Camille opened her arms for the triple salchow and turned out of it before her blade left the ice. Her exit drew a clean white curve across the rink. From the boards, it could have passed for a planned step.
It was five in the morning. The training rink was empty except for a man in a black practice jacket, standing where she had left her water bottle. He had arrived before she heard the door.
“Camille Rhys?” he asked.
“Anton Petrov.” She skated toward him, buying time to settle her breathing. “You’re early.”
“You’re already on the ice.”
His eyes moved to the line she had cut through the frost. She waited for him to ask what had happened at the takeoff. Instead, he set a folder on the boards and stepped onto the ice.
Nobody else had agreed to try pairs with him. She knew his reputation: exacting counts, arguments over bad landings, partners who had chosen quieter work. He pushed off without a warm-up lap.
“Show me your crossovers.”
She gave him six. He matched her speed a few feet away, close enough that she could hear the rasp of his edge when he changed direction. He said, “Again. Don’t shorten the second one for me.”
Camille had spent four months making her training look like progress. On the mornings she tried the salchow, she turned out of it before anyone could see a failed landing. Anton watched her repeat the crossovers, then pointed to the far end of the rink.
“We start there. Side by side.”
“You haven’t seen me jump.”
“I’ve seen you skate.”
He offered no reassurance. To her annoyance, she wanted him to mean it.
In the registration office, Camille’s fingers were still cold when she picked up the pen. A fluorescent light hummed above two chairs and a printer piled with qualifier forms. The national qualifier was six weeks away; pairs entries closed at noon.
Anton had drawn the first programme plan on squared paper. She found the side-by-side jump immediately: triple salchow. Her name was written above one column of counts, his above the other.
“You chose that before meeting me?”
“It’s a draft.”
“We could lose it in competition.”
“We could.” He turned the page. Beneath it, another sequence ran through the same stretch of music. There was no jump marked there, only turns and a change of hold. “There are options.”
Camille studied his pencil marks. Most coaches offered encouragement when they wanted an answer. Anton had brought a second page.
At the desk, she signed the partnership entry. Anton waited until she had finished before drawing it toward himself. The sleeve of his jacket brushed hers; she shifted her hand away, though there was room enough for both of them.
“The medical screening is at six,” he said. “They’ll want us both.”
“Do you usually bring a draft programme to a first meeting?”
“Yes.”
“That explains a little.”
He looked up. For the first time that morning, his expression changed: not quite a smile. Then he signed beneath her name and checked the clock above the door. “We have twenty minutes. I want to see how you take the turn before the lift entry.”
Camille glanced once more at the second page before he closed the folder. She could do those turns. She could not tell whether he had put them there for her.
The physiotherapy room smelled of rubbing alcohol. A narrow strip of practice flooring ran between an examination table and a cabinet of braces. Camille stood on the strip while the physiotherapist asked her to balance on her right leg, bend, and rise.
Anton stood by the door with their folder. He had taken off his skates; without the height of his blades, he still seemed to fill too much of the small room.
“Any pain?” the physiotherapist asked.
“No.”
Camille rose again. Her leg held. It had held through every test for months, which was how she had kept reporting herself ready. Strength was measurable. The instant before a salchow takeoff was not.
The physiotherapist turned to the computer. “Your general return-to-training clearance is here. I need the competition clearance before I can approve the entry.”
“I submitted it in August,” Camille said. “It’s been active since then.”
“That’s what the history shows.”
A few keys clicked. Anton stayed at the door. Camille watched the physiotherapist’s face, then the screen reflected faintly in the cabinet glass.
“What does the history show now?” she asked.
The physiotherapist looked from the monitor to her. “The competition clearance was withdrawn yesterday at four twelve.”
Camille had been at the rink at four twelve, alone, trying the salchow again. “By whom?”
“The request came through the athlete portal.”
Anton put the folder down on the examination table. Camille heard its cardboard cover strike the surface but kept her eyes on the physiotherapist.
“Which athlete’s portal?”
The physiotherapist read the screen once more. “It came from your login, Camille.”