She worked me for nearly two hours.
I found out later it was an audition.
I found out later I made the cut.
My father seemed as humbled and starstruck as I felt. He didn’t say anything to me after the workout until we got into the car, and when he finally spoke, his voice was thick with wonder. “This Capriani woman … this is your chance, Hudson. Your ticket to greatness. If I can find a way to give you this shot, promise me you won’t let her down.”
I smiled, and Dad started to glow from the inside out, like this was his dream, too. Maybe it was. I wasn’t sure what brought a globe-trotting ice princess like Lola Capriani back to a busted-up place like Watonka, but I knew what a big deal it was that she’d agreed to train a new student—especially since there was no way my parents could afford her regular fees.
Six years later, after I quit the ice, I learned that she’d agreed to take me at half the cost because of what she saw when I finally shook off my nerves and auditioned that night: drive and potential. Unlimited, unjaded heart. A spark.
When Dad looked at me from the driver’s seat with all the pride and hope in the world, asking me to make that one promise, I nodded, same as before.
Head.
On.
A string.
And I kept nodding, right up until the night of the Empire Games.
If I’d known about Lola’s funeral in time, I would’ve gone. I wasn’t holding a grudge about what happened—it wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t paid to be my friend or counselor, on the ice or off. She was there the night I threw the event—a sideline seat to the whole disaster. With that single act of unsportsmanlike defiance, I’d thumbed my nose at the ice and severed our arrangement. Left the competition. Walked away from the medals and roses and the promise of a bright future outside of this broken, rusted-out husk of a town. When I turned in my official resignation, Lola took the letter from my hands, nodded once, and walked away. There was nothing more she could do for me, and we both knew it. We never spoke again. I didn’t even know she died until I read about it online, three days after her funeral.
But I didn’t come down to the beach in the dead of winter today to wallow. I came here to skate. And judging from the solid curtain of white stretched clear across Canada, I’ve got about two hours before that storm hits.
I fold the letter into a tiny square, shove it to the bottom of my inside fleece pocket, and lace up.
DANGER:
THIN ICE ON LAKE!
NO SKATING, SLEDDING, OR SNOWMOBILING
—Watonka Department of Parks and Recreation
I tap the base of the signpost with my toe pick as the white blanket of Lake Erie shifts and blows its bitter breath through my hair. Technically I’m not skating on the lake, just the runoff—a long, shallow slick that freezes over the beach, right near the abandoned Fillmore Steel Mill. It’s as close to perfect as an untended outdoor rink can be: level, mostly smooth, swept clear by the constant wind. The air is thick with industrial leftovers, but out here, invisible cancer-causing particles aside, I get to be alone.
As I push off from the post, silver blades scrape against the ice like knives sharpening on an old stone. The memory of each movement is imprinted; bones and muscles and ligaments know exactly how to bend and twist, push and pull, stretch and snap to propel me across the ice. Back and forth, over and over, I engrave the makeshift rink with lines and figure eights. When I return next weekend, the wind will have erased them as though I was never here.
After a solid warm-up, I stop for a hot chocolate break and unpack my thermos, gazing out over the vast stretch of nothingness that lies between here and Canada. They don’t make a warning sign for it, but that’s the real danger—that downright manic-depressive desolation. No joke—winter on the beaches of Watonka is about the emptiest thing you’ll ever see in your life. When you’re out here alone, contemplating all the things you didn’t do and the person you didn’t become … if you think about it too long—if you stand here and consider the great bleakness of it all—a hush seeps into the gray space, and the wind will hollow out your bones, and the purest kind of loneliness comes up from the inside to swallow you like an avalanche.
I drop the thermos back into my bag and switch out damp gloves for a dry pair. Behind the smokestacks that stand guard around the old mill, the wind shifts, pushing out an invisible plume of burnt air. I tighten the scarf over my face to mute the rotten-egg smell and press on, one-two-three glide, one-two-three glide.
Glide …
Glide …
Glide …
I left a lot of things behind the night of my last competition, but not this part. I close my eyes and sail across the ice in the dead end of November, and when the wind rushes up to kiss me, I let it. I lick my lips and welcome it in, because the frigid bite reminds me that inside, I’m warm and alive. That inside, my heart still beats for something, calling me to the windburned shores of Lake Erie when fear and regret leave no other haven.
I pump my legs to amp up my speed, closing in on the far edge of the runoff that meets the lake.
Does Hudson Avery still have what it takes? Will she make the near-impossible turn, or will she hurtle across the outer reaches of the ice, destined for a watery, hypothermic death?
The lake is coming up fast, everything around me a white blur. I push harder, legs tight and strong, and just before I cross onto the lake ice, I suck in a cool breath and hold it. I tilt my blades against the world and bank hard, looping around the bend, shooting up a spray of shaved ice. The sound is like a single wave shushing up the shore, a whisper falling out over a blue-white sea. I still hear it in my dreams.
Phishhhh …
I race back to the other end, arms out like a great blue heron about to take flight. I hold another deep breath, whip my leg around, and launch into a scratch spin, twirling like a top as I pull my arms tight against my chest. When I’m ready to stop, it’s that simple: I set my toe pick on the ice and the world around me halts, immediate, soundless, a snowflake alighting on the soft shoulders of November.
Hudson Avery, ladies and gentlemen! Straight from the frozen shores of Lake Erie to the international hall of champions, skating through a shower of roses to take her well-earned place in the winner’s circle….
Behind me, the imaginary crowd fades as the smokestacks rise up, wind whipping through the iron belly of the mill, moaning like a ghost. The chain-link fence around it shudders as if to laugh, and that great bleakness hovers above my skin, reminding me as always that three years ago, I walked away from the roses. The cheering crowds. The winner’s circles.
Last weekend, alone on this desolate beach, I was certain the ice-skating part of me would stay locked in the closet forever. Certain I’d torn up my so-called ticket to greatness and burned all the bridges on the path there. Certain that while the rest of the world moved on, I’d be stuck in my mother’s old diner, rusting like the gates of Watonka, bound forever to these shores as my bones turned to ice.
But now?
I look back over the lake and take a swallow of air, lungs burning with cold and pollution. Generally speaking, I don’t like to spend my work break standing out in the bleached, bone-numbing cold of Watonka daydreaming about all the shoulda-coulda-wouldas.
But I can’t stop thinking about the letter. The second chance. Fifty thousand dollars …
I lift my face to the bright part of the sky where the sun should be, and in my mind, I hear a new version of that old saying about trees falling in the forest: If a girl spends every weekend sneaking off to the lake in the dead of winter and no one is around to see her, is she really skating at all?
Twenty feet offshore, an ice volcano erupts, a spout of water shot high in the sky.