“You can skate without it,” Leah said from behind the call gate. “The lift gets no value. The rest of the programme still counts.”
Camille had not realised Leah was close enough to hear.
Anton stood on the other side of the narrow passage, his competition jacket unzipped. He looked at Camille, not Leah.
“Understood,” he said.
That was all. No argument. No promise to discuss it once they were on the ice.
The announcer called their names.
Camille stepped through the gate. Her blades met the ice with a familiar scrape, but the opening position felt strange before she even reached it. There was a space in the music where he was meant to take her weight. She knew exactly how long that space lasted. They had practised it hundreds of times.
At centre ice, Anton offered his hand. She took it. His fingers were steady; hers were cold inside her glove.
“We take the curve wide,” she said. “After the double.”
“That puts us late for the spin.”
“We can make it up.”
He nodded once.
She wanted to ask why he had let her spend four months hiding something he already knew. The first notes sounded before she could decide which word to use.
They pushed off together.
The double salchow came early. Camille saw its entry, took the edge, and landed beside Anton with enough speed to hear the audience respond.
Then the programme carried them toward the lift.
Anton changed course when she did. No reach for her waist, no hand waiting at her hip. They took the wide curve she had asked for.
For three beats, there was nothing to do but skate.
Camille heard each one. On the third, Anton crossed in front of her, and she caught his hand to pull them into the next phrase. They reached the spin late. She drove her blade down, found his rotation, and matched it.
When they came out, he was watching the ice ahead. She could follow him through the rest. That, at least, had never been in doubt.
They finished on the final note, both upright, both breathing hard.
From the boards, Leah gave them a small signal toward the exit. Camille skated over without waiting for the score. Anton followed a pace behind.
The number appeared while she was taking off her guards. Ninth. Eight pairs would advance.
Camille stared at the screen long enough to see the element list scroll through. Their lift was recorded as not performed.
Anton said, “The double was clean.”
“It was.”
He did not say they had been close. He did not say a lift would have changed it.
That almost made it worse.
“I’m going to get my ankle checked,” she said.
It did not hurt. She needed a room with a door.
In the physiotherapy room, Dr. Mara Voss examined it anyway. She moved Camille’s foot through its range, pressed along the joint, and sat back.
“No injury,” Voss said. “You don’t have to invent one to come in here.”
Camille gave a short, unwilling laugh. “Was it that obvious?”
“You asked me to close the door before you sat down.”
A knock came from outside. Voss looked at Camille, and Camille nodded. Anton entered only after Voss opened it.
“I’ll be just outside,” Voss said. The door clicked shut behind her.
Anton remained near it. “I should have told you in the first week.”
“Yes.”
“I thought if you knew I’d seen it, you’d stop trying the triple.”
Camille looked at him. There it was: the part he had not said at the gate.
“You wanted me to keep trying.”
“I thought you wanted to land it.”
“I did. That wasn’t yours to manage.”
“No.” His gaze dropped to the examination table. “It wasn’t.”
Four months of early sessions came back with an uglier shape. She had mistaken his silence for trust. He had watched her fail, then gone home and built a programme she could skate while leaving one jump on the sheet in case he wanted to ask for it.
She had chosen him after learning about the sheet. She had chosen to go onto the ice after hearing how long he had known. Somewhere in the programme, she had expected one of those choices to start feeling like her own.
“I can’t skate with you tomorrow,” she said.
“There’s no skate tomorrow.”
“I know.” She got off the table. “I can’t skate with you after this, either.”
Anton moved aside so she could reach the door. He did not touch her.
“The partnership paperwork goes through Leah,” Camille said. Her voice held. “Will you sign it?”