“Yeah.” Theodore’s throat worked. A hint of stubble remained on his skin. “And when we talked yesterday, he didn’t sound—” His voice suddenly broke, and he blinked rapidly.

Oh no. I didn’t want anything to happen to Mr. Webber, though he was elderly, and statistically it was unlikely he’d live very much longer. And I didn’t want Theodore to be upset. In fact, my heart thumped, my stomach roiling.

He shook his head, sucking in deep breaths and clearly trying not to cry. He sat cross-legged, and his knees jiggled. I reached down, taking hold of his shoulder. His eyes met mine, and he gave me a tremulous, grateful smile.

I thought about slipping off the chair and pulling him close, running my fingers through his fine hair that looked soft…

I regained my senses as he cleared his throat and said, “Anyway, he doesn’t sound great today. But I’m going to do my best and make him proud.”

The reminder of the cruel words I’d said to him after Skate Canada flooded my face with heat, and I let go of his shoulder, nodding as I folded my hands in my lap.

“And hopefully my mom will back off already. I mean, she’s gotten more than she ever could have wished for when she forced me to keep skating.”

“Forced?” I knew his mother was very invested, but that was a strong word.

He shrugged. “I tried to quit a million times in high school. At least when I moved to LA on my own—Jesus, did she put up a fight about that—it wasn’t so bad. But when I was a kid, it’s not like I had a choice.”

I couldn’t begin to understand not wanting to skate. “You do now.”

“I’m too good to quit now. It would be stupid. I do like it. I put in all this work my whole life. After the Olympics, I can retire and do shows. All the fun stuff without judges and required elements and PCS and all that shit.”

I gaped. But we were at the very top of the sport. Here at the Grand Prix Final, only the top six finishers in each discipline from the autumn circuit were competing. And of course we were world champions. This was where all our training paid off—though I preferred the routines of the rink to the stress and travel of competition.

He added, “I think her only regret was not naming me after one of the greats so she could talk about it in TV fluff pieces and make Brian Boitano or whoever say he was so honored.”

I’d always been enraged by how flippant Theodore could be. How easily everything seemed to come to him and how he could shrug off mistakes and pressure. But I’d somehow never imagined that he didn’t actually want all of this deep down.

I asked, “What does your father say?”

Theodore snorted and tapped his phone. “Not much. He’s busy with his lawyering. That’s the official term for it.”