“My coach never acts like that.”
“Vivian coaches you?”
“Since I was eleven.”
That explained more than Grace wanted it to.
Charlotte added:
“She coached my mom too.”
Grace looked up.
“Your mother skated?”
Charlotte laughed.
“Rebecca Kingsley.”
Grace knew the name.
Not because Rebecca was famous now.
Because Nora had a VHS tape.
National Junior Championships, 2002.
Rebecca Kingsley had won silver.
Grace had watched it perhaps twenty times.
Beautiful skater.
Long lines.
Strong spins.
A step sequence halfway through the free skate that Grace always thought looked strangely familiar.
Her stomach tightened.
“What?”
Charlotte asked.
“Nothing.”
But something had changed.
Grace returned to the hotel with Rebecca Sloan.
Rebecca was not related to Vivian despite the last name, a coincidence that annoyed both women.
Rebecca had coached Grace’s small club in Cedar Ridge, Wisconsin, for nine years. She was practical, underpaid, and deeply suspicious of elite skating culture.
Grace waited until they entered the hotel room.
Then called her mother.
Nora answered immediately.
“How’d it go?”
Grace sat on the bed.
“Second.”
Silence.
Then:
“What?”
Grace smiled despite everything.
“Second.”
“In the qualifier?”
“Yes.”
“Grace.”
Her mother laughed once.
Then began crying.
Grace closed her eyes.
“Mom.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re definitely crying.”
“I have allergies.”
“In January.”
“Indoor allergies.”
Grace laughed.
Rebecca smiled from the other bed.
Nora asked:
“Were the boots okay?”
“Yes.”
“Right heel?”
“Fine.”
“Tongue slipping?”
“No.”
“Blades?”
“Mom.”
“Sorry.”
Grace looked at Thomas Bell’s card.
“Thomas Bell talked to me.”
Silence.
Completely different.
Grace stopped smiling.
“Mom?”
“When?”
“After I skated.”
“What did he say?”
“To ask you about the 2002 Northstar Winter Classic.”
Nora did not respond.
Grace looked toward Rebecca.
Rebecca’s smile disappeared.
“Mom?”
“Who else was there?”
“What?”
“Who heard him?”
“Vivian Sloan.”
Another silence.
Grace stood.
“You know her.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I told you.”
“You said you trained at Northstar for one summer.”
“Two.”
Grace frowned.
“You said one.”
“I was there part of another season.”
“Why did Thomas recognize the sequence?”
Nora exhaled.
“Grace.”
“No.”
She stood near the hotel window.
“I’ve asked you for years.”
“There is nothing useful in digging up old competition drama.”
“Then why did Vivian look like she saw a ghost?”
Rebecca gave Grace a look.
Language.
Grace ignored it.
Nora said:
“Your final is tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“Focus on that.”
“Mom.”
“Please.”
Grace went quiet.
That word was rare.
Nora did not say please when she meant stop asking.
Usually she said enough.
Please meant fear.
Grace softened.
“Did something happen to you there?”
Nora waited.