Page 7 of Off the Edge

I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened the messages.

Navarro:

I don’t think it i know it.

I’m looking forward to it.

The thought of dancing alongside him again, even if it was on opposing teams, had my heart racing. We’d never dance as partners again. Competing as rivals was as close as we’d come. And he was good. I’d watched videos of his comebacks, edits comparing his then and now, and he was a serious contender. I should absolutely study more from his recent competitions.

That would be what I’d do when I got home. I would not be searching #RenCam.

Absolutely not.

Searching Cam’s socials online was research, not personal.

FOUR

CAMDEN

The run-up to leaving for Japan rushed by in a blur of training, media, team obligations, and travel arrangements, leaving no gaps to breathe. Media managers, physio managers, admin managers, Canadian team manager, PR managers. So many managers, and they all wanted a slice of me, on top of intensive training. Nothing had room to maneuver or room for mistakes. The team did a “Get to Know Team Canada” film, where we each sat and talked through how we’d gotten to this high point in our lives. As usual, I was the scrappy underdog, fighting for a spot at the big table.

Sponsor shoots. Branded skates, sports watches, and clothing. Strike a pose. Hot studio lights. Do it again, and again.

I answered the same damn questions over and over, a hundred different ways.

“Are you ready, Cam? Can you win? Have you changed? Is Ren Hasegawa, Team GB, your biggest challenge? You and Hasegawa created one of the most discussed partnerships in modern ice dance. Is it strange now facing him as a rival?”

“Ren is an exceptional skater. I’m focused on my own team.” I’d said that a thousand different ways and they still kept asking.

Someone had asked, “Do you and Hasegawa still see each other?”

I’d answered before the media manager could get a word in edgeways.

“No, he has his career and I have mine. It’s been eighteen months, people need to stop asking.”

The media manager had sensed my tone and ushered me away from the mic at that point, so I didn’t say something that might tarnish the team’s image.

I thought I’d been pretty good at keeping my nose clean and out of trouble. Mostly because there wasn’t time to accidentally step out of line. My answers were so well rehearsed, I barely had to think anymore.

“Focused on the team, on the routine, on my partner, Zoe, and our program.”

I did not tell anyone about how something was missing. How while I was surrounded by people every moment of every day, the program was excellent, the choreography was on point, and Zoe and I skated just fine . . . how while nothing was missing from our dance, something was missing from me.

“Navarro remains one of the most magnetic performers in ice dance, Zoe Phillipps is a brilliant young professional, but some fans still compare every partnership to Navarro’s former pairing with Ren Hasegawa, and some feel as though Navarro and Phillipps have some catching up to do.”

I heard a commentator’s voiceover on a news clip while scrolling socials late one night.

“Meanwhile, Hasegawa’s partnership with Tamsyn Ward has turned out to be something of a stroke of genius. The pair are naturally brilliant technical skaters. It could have gone very wrong, but so far, it seems to have gone perfectly right for them and Team GB.”

Good for them. Ren had found someone who could withstand his ruthless pace and brutal standards. Did he compare his dancing with Tamsyn to how he’d danced with me? Probably not. He was too professional for that.

Zoe was brilliant. Quick, light on her feet, a stunning skater. She’d come up through academies since she was six years old. She was the perfect partner. Funny and bright, and . . . great.

But she wasn’t Ren.

Obviously.

I’d lead, she’d follow. As ice dance was supposed to be. But some part of me still craved to be in her place, with Ren’s expert hands on my hips, gently guiding me, the both of us setting the ice on fire beneath our blades.