Page 4 of Ice Dance

“It’s fine.” I didn’t need her pity. The Meridian was where the spotlight would be this year. The biggest prize money in the sport, skaters selected from the worldwide elite. It wasn’t even about the money for me. The Meridian attracted the best. I needed this. Next year was too late. I wasn’t waiting another damn year to win.

An upbeat musical track blasted from speakers placed around the rink. Fast tempo, catchy tune, something about hands clapping. The kind of crowd-pleasing song that won an audience over the second it started. Whoever was dancing to that would need to move quickly, cleanly, with multiple steps to keep up with the rapid tempo. If they didn’t, then the music would be wasted and the performance lackluster for it.

My gaze found the skater as though he had his own gravitational force. He moved as I’d expected—fast, free, and easy. But it was more than that. Even in casual clothes, he had a sensual, sassy flow about him. Hip rocks, wrist flicks, facial expressions that told a story. The dance was in his whole body, from top to toe. I recognized him from YouTube. A mop of light brown hair that probably went blond in the sun, especially with his pale skin. A body that was slim but muscular. Camden Navarro. Canadian. Flashy freestyler. Tattooed, messy, chaotic. A dancer first, skater second, and it usually showed. He knew how to move his body, how to control and command it, while making each step look effortless. I’d watched a few of his routines online. He had passion, but in past years, his on-ice footwork had let him down.

Not tonight.

His program was magnetic. My heart rate kicked up. I couldn’t look away, even if I’d wanted to.

“Someone needs to snap Navarro up,” Dylan said, watching him just as closely. “Absolute talent, that one. I don’t know another skater who can inject charisma into his performance like he does. In the right hands, he’d be an Olympic winner.”

Olympic winner? Unlikely. He was good but not that good. “Not stepping out on me, are you Dylan?” I glanced back at her, but even before she’d replied, I’d gone back to watching Navarro glide across the ice. He performed a triple axel that any competition-winning skater would have been proud to pull off, then lifted a leg and stroked his hand down its length, smirking for the crowd. And although the crowd tonight was small, they cheered. He knew exactly how to play to them. He was a performer, and the crowd adored him, but the judges wouldn’t. They wanted technique, not gimmicks.

“If I didn’t already have my hands full with you . . .” She trailed off.

Navarro came out of a crouched spin, threw his arms out, rocked his hips, and glided across that ice like a finger across silk. He switched it up, going up onto his skates’ toe picks, and pirouetting across the ice like a ballet dancer. I’d rarely seen anything so precise. Excellent control. I leaned forward.

“He’s good,” Dylan said, impressed.

Navarro sped up, utilizing the whole rink to build to his finale, then dropped to his knees, back arched, arm flung out, fingertips supporting him as he sailed across the ice. The position was poised and sensual; it looked effortless but took astonishing core control. A stunning move, and his typical signature—flash over substance. Then he tipped upright, arms up, into a spin that I knew to be brutal to pull out of. He managed it, and came to a panting stop in perfect time to the music. It was a brilliant performance . . . for TV. Not for serious competition.

He was probably here for the PR. The organizers liked to have the louder, crowd-pleasing skaters front-facing. In that, he was superb. No wonder his YouTube videos often went viral.

“You know . . .” Dylan began. She leaned forward, and her jacket rustled in the quiet. “They have a gender open category.”

I straightened, taking my eyes off the rink. “A what?”

“Anyone can dance with anyone. Same gender partners. They’re pushing it hard. You could⁠—”

I laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t dance with a man.”

Dylan frowned. “You have in training; it’s no different to that. It’s about time the competitions were less rigid on gender. It would certainly get you noticed, and perhaps that’s the energy we’ve been lacking⁠—”

“Dylan, no.” The idea was absurd. I stood and headed for the stairs. “I need to pack.”

“Have a nice night, Dylan,” I heard her murmur to herself, mimicking my tone.

“I’ll see you back in London on Wednesday,” I called back.

“Take the week to reset.”

“No, Wednesday.” I jogged down the bare concrete steps. It was time to put Montreal behind me. Get back to the hotel, pack, and catch the next flight back to England. I’d write the last six months off as a valuable learning experience, nothing more. Pick myself up, dust off, and start again, just like any fall.

The bottom of the stairs opened into a locker area, where I found myself in the middle of a small frenzy of people. I pulled up short, letting them pass by. Navarro was at their center, face flushed, hair pushed back, eyes brilliant and alive as he laughed along with someone beside him. He still breathed hard from his routine, but had clearly enjoyed it if the broad grin was any indication.

I stepped back, letting them push by.

One of the members of his group stumbled into me. “Shit, sorry, man.”

“You’re fine.” At the sound of my accent, heads turned. English accents tended to draw attention, even among Montreal’s international crowd.

“Hasegawa,” Navarro said. His eyes widened, then his lips twitched around that broad smile. “Hi, uh . . . I’m Camden.” He motioned, as though he was about to offer his hand in front of everyone.

“Excuse me.” I politely carved my way around them before anyone could even think of mentioning my humiliating day or say something that would draw attention to my public breakup with my partner.

I walked fast, leaving the chatter behind, certain they would be discussing me soon, if they weren’t already. Outside, I hailed a cab and welcomed the heat and quiet of the back seat. I told the driver the address for my hotel, and dropped my head back, closing my eyes.

Tomorrow morning, I’d be gone, and this whole embarrassing catastrophe would be over.