audience, explaining the rules. There was a bit of chatter from the judges’ panel, and then more from the host. The audience began to clap again, and my panic grew once more.
“Okay, in thirty seconds, you guys are going to step right out onto the ice, wave to the audience, and then get into position,” the assistant told us. “Take off your blade guards now so you can be ready.” She held her hand out.
I did so, obediently—so did Ty. As we did, I looked at the big red curtain that would pull back in mere seconds, cuing us to step onto the ice. There was a problem. I looked at the assistant. “I need to kiss the ice first.”
“What?” She shook her head, taking my skate guards and tucking them under her arm. “Music’s starting. Get ready to go out.”
“I can’t go out onto the ice unless I kiss it first,” I said, and my voice raised to a hysterical note that was quickly drowned by the clapping of the audience. “It’s bad luck. I can’t do that! It’s bad enough that we’re going first!”
“Zara,” Ty said calmly, “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” I babbled, turning towards him with a panicked look. I tried to move forward to the curtains. I didn’t care how stupid it’d look; if they’d let me just stick my head out and kiss the ice really fast, I’d be fine. My nerves would disappear because I’d have luck on my side. It didn’t matter how torn up or dirty the ice was—I always kissed it. Always . “I have to do this, Ty. I have to. I can’t—”
“Listen, Zara,” Ty said, grabbing my hands before I charged through the curtains in my panic. “Listen,” he said soothingly. “They’re not going to let you kiss the ice—”
“First, no warm up, and now I can’t kiss the ice?” I asked hysterically. Tears were pooling in my eyes. I was going to hyperventilate. I couldn’t breathe. “I can’t—”
“I know,” he said, and his voice was calm. He squeezed my hands. “It’s okay. I understand. Do you know what I do when I’m about to go out into a fight? For good luck?”
“Time to go out,” the assistant said, urgency in her voice.
We ignored her. My gaze was locked on Ty’s face. I needed reassurance, and I needed it badly.
He let go of my hands. “My coach and I have a secret handshake,” he told me in a calm voice. He grabbed my hand, made a fist, fist-bumped me, and then grabbed my fingers and made a loop. Then he looped his own through it. He did three or four more hand motions before he was satisfied. “There. Lucky handshake. It’ll counteract the bad juju, okay?”
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Go out,” the assistant hissed, giving us a little shove. “We’re live, damn it!”
Ty winked at me, grabbed my hand, and then surged forward through the curtains. I had no choice but to follow.
After being backstage in the dark prep-room behind the curtains, gliding out onto the brightly-lit ice was blinding. The audience rose up into a wild cheer, and both Ty and I raised our free hands to wave at the crowd, moving to the center of the ice, our hands locked.
Ty stopped, digging his toe-pick into the ice, and then he pulled me close. We got into our starting pose, froze in place, and waited. As I stared at him, my hand clasped in his, I realized his palms were sweating, and he was more nervous than he’d let on. Strangely enough, now that we were on the ice, all my nerves had gone away.
So, I winked at him to let him know everything would be okay.
The music began, assaulting us with the thick guitar twang of “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.” We jumped into the dance, our hands tightly clasped, and began to perform to the music. I wore my brightest smile, trying to make this seem like fun, since the look on Ty’s face was one of pure concentration. He was supposed to smile at me and look at ease; we’d practiced that multiple times. But it seemed he couldn’t smile and do footwork at the same time, so I settled for footwork.
The chorus
Marina Dyachenko, Sergey Dyachenko