“Yes,” Anton said.
Camille stayed beside the boards, one hand resting on the rail. The rink was quiet except for the scrape of her blade as she turned toward him.
“When Voss clears us for it,” he added. “A new programme. Yours and mine.”
“Not the old one with the difficult bits taken out?”
“No.” He thought of the weeks he had spent changing counts without telling her why. “We write this one together. Every element goes on the page where we can both see it.”
She looked down at the ice. “Even the things I can’t do?”
“Especially those.”
Camille came closer to the boards. “I don’t know when I’ll be ready.”
“Then I’ll ask you next week. And the week after.”
“You could skate with someone else.”
“I could.” He had considered it when their partnership ended. He had even searched for another rink. “I don’t want to.”
Her face changed at that, and he wished he had said it before either of them had needed an incident review to make them honest.
“I mean the skating,” he said. “And I mean us, if you still want that.”
“I do.” She gave a short, unsteady laugh. “I was going to try to sound more composed.”
“You have already skated a lap at five in the morning. That seems enough.”
“Come here?”
He leaned over the boards. Camille met him halfway, and they kissed with the cold rail between them. When she drew back, she was smiling.
Anton stepped onto the rubber mat and held out her blade guards. She took them from him rather than letting him fit them for her.
“First decision for the new programme,” she said. “No secrets.”
“Agreed.”
Three months later, the physiotherapy room smelled faintly of disinfectant and the coffee cooling beside Voss’s notes.
Camille stood on one leg atop a foam pad while Voss counted aloud. Anton sat against the wall with their draft programme folded in his pocket. He knew better than to take it out before the examination was finished.
“Thirty,” Voss said. “Step down.”
Camille did. “Did I pass?”
“You completed the assessment.” Voss checked her notes. “And your supervised progression has been symptom-free. I’m clearing you for pairs elements and competition preparation, with the loading plan we discussed. Any return of symptoms, you stop and contact me.”
“And triples?” Camille asked.
“Not cleared. That’s a separate decision, after specific preparation and assessment.”
Camille nodded. Anton watched her wait until Voss had finished writing before she spoke again.
“I’m not putting one in this programme.”
Voss looked up. “You’re allowed to tell me that even if he’s in the room.”
“I know.” Camille’s voice was steady. “That’s why I did.”
Outside, in the corridor, Anton took out the folded sheet. It held pencil marks from both of them: a lift Camille had chosen, a step sequence he had wanted to cut until she made him try it at her speed, and an empty box where the final element should be.
“No triple,” he said. “What goes there?”
“A side-by-side double. Then we finish facing each other.”
“That costs us difficulty.”
“Yes.”
He handed her the pencil.
She filled the box herself. “You don’t have to agree just because I said it.”
“I agree because we can do it well.”
Camille studied the page. “I’m still afraid of falling sometimes.”
Anton folded it only after she was done reading. “Tell me on those days.”
“I will.”
Six months after that first lap, they waited beside the ice at the national qualifier while their score appeared above the far stands.
Fourth.
Camille read it once, then again. Anton heard the crowd applauding, but the sound seemed to reach him from a great distance. They had landed the double. They had completed the lift without a correction. Their ending had been still enough that he could hear her breathing before the music stopped.
“Fourth,” she said.
“I saw.”
“You’re disappointed?”
“No.” He looked at the score again, making himself believe it. “Are you?”
“I wanted third for about two seconds.” She nudged his skate with hers. “Now I want breakfast.”
Leah passed them near the exit with the confirmed results in her hands. She stopped long enough to say, “The placement stands. Well skated, both of you.”
“Thank you,” Camille said.
Beyond the barrier, cameras were pointed at the skaters leaving the ice. Anton had spent years making sure that anything personal stayed out of their view. Camille saw where he was looking.
“We don’t owe them anything,” she said.
“I know.” He turned toward her. “But I want to say it where people can hear.”
“What?”
“That I love you. That we’re together.”
She took a breath. “Then say it with me.”
They walked to the barrier. Anton waited until the nearest camera had turned their way, then spoke clearly enough for the people behind it to hear.
“Camille Rhys is my partner on the ice and in my life. I love her. We’re planning next season together.”
Camille slipped her hand into his. “And I love Anton. You can write down that we’re staying together.”
There was a burst of noise. Anton could not have separated a question from a cheer. Camille drew him away before either of them had to try.
In his bag were their signed ice bookings for the next season and a programme sheet with no empty boxes. Camille had left her spare gloves in the outside pocket that morning. His keys were already on her ring.
“Breakfast?” she asked.
“Then home.”
“Together?”
“Together.”
They went home together.