Camille held the phone between them in the physiotherapy room. The request still read PENDING.
Anton did not ask whether she was sure. “Open the access record.”
Camille found it beneath the request. The credential was hers, but the session was labelled DELEGATE: NADIA BELL. Four months earlier, Camille had authorised Nadia, the rink’s entry coordinator, to handle her pairs-trial paperwork. She had forgotten the permission survived the trial.
“Nadia used it,” Camille said.
“Can she change the programme?”
Camille opened the amendment rules. A delegate could propose a change, but not approve it. The corrected double-salchow programme remained their confirmed entry; restoring the triple required fresh approval from both athletes and a medical reassessment. Nadia’s request could sit pending, but it could not replace the attachment.
The minute on the wall clock changed to noon.
“The deadline’s passed,” Camille said.
Anton read the screen over her shoulder. He came close enough that she could see a fine cut across one of his knuckles. “Then we ask why she sent it.”
Camille cancelled the request first. The confirmation arrived immediately. She saved it before they left the room.
Nadia was in the rink office, sorting entry sheets into a tray. She stopped when Camille showed her the access record.
“I submitted it,” Nadia said. “The old declaration said triple. The new one said double. I thought somebody had uploaded a practice version by mistake.”
“You thought you’d correct it from my account?”
“I could only request the change. You would still have had to approve it.”
Camille looked at the neat stacks on the desk. Nadia handled forms all day; perhaps that made the distance between requesting and deciding seem larger to her. It did not make the request harmless.
“The double is the assessed programme,” Camille said. “You had no authority to question it.”
Nadia’s face coloured. “I didn’t see the medical attachment.”
“It was referenced on the correction,” Anton said.
“Yes.” Nadia set down the sheet she was holding. “I should have called.”
Camille revoked the delegate permission on her phone. Nadia’s name vanished from the list, leaving only Camille’s own active session. Nadia watched without objecting.
“I’m sorry,” Nadia said.
Camille believed her. She also remembered how easily the triple had appeared again: first as an inherited attachment, then as someone else’s idea of a correction. “Please don’t discuss my programme with anyone who isn’t on the entry.”
“I won’t.”
Outside the office, Anton stopped beside the noticeboard. “Do you want to go home?”
The question caught her off guard. He had offered her an exit without making it sound like an instruction.
“The ice is booked,” she said.
“It is.”
“Then I want to skate.”
By early afternoon, light from the rink’s high windows lay across the ice. Anton started the corrected music, and they traced the opening pattern without jumping. On the second pass, Camille reached the approach to the side-by-side double salchows. She landed hers, checked the exit, and heard Anton’s blade settle beside her.
They finished the sequence. At the boards, Camille bent to retie a lace that did not need tying. The double had been clean. Her pulse refused to accept it.
Anton stopped the music. “Again from the turn.”
Camille straightened. “That one was fine.”
“Yes.”
“You usually have a correction.”
“This time I have a question.”
He left enough space between them for another skater to pass, though the rink was empty. Camille could still feel how nearly their shoulders had aligned on the landing.
“When Nadia saw the old declaration,” he said, “she assumed the triple belonged there.”
“So did the portal.”
“I’m asking what you assumed.”
Camille watched a shallow line of meltwater form along the edge of the boards. She had spent four months saying she was ready whenever readiness came up. The words had become easier than remembering the attempt that ended her season.
“I thought it might come back before anyone needed to know,” she said.
Anton’s expression did not change. He reached past her for the music control without touching her, then left his hand there, waiting.
“How long has it been,” he asked, “since you landed the triple salchow?”