Chapter 1 - Ten Seconds To Live Television
Brianna yanked the white dress off the costume rack and threw it against my injured leg.
“If that leg embarrasses you, stay off my ice.”
For a second, I could not move.
The dress slid down my thigh and collapsed around my skates.
Behind Brianna, the backstage tunnel opened toward a televised arena glowing white beneath thousands of lights. Music rolled through the concrete corridors. Gala staff hurried past carrying headsets, flowers, camera cables, and last-minute costume pieces.
Nobody looked directly at me.
Everyone heard her.
That was worse.
I was thirty-three years old, a former national champion, and I had spent almost five years learning how not to hide the scar running along the outside of my right leg.
Brianna had managed to make me feel sixteen again in one sentence.
She smiled.
Beautifully.
Brianna always knew where the cameras were, even when none were pointed at her.
Her costume shimmered with hand-sewn crystals. Her blonde hair was already pinned for performance. She looked exactly like the woman sponsors had spent three years turning into American skating’s newest glamorous star.
Behind her, my husband Marcus stood near the equipment case.
He did not argue.
He quietly lifted his phone.
Recording.
Brianna never noticed.
She kicked the discarded dress farther down the tunnel.
“Maybe they can find you something with pants.”
Then she laughed and walked away.
I bent to pick up the dress.
Marcus stopped me.
“Don’t.”
“Marcus.”
“Leave it.”
“I need a costume.”
“No. You need your costume.”
He reached behind one of the wardrobe trunks and pulled out a sealed garment bag.
I stared at it.
“What is that?”
“Open it.”
My hands were shaking.
I unzipped the bag.
White fabric spilled into my arms.
Not the cheap emergency costume Brianna had thrown at me.
This was custom work.
Soft white silk mesh.
Silver embroidery.
Asymmetrical skirt.
A clean open design along the right leg.
My scar would be completely visible.
I looked at Marcus.
“You did this?”
“Mostly Lucia.”
Lucia Romano had designed three of my competition dresses before the accident.
“She said she would never speak to me again if I claimed credit.”
My fingers moved over the fabric.
“Why?”
Marcus understood the real question.
Why expose the scar?
Why now?
Why tonight?
He stepped closer.
“Because you told me six months ago that if you ever skated in public again, you didn’t want to dress like you were apologizing.”
I looked down.
I remembered saying it.
I had been sitting on our kitchen counter in sweatpants after physical therapy.
It had felt hypothetical then.
A fantasy.
Former champion returns for one gala.
A short exhibition.
Nothing technically dangerous.
No triples.
No competitive expectations.
Just skating.
But fantasies become frightening when somebody opens the tunnel and tells you it is time.
Marcus looked at the arena clock.
“We have six minutes.”
“I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.”
“My leg is shaking.”
“Your leg always shakes before you skate.”
“Not like this.”
He lowered his voice.
“You don’t have to perform.”
I looked at him.
He meant it.
That was why I stayed.
“If you walk away, I walk with you. Nobody gets to turn staying into bravery and leaving into weakness.”
The pressure inside my chest eased slightly.
Then Marcus pointed toward the dress.
“But if you want that ice, Brianna doesn’t own it.”
I changed.
Fast.
When I stepped back into the tunnel, the room changed around me.
Not because I suddenly looked invincible.
I didn’t.
My scar remained obvious from hip to below my knee, pale and uneven beneath the arena lights.
For years, I had covered it.
Tonight I wasn’t.
Marcus clipped the small broadcast microphone pack onto the back of my costume.
It was intended for a ten-second live introduction before my performance.
Then he handed me his phone.
Brianna’s voice was still visible as an audio waveform on the recording screen.
I did not play it.
I locked the phone and held it.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Whatever you decide.”
We started toward the rink.
Brianna saw me halfway down the tunnel.
Her smile vanished.
Then her eyes dropped to my leg.
Not hidden.
Not disguised.
Visible.
I kept walking.
She rushed toward us.
“What are you wearing?”
I passed her.
She saw Marcus’s phone.
Then she grabbed for it.
I jerked it away.
“What’s on that?”
I did not answer.
Brianna followed.
“Give me the phone.”
Marcus stepped between us.
“No.”
Her face changed.
“You recorded me?”
He said nothing.
That frightened her more.
A producer pulled open the heavy curtain leading to the rink entrance.
Arena light flooded the corridor.
The crowd beyond was enormous.
My heartbeat jumped.
Brianna looked at my microphone pack.
Then at the phone.
Something connected in her mind.
She lunged again.
I pivoted away.
“Are you insane?” she whispered.
The producer pointed toward the live camera stationed beside the boards.
“You’re on in ten.”
Ten seconds.
Brianna grabbed Marcus’s sleeve.
“Marcus.”
He calmly removed her hand.
“Don’t.”
Her face had lost all color.
I stepped toward the ice.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Behind me, Brianna whispered:
“You cannot play that.”
Six.
I looked back once.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
She froze.
Because that meant she still had no idea what I was planning.
Neither did I.
Five.
Four.
The curtain opened farther.
Three.
Marcus looked at me.
Two.
I stepped onto the ice.
May you like
And for the first time since the accident, I stopped thinking about what everyone could see on my leg.
I started thinking about what I could still make it do.
