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Working on our short program felt like playing backyard games again as kids.

We spent half the time laughing while choreographing the dance parts, and Patrick had amazing ideas for lifts and footwork.

We entered lifts in so many creative ways: I cartwheeled into him, I jumped at him, I slid through his legs and he swung me up into his arms. It was incredible.

Kappy was stronger than Patrick, and he made me feel completely weightless as he helped smooth me into the correct lift position.

But working on our free dance was the real test of will power.

Because with this song, we needed to get into character.

We needed to feel the lyrics.

And these lyrics were extremely… romantic.

“Okay, let’s try again,” Patrick said, pausing the music.

“Remember, let’s really feel the song. He wants to touch her so badly, but can’t.

So for the opening, you guys aren’t touching.

We’re putting all the solo skills first, but you two need to be in sync and as close as possible.

I need to feel the yearning so the feelings explode for the audience when you finally touch. Can you do that?”

Oh, dear God.

Beside me, Kappy’s throat bobbed with a swallow.

My chest heaved with a breath .

“All right, let’s try again. And remember, the guy is the stem, and the girl is the rose.”

Kappy gaze jerked up. “Not you, too.” He regarded Patrick with a look of betrayal.

His reaction thankfully broke the tension, making me laugh. “C’mon stem, let’s try again.”

We held our starting position, facing each other, but about ten feet apart.

As soon as the music started, we glided toward each other, then stopped before we could touch. We both turned away into swizzles before falling into stride with each other for our first solo sequence, close, in sync, but not touching.

To end the sequence, Kappy reached for me, almost grazing my face, but not quite.

And when he looked at me like that, like all he wanted was to hold me in his arms… Well, my body had a hard time not responding, which was bad.

So, so bad.

I tried to turn my brain off and write it off as just pure athletic movement.

But I couldn’t.

Each time he almost touched me, I fucking trembled .

He smoothed into back crossovers, while I skated forwards, chasing him. His mouth came close to mine. We were only inches apart. My heart quickened. His eyes had that glazed look in them. It’d be so easy to just—

Patrick cut the music. “Wow, guys, this is great, really great stuff. Piper, your acting is phenomenal.”

The only problem?

I wasn’t acting.

__________

The next day, Kappy and I were working on lifts in our tennis shoes when Patrick marched into the lobby, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

“We’ve got a problem, guys,” he announced.

Kappy gently placed me back on my feet. I stole the opportunity to stretch out my tight, aching muscles .

“We have to compete all the way up. Kappy’s never competed in a USFSA event, so we don’t get the bye.”

My eyebrows scrunched together. “But you can petition to—”

“Already tried, they said no.”

“Those motherfuckers,” I breathed out.

Kappy’s eyebrows rose in amusement.

“This is bad,” I told him.

“How bad?”

“This means we have to start at the regional level and place all the way up to nationals to earn a bid to Milan.”

He scratched his cheek. “Okay, so how many competitions are we talking?”

“Regionals, Sections, and then Nationals.”

He shrugged. “We can do it.”

I blinked. I hadn’t been to a regional competition in years, maybe even a decade.

Patrick eyed me. He understood. This felt like a punishment from the board. Either they didn’t believe Kappy was a serious contender, or they were still mad at me over my Grand Prix meltdown. They were trying to weed us out.

“I think we need to call a press conference.” Patrick shifted his weight. “Now that I’ve asked about all this, word is gonna get out about you two skating together. We need to take control of the narrative, show that Kappy’s all in. Are you ready for that?” Patrick looked to Kappy.

Kappy shrugged while reaching for his water bottle. “Sure, why not?”

He was the picture of calm, but nerves were ricocheting through my body.

Patrick nodded before marching off, typing in his phone as he went.

My hands went to my temples to ease my incoming headache. “There’s no going back after this,” I warned him.

The corner of his lips tipped up. “I was never gonna go back, Piper.”

“You weren’t?” My question came out as a thin whisper.

He shook his head. “We’re not quitters.”

His confidence in himself, in us , was attractive, and an unexpected flutter exploded under my belly button.

His eyes dipped to my lips. “Ready? ”

Swallowing hard, I studied his outstretched hand and was transported back in time.

Back to a crowded bar.

Back to whispering, “Kiss me” in the dark.

I ached for his lips, for his hands, for him .

But the heartbreaking reality of the situation dawned on me: It wasn’t our time.

We already put in too much hard work into this for me to sacrifice it all just because I was reading too much into his words.

I was recently reminded of what it was like to not have a partner in skating or real life, and I knew better than to push my luck. I couldn’t risk losing out on one just because I suddenly wanted the other as well.

We could be partners, and that had to be good enough.

That night, I sat at my desk with my sewing machine and all my different materials and rhinestones scattered around, and I stared at my bedroom door, wanting so badly to burst into the living room and go to him.

He was right there.

It’d be so easy…

I wanted to feel him, touch him, talk to him, just be with him.

But I knew I couldn’t do it.

He had to stay off-limits.

Because I couldn’t mess this up.

At least not until after we competed.

So, I did what I did best—I boxed up my emotions and got back to work on our competition costumes, just like I had every other night of that week.