Later, while I was holding my evening planks with Esmeralda watching from her favorite cardboard box, I found myself wondering if Theodore had actually left a boyfriend behind to train here.

Not that it mattered. Not that I cared. I lowered to my elbows and pushed up and down between the hover and plank positions, lifting one foot, then the other.

I wondered what Theodore was doing right now. Probably eating fast food or something equally irresponsible and lazing on the couch. I did an extra fifty reps, imagining the top of the podium and Theodore below me.

Theodore was supposed to be transitioning with a falling leaf after his step sequence into his combination spin. Instead, he’d come to a dead stop, his music still playing. This was a run-through, which meant performing the whole program from start to finish. Not standing around during the spins before starting again.

My session was over, and I watched from the low bleachers along one side of the ice, taking my time lacing my running shoes. My feet were sore from breaking in new boots, and though I’d never admit it, I was relieved to have my skates off. I’d still finished two complete run-throughs. They hadn’t been perfect, but acceptable enough.

As I’d learned the past two weeks, Theodore didn’t like spinning and often left out those elements. He was an average spinner, and was it any wonder why?

His laziness grated on my nerves even though I should have been glad he wasn’t preparing the way he should have been. It surprised me Mr. Webber had let him get away with it, but maybe he hadn’t.

Manon and Bill encouraged him to do complete programs, but hadn’t forced the issue yet. I supposed it made sense since they were still getting used to each other. Theodore was probably still claiming jet lag, as if we weren’t used to traveling all around the world for competitions.

His long program music was building as he restarted, stroking across the rink into his next jump. The quad Sal was textbook, but he’d been resting for a good thirty seconds beforehand.

Still, I knew he could pop off jumps in competition the same way, so his laziness in practice was irrelevant. The unfairness burrowed under my skin like slivers.

He was skating to a Rolling Stones medley—mostly the song “Sympathy for the Devil.” Audiences would love his cocky grin and explosive jumps, and they wouldn’t care that his transitions were simple and the footwork more upper body motions than putting in the effort to carve intricate edges. If he nailed the jumps, the judges wouldn’t care either.

When he hit his ending pose, fist in the air and head back after a hip swivel, a few traitorous people in the arena clapped. I grabbed my equipment to shove into my locker before heading out into the drizzle for a run.

I splashed through puddles and ordered myself to stop thinking about Theodore’s hips.