Three hours before the biggest performance of my life, my brother raised our father’s old repair hammer over the skates Dad had ordered for me from his hospital bed—and my mother stood there and let him swing.
Part 2
By the time I reached my car, both skates were ruined.
I drove two blocks before pulling into an empty grocery-store parking lot. Then I folded over the steering wheel and cried so violently I could barely breathe.
It wasn’t leather and steel I was grieving.
Dad had ordered those boots when he already knew he was dying. He had called my coach from his hospital room, argued over blade specifications, and made me promise I would keep skating no matter what happened to him.
Nolan had broken the skates.
Mom had broken something else.
She had watched.
For several minutes, withdrawing from Nationals seemed like the only thing I could do. Then I heard Dad’s voice in my memory.
Look where you want to go.
I called my coach, Jocelyn Reed.
She met me outside the arena twenty minutes later. She was sixty-one, silver-haired, blunt, and incapable of pretending disaster was anything other than disaster.
When I unzipped the bag, she covered her mouth.
“Who did this?”
“My brother.”
Her eyes lifted to mine. “Why?”
“Twelve thousand dollars.”
She stared at me for another second, then shut the bag. “I kept your old competition boots.”
My heart jumped. “They’re here?”
“In my equipment locker. I keep everything because apparently God knew someday I’d need to rescue you from your family.”
Despite myself, I almost laughed.
Jocelyn’s expression softened. “The blade alignment is different. Your hardest jump is too dangerous in those boots. We’ll take it out.”
“Can I still skate?”
“Yes.”
“Can I still medal?”
She hesitated.
That told me everything.
“I can’t promise,” she said.
I wiped my face. “Dad never asked me to win.”
Jocelyn squeezed my shoulder.
“He asked me to finish.”
The old boots were agony. My toes were crushed against the front, and the right blade pulled slightly inward compared with my custom setup.
During warm-up, my ankle rolled on a landing. Pain shot up my leg.
Five minutes before my name was announced, my phone buzzed.
For one stupid second, I thought it might be Mom.
Good luck.
I’m sorry.
Your father would be proud.
Anything.
Instead, the call was from Marcus Hale, Dad’s senior technician.
“Bella,” he whispered, “two men are here taking pictures of the repair machines.”
I stood straighter. “What men?”
“They say they represent a lender. Nolan told them some of our equipment was pledged as collateral.”
The arena noise seemed to disappear.
“What?”
“They’ve got paperwork. Nolan told me not to call you.”
My stomach dropped.
“Marcus, do not let them remove anything. Call Wesley. Show them the ownership documents in Dad’s office.”
“Bella, they’re saying the loan is already in default.”
An official waved from the gate.
“Miss Dawson? Two minutes.”
I closed my eyes.
Dad’s business or Dad’s dream.
The shop he had built with thirty years of work, or the four minutes he had spent eighteen years helping me reach.
Jocelyn took the phone from my hand.
“Go.”
“There are men at the shop.”
“I heard you.”
“They could take Dad’s machines.”
“They are not taking anything in the next four minutes.”
“But—”
“Bella.”
She pointed toward the ice.
“Finish.”
I walked toward the gate with my knees shaking.
The front-row seat Mom had promised Dad she would occupy was empty. Before warm-up, I had placed his navy scarf over the back of it.
Now I looked at that scarf.
The music began.
My opening combination landed cleanly. The first spin centered beautifully.
Then, on the next jump, the unfamiliar blade slipped.
My hand hit the ice.
Pain exploded through my right ankle, and the audience became a blur beyond the lights.
For one horrible instant, I saw the hammer again.
Nolan raising it.
Mom watching.
Dad’s gift breaking.
Then my eyes found the navy scarf.
Don’t watch your feet.
I pushed myself upright.
Look where you want to go.
I finished.
Not perfectly. Not painlessly. But every final second belonged to me.
When the scores appeared, I had won silver.
Jocelyn wrapped her arms around me as soon as I stepped off the ice. I shook against her shoulder, laughing and crying at the same time.
“Your family missed that,” she whispered.
I looked toward the empty seat.
Jocelyn pulled back and held my face between her hands.
“That is their loss, Bella. Not yours.”
In the locker room, I checked my phone.
Eleven messages from Nolan.
TRANSFER IT NOW.
ANSWER ME.
YOU’RE DESTROYING EVERYTHING.
One message from Mom.
Don’t come home until you fix what you started.
Then I saw an email from Wesley Grant, my accountant.
The subject line was six words long.
Bella, the loan has your signature.
