot backward. Then I swing it forward, executing a half turn in the air and landing on my right foot. It’s just a small jump, but there’s plenty of room for what Andy calls “pretty arms,” and when I land without wobbling, I give plenty of pretty face, too. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear the blood pumping in my ears, but I’m not nervous. I’m full of adrenaline. I want to do it again, right now. We don’t have another jump for about forty-five seconds, though.
It’s time for our first lift. Even though Andy and I have carried it off flawlessly for the past week, I’m still nervous as I drop away from him. He grips my hand, pulls me forward, and before I can even think about falling on my butt, I’m soaring through the air. I hear the crowd applaud. I don’t have to worry about remembering to smile, because there’s a perma-grin plastered across my face. This is so awesome.
We do another single, this time a half loop, just like the waltz jump but landing on the opposite foot, and then go into side-by-side spins. Then we’re off again, picking up speed. It’s time for the double, nearly the end of our program. It’s a double lutz, the easiest double there is—or so Andy claims.
All at once, my anxiety comes rushing back. I’ll swing my left foot back, my weight on the back outside edge. Then I’ll launch up, spin two and a half times, my arms tucked tight on my chest, and land on the back outside edge of the opposite foot. Or is it the inside edge? No, it’s the outside edge. I think. No, I’m sure. Outside edge. Outside.
And then I feel it. The tingles start in my toes and work their way up my foot. When they hit my calf I feel my left leg go weak, and I have to concentrate hard not to wobble. No, not here. This doesn’t belong here. Outside. Or inside?
Dammit, which is it?
I’m seconds from the jump when I hear Katinka’s voice in my head. Don’t think. Just go with eet.
I take a deep breath. And just before I kick my foot out to leave the ice, I close my eyes and think of nothing but ice: smooth, white, spotless ice. The tingles dissolve back down into my toes and disappear. Then I bend my knee, tuck my arms, and leap.
The not-thinking thing makes it so I barely notice I’ve landed the jump. I catch a glimpse of Andy’s smile, and I hear the thunderous applause and even a few whoops from the crowd. I’m so shocked that I nearly fall down while skating backward, but the wobble is practically imperceptible and I pull myself together quickly.
Before I know it, Andy and I are engaged in side-by-side spins so fast I worry I might achieve liftoff. I hear the drums rolling and the horns rising in our music, and just as I hear the cymbal crash, Andy and I slam our toe picks down into the ice in unison, throwing our arms into the air.
The sound is deafening. There’s applause and cheers, and flowers and stuffed animals start appearing down on the ice. Little girls in matching blue dresses skate around and start picking them up. Andy grabs my hand, then pulls me down in a deep bow. Then we spin around and bow to the other side. I blink into the lights, still unable to see individual faces in the crowd.
Andy throws his arms around me in a giant bear hug. “We did it!” he says. “You were on fire!”
I can’t even respond. I’m still too shocked.
Andy grasps my hand and leads me off toward the kiss-and-cry. Long ago I vowed to neither kiss nor cry while sitting in the blue-carpet-covered area where we’ll wait for our scores. I don’t even care what the judges say. I feel like a perfect ten.
We step off the ice, grab our skate guards, and hobble over to the corner where Katinka is waiting. She gives me a thumbs-up, and I just nod at her. I’m not sure how much she knows, but I’m glad to have her in my corner regardless.
We have t
o wait a few minutes while the judges turn in their scores to the announcer. A photographer crouches in front of us and starts snapping photos. The flash blinds me even worse than the stadium lights. People are talking all around me, the crowd is still loud, and Andy is chattering on, reliving every moment of our unbelievable performance.
The announcer’s voice booms out over the loudspeaker. Andy squeezes my hand so tight I worry my fingers are going to pop off. Another flash goes off in front of me, and I have to blink and look away to get my vision back.
Off to the left of the kiss-and-cry, I spot something bright yellow. At first I think it’s a side effect of the flash, but then I see that it’s a T-shirt. With black letters on the front. That spell out MAMA JACOBS.
“Mom?” I whisper, but apparently she reads lips, because she smiles and waves at me.
The announcer finishes calling out our scores, and they must have been good, because Andy throws his arms around me and screams right into my ear. I hang limp in his arms. I feel all the blood drain out of my body and pool in my toes and fingertips. I feel woozy, and I’m worried I’m going to fall off my skates.
“Honey, that was incredible.” My mom takes me from Andy and wraps me up in a hug. This time I feel my arms rise and wrap around her neck. I pull her tight. She gives me a big kiss on the cheek.
“Mama,” I say, already feeling the tears roll down my cheeks. “You’re here.”
And now, having both kissed and cried, I’ve officially been inducted into the world of figure skating.
CHAPTER 31
SLOANE EMILY
“Defenders, I need you to look alive out there,” Cameron says. It’s almost intermission, and we’re down 1–0. She throws back her water bottle, swishes for a minute, then swallows. “Marino, keep your eye on Melody. Jacobs, I’m moving you to left wing. Get the puck to me or to Avery. Let’s tie this thing up.”
We put our gloves in the middle and shout a quick, loud “Blue!” Then we tumble through the door onto the ice.
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