Betrayal Under the Penthouse Lights

"We close the ice in an hour," the teenage boy behind the rental counter muttered. He popped a bubble with his pink gum.

"That's fine," I said. "I brought my own."

"Suit yourself. Ice is pretty chewed up."

"I can manage."

I set my battered leather bag on the rubber mat. The salty San Diego ocean breeze vanished the moment I pushed through the heavy glass doors. Inside the old arena, the familiar chill bit into my skin.

I sat on a cracked plastic chair. I unzipped the bag.

I pulled out my white skates. Nine years had passed since I last touched them.

I traced the rusted edge of the steel blade. I was eighteen the last time I laced these boots. I had been US Figure Skating’s most promising rising star, on the fast track to the national team.

Then came the bankruptcy.

The Whitmore family offered a bailout. They demanded I quit skating and marry Alexander in exchange for the funds.

My parents packed away my Olympic dreams in a cardboard box. They handed me over to a stranger.

I stepped onto the frozen surface.

The cold shot up my legs. I pushed off.

One stroke. Then another. Speed built in my chest. I threw myself into a spin. The empty bleachers blurred into a gray smear. I leaped.

My landing foot slipped. I slammed into the hard ice.

Pain bloomed across my bruised kneecap. I didn't stop. I scrambled up and launched into another jump. I fell again.

My shoulder cracked against the frozen floor. I stayed down this time. I pressed my face against the icy surface. A loud sob ripped from my throat, echoing in the empty rink.

I cried until my lungs burned.

***

My phone buzzed against the cheap laminate of my new apartment's nightstand. The screen lit up the dark room.

I swiped the green icon.

"Where are the sapphire cufflinks?" Alexander demanded.

No greeting. No 'how are you'. Just a demand.

"The ones from the charity auction last year," he added, his voice impatient. "I have a gala tonight."

I stared at the ceiling fan. "Bottom drawer of your dressing room. Left side, under the velvet watch cases."

"They aren't here."

"Look harder," I said.

"You usually lay them out for me."

"I don't live there anymore."

Alexander sighed loudly into the receiver. "Are you still playing this game, Evelyn? When are you coming back?"

"I am not coming back."

"This is childish. You are making a mess of my schedule."

"Hire an assistant."

"I have an assistant. I need my wife to do her job."

"I resigned," I told him.

"You are my wife, Evelyn. You do not get to resign."

"I signed the papers."

"A piece of paper means nothing. You belong in New York."

"I belong to myself."

"Evelyn," he warned, his tone dropping.

"Alexander," I replied, matching his pitch.

"What?"

"Do not call to bother me again."

I pressed end. I opened his contact profile and hit block.

***

The next morning, the rink bench felt hard under my aching legs. My phone lit up with an unknown New York number.

"Hello?" I asked.

"Mrs. Whitmore? It's Ms. Davis, Theo's kindergarten teacher."

"It's Ms. Carter now," I corrected her.

"Oh. Well, Theo is here for the robot exhibition, but he didn't bring his project. He won't speak to anyone. Can you bring it?"

"I am in California, Ms. Davis."

Silence stretched over the line. "He's sitting right next to me. He looks very upset."

"Put him on."

I tapped the speaker button. I set the device on the scarred wooden bench.

"Theo," I said softly.

No answer. Just the faint rustle of clothing.

"The robot is in the blue toy box in your bedroom," I told the quiet receiver. "You can ask Dad to bring it to you."

A small sniffle crackled through the speaker.

My fingers curled into tight fists. "Theo, Mommy has to stay in California for a while."

"Why?" His tiny voice broke. "Aren't you coming home?"

"I can't live in that house anymore, Theo," I whispered, fighting back tears. "You have to be a big boy and let Dad bring your project, okay?"

"I want you to bring it," he cried.

"I can't, sweetie. Please ask your father."

"Ms. Davis, please call his father," I said to the teacher.

"I will," the teacher said quickly. "And don't worry, I'll make sure to avoid nuts for his lunch today."

"Thank you."

I ended the call. The screen went black.

I knew his diet better than anyone. I knew a single almond could close his throat. But I would never pack his lunch again.

I slumped forward. I buried my face in my palms until the stinging behind my eyes stopped.

***

I shoved myself off the bench. I needed the cold.

I skated to the center of the rink. The blades cut sharp grooves into the fresh Zamboni tracks. I picked up speed, crossing over, building momentum.

Faster.

I planted my toe pick. I launched myself into the air.

One rotation. Two. Three.

My edge gave way on the landing. A sickening pop echoed beneath my skate, and my right ankle twisted inward. I crashed violently onto the scarred ice, sliding across the frozen sheet until my shoulder slammed against the wooden boards.

White-hot pain ripped through my joint. I tried to push myself up, but my knee buckled. I lay there on the cold surface, clutching my ankle, unable to breathe.

Slow, steady blade strokes approached across the rink. A pair of worn figure skates stopped right in front of my face.

A pair of wrinkled hands reached down to pull me up. An elderly woman with silver hair pulled into a tight bun stared down at me with sharp, calculating eyes.

"That was reckless," she said, her voice rough like sandpaper. She studied my face through the dim rink lights, her expression shifting into sudden recognition. "Wait... Evelyn Carter? The Evelyn Carter from the national championships?"

I clamped my lips shut, shivering against the biting cold.

My past had finally caught up with me.