I could just imagine the negative GOE displayed in red on the top left of the screen for TV viewers beside the base mark. I’d already thrown away too many points, and it was only the first element. I had to focus and shake it off as much as I wanted to start again.

Focus or he’ll beat you!

After an okay quad toe-triple toe, I nailed my first triple Axel before transitioning into the choreographic sequence, where I had time to catch my breath and express the music. But I could barely even hear Beethoven over the buzzing in my ears. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Lutz.

What would he do?

Theodore would switch up his program on the fly and try the Lutz again, this time in combination. The month he’d been training in Toronto, Manon and Bill had been trying and failing to get him to stop changing his choreography and leaving out transitions. I’d done my best to ignore him.

I knew every moment of choreography as though it had been imprinted in my DNA. As I performed my combination spin, I scanned through the program for the right place to try the quad Lutz combination instead of a planned triple-triple.

Heart racing, I went through the motions, thinking ahead. My quad Lutz combination wasn’t consistent enough yet, but wasn’t this my chance to get it out in competition? If I did it, my score would shoot up, and the audience would roar. I could do it. I had to try.

My legs burned, but I flew across the ice and reached back with my toe pick, vaulting up into the Lutz.

Pain flared in my hip as I crashed onto the ice, sliding with momentum before popping back up onto my feet. Worse than falling again on it was that without another jump on the end, even a single toe, I’d repeated the same solo quad jump twice, which wasn’t allowed.

The audience clapped, trying to boost me. I’d made a mess of my program, but I managed the rest without any more major mistakes. I finished in a haze, the audience applauding despite how terribly I’d performed.

All I could do was try to smile as I took my bows, shame burning my face. I’d failed miserably not only in front of the fans, but my family. I would have loved nothing more than to crawl into a hole and bury myself in darkness, but the cameras were on me, the microphones strong enough to pick up every word in the Kiss and Cry.

Steeling my spine, I gave Manon a stiff hug as she reassured me that it was okay and I’d done my best. The Kiss and Cry area for this competition had been adorned with a maple leaf-covered bench and backdrop, the Canadian federation’s logo prominently displayed in a red and white theme.

It was my job now to sit on the bench with Manon and pretend all was well while the cameras zoomed in on us. As the judges finalized their scores, the technical specialist reviewing any questionable elements, slow-motion replays of key moments from my performance unspooled on TV for the home audience, the arena scoreboard, and on a monitor by my feet.