And then he glanced over his shoulder at me.

Those bright blue-gray eyes landed directly into mine, and we didn’t need to nod or do anything. We just smiled at each other. Our own little secret. Our own thing.

We’d woken up this morning in my room, with me drooling on his hand and his leg thrown over one of mine, and it had been the best morning of both of our lives. He’d told me so, and I’d just known. Then he’d pinched the shit out of my ass cheek, and it was like it was supposed to be between us. Perfect.

We were going to do this.

We had this.

The smile that crept over his lips and cheek muscles was lazy… almost filthy… a fucking promise of what was for sure going to happen tonight regardless of anything else.

It was his trustful smile. The one he shared with me. It was mine.

And it zinged its way up my spine, this warm, comforting thing that told me he was as confident as I was. That we had this. But we had this together.

So I couldn’t help but smile right back at him, wider than before. It wasn’t anything big, but it was his and only his.

And he knew it was because his smile grew even wider.

I rolled my eyes as I looked away and stepped toward the ice, my heartbeat nice and even, my head calm and controlled. At the wall, I stood to the left to let the last skater off the ice and looked up. I’d already clocked my family when we’d first gotten to the tunnel, and they were still there. Each and every one of them holding up a sign, even my dad.

THAT’S MY SISTER.

GO JASMINE!

JASMINE!

WE LOVE YOU, JASMINE

JASMINE SANTOS 4 EVER

GET IT GIRL

YOU’RE AMAZING, JASMINE

But it was the NEVER GIVE UP, JASMINE that had me squinting. Because it was my dad holding it. He wasn’t jumping up and down like the rest of them, but he was smiling. He wasn’t embarrassed. He wasn’t bored.

But he was there. And that was more than I could have wanted or expected.

And it was what I needed. Another little piece of glue to my mind and my heart.

I let myself think for a second about the card I’d read that morning, lying in bed beside Ivan. The card from the nice girl at the LC.

Good luck, Jasmine!

You’re going to do great. Thanx for being so cool. I hope one day I can be like you.

Love, Patty

And I knew I could do this.

Once, when I’d been maybe fifteen or sixteen, Galina had told me that to win, I would have to be prepared to fail. Have to be okay with the idea of failing. And I had never completely understood what she meant by that then, because who the hell wanted to lose? I got her message now, and it had only taken me a decade to.

I took a step onto the ice and glided off just a couple feet away to give Ivan room to do the same. He followed after me, stopping just two feet away from me as the announcer called out our names.

That was when I looked over my shoulder at the man in the brown and gold costume that my sister had created, and found him already looking at me, with a smirk aimed right at me.

He looked happy.

And for the first time, I felt happy as I stood there, not nervous, not overwhelmed. I just felt happy. Ready.

So I smirked back at him.

We both seemed to let out a breath of air at the same time.

Just like that, Ivan extended his hand out at his side toward me. He watched my face as I gave him my own hand, draping my palm over his, both of us curling our fingers around the other’s.

He mouthed I love you, and I winked at him. Then, we skated toward the center of the ice, hand in hand, stopping in the spot we needed. Ivan got into position at the same time I did, both of us never looking anywhere else. If the crowd went quiet, I had no idea because I was zoning them out just as Ivan’s face came to pause an inch away from mine.

“You suck,” he whispered, his breath against my cheek.

I just barely held back a smile as I said, “You suck even more.”

A second, a split fucking second before the music started, he whispered, “Let’s do it.”

And we did.

Epilogue

“Look at the height on that!”

“I haven’t seen a twist like that since the 2018 Lukov team!” the announcer on the television claimed.

Ivan and I both snorted at the same time.

I didn’t need to look at him to know he was rolling his eyes.

Because I was too.

“That was clearly at least half a foot shorter than ours used to be,” Ivan muttered beside me.

I snorted again, keeping my eyes glued to the television.

“I was thinking more like a whole foot,” my mom, who loved coming over so much she was on steady allergy medication, agreed from her spot on the other side of the couch.

“Mark needs to retire from being a commentator. I’ve thought he’s needed glasses for at least the last three seasons, easy,” Jojo claimed from where he was lying on the floor, his head propped up on one hand while the other one held a bottle to Elena’s mouth.

“Jonathan, that’s not nice,” James said to him. I didn’t need to look to know he was shaking his head.

All of our eyes were on the television as the Canadian team on the screen moved around the ice effortlessly, their movements a perfectly measured amount of strength, grace, and beauty. I wasn’t hating on them. They were good.

But not as good as we used to be.

“That was amazing!” the commentator on the screen cooed in excitement.

“Now he’s just throwing words out to hear his own voice,” I muttered, shaking my head.

The man beside me made a noise that had me glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. He had his head cocked to look at me, a smirk I knew like the back of my hand pasted on that mouth that had stayed just as annoying and wonderful as it had been even over the years. “Your spins were cleaner and faster than hers are.”

I nodded, still looking at him, ignoring the huge television mounted to the wall, showing the 2026 Olympics. “You made it look more effortless too. And clearly, you’re stronger than he is.”

He snorted and leaned closer to whisper into my ear, “Clearly. Your butt still looks better than hers.”

I snickered, and he smiled. We were already plastered at our sides, perfectly lined up from hip to thigh. His arm was pressed to mine. Ivan slipped it out and raised it, throwing it over my shoulder and hugging me to him even more than he already had. I lifted my legs and draped them over his lap, earning me a kiss on the cheek before we both faced the screen again just in time for the announcer to whisper, “Incredible!”

There were so many groans in the room, I couldn’t count them.

I wouldn’t use the word amazing, but….

“I bet you two could still win if you competed,” Jojo muttered.

I nodded, watching as the couple did a death spiral that I bet Ivan and I could still do faster. It wasn’t like we trained anymore, but a lot of mornings, before the rink was filled with young, hopeful figure skaters, he’d take my hand and we’d go through reserved versions of our old programs. We’d laugh through half of it, replacing triples with doubles most days, but every once in a while, we’d catch each other’s eye and know we were thinking the same thing. And we’d do a triple toe. Or a triple toe loop. Rarely, on really, really good days, we’d do a triple Lutz. Just to know we could still do it.

And then, the kids would show up, and we’d get to work. Coaching. Ivan had several boys, and I had a few girls.

We had talked about coaching a pairs team… but only if and when we found the right team. We just hadn’t yet.

It had been four years since we had retired, and it still didn’t feel like enough time had passed.

Four years since Ivan had a surgery to fuse his spine. A surgery that had been so dangerous I had thrown up twice in the waiting room. Four years since the doctor had said it would be reckless for him to continue to skate pairs.

And four years since Ivan had looked at me and said, “Find another partner. You don’t have to retire because I am.”

What a fucking idiot. Some shit never changed. Like there was anyone else I would ever want to partner with.

It had been five years since we had won our last—and third—world championship.

Eight years since we’d won our second world championship.

Eight years since we’d won two gold medals. One in pairs and another in the team skate. Making Ivan the most decorated U.S. figure skater in history.

Nine years since we’d won our first world championship, and the first of three national championships.

Most importantly, it had been nine years since we’d gotten married. Nine years and three months from the moment he had said, panting and red-faced, out on the ice at the end of our long program while the crowd went fucking nuts, “I think you should marry me, Meatball.”

I’d only made him ask three times. And when we got married in the same nondenominational church that Jojo had married James, it had been the greatest moment of my entire life.

And then Danny, Tati, and Elena had happened.

“Daddy,” a little voice said from the floor. “That double Axel was sloppy, right?”