Chapter Text
The rink belonged to Sophie before it belonged to the world.
At five in the morning, the Penwood training facility was silent but for the hum of refrigeration beneath the floor and the distant click of Alfie’s stopwatch. The stands were empty. No flags. No cameras. No commentators rehearsing her name.
Just ice.
She stood at the threshold for a moment, gloved fingers resting against the gate.
Her father had taught her never to rush the first step.
Listen first, Richard would say, crouched beside her when she was small enough that her boots swallowed her ankles whole. The ice tells you what it wants.
She had been two when he first set her down on blades.
She had fallen immediately.
She had laughed harder than she’d cried.
Now she pushed onto the rink with the quiet reverence of someone entering a cathedral.
One glide.
Two crossovers.
Speed unfurled inside her like memory.
It came naturally, the acceleration, the low, powerful knee bend, the ability to build velocity in seconds. That was her father. Olympic speed skater. Relentless. Efficient.
But the stillness at the centre of it, the awareness of line, of extension, of breath, that was Marie Baek.
Sophie never remembered her mother’s voice clearly. Just flashes of perfume and applause and soft Korean murmurs in the background of old recordings. Richard had kept every tape. Every article. Every program sheet.
“She skated because she loved it,” he’d told Sophie once. “Not because anyone told her to.”
Triple Lutz.
She snapped into the air, tight, controlled, landing with a clean running edge that carried her nearly half the rink.
She let it run.
That part was hers.
She moved into a triple-triple combination without hesitation. The rhythm between take-off and landing was instinctive now, not calculated but felt.
When she skated alone, she didn’t count rotations.
She remembered.
Her father’s hand at the small of her back correcting posture.
His laugh when she’d tried to race him in hockey skates and lost spectacularly.
Her mother’s layback spin looping endlessly on grainy video.
On the ice, they were both with her.
She spun into a Biellmann, pulling her blade overhead, the stretch sharp but familiar. She held it longer than required, because she could.
And because no one was watching.
The rink doors opened.
The smile vanished.
“Again,” Araminta said.
Her voice carried crisply across the ice.
Sophie didn’t turn immediately. She finished her exit edge first.
Araminta Gun stood at the boards wrapped in cream wool and impatience. Her heels were wholly impractical for a training rink but she wore them anyway. Appearance before function.
“The federation wants footage of the quad attempt,” Araminta continued, scrolling through her phone. “It tests well.”
Irma’s head snapped up from the stands. “She’s not doing quads in the short.”
Araminta waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t mean in competition. Just for the media. It shows range.”
“It shows injury risk,” Irma replied flatly.
Sophie reset for another triple combination.
Araminta frowned slightly. “Is that the axel one?”
“It was a Lutz-toe,” Alfie muttered under his breath.
Araminta ignored him as she always did.
“You need to hold the landing longer. And smile. Not that small one, the brighter one. Sponsors like warmth.”
Sophie launched again.
Clean.
Precise.
Short glide.
Emotionless
Alfie noticed the difference immediately.
“Let it breathe,” he called gently. “You’re cutting your exit.”
She adjusted on the next pass.
Under her father, skating had felt like a ritual. Like freedom.
Under Araminta, it felt like inventory.
Irma descended the steps slowly, hands in her jacket pockets.
“You’re over-rotating your toe loop when she talks,” she said quietly as Sophie skated close.
“I know.”
“Don’t let noise change your edges.”
Sophie nodded.
Irma had coached her father once, back when Richard was still chasing hundredths of seconds on straight ice instead of guiding a little girl through figure-eight drills. When he died, Irma had stayed. Not out of obligation. Out of loyalty. To Sophie only.
Alfie had stayed too.
He’d been barely more than a trainee then, all nervous energy and determination. Now he leaned over the boards with the casual protectiveness of an older brother.
“You’re still the favourite for the individual,” he said softly. “Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”
Across the rink, Araminta was already correcting a federation rep.
“She’s competing in everything,” Araminta was saying. “Individual, pairs, team. Maximum exposure. Marie Baek’s daughter winning across categories is historic.”
Irma muttered, “It’s exhausting.”
Sophie didn’t comment.
She had made the individual cut easily.
There had never been doubt.
She could land combinations most senior skaters avoided. Her stamina was unmatched. Judges rewarded her speed through transitions, something few pure figure skaters possessed.
But Araminta never spoke about footwork.
Only headlines.
The side door opened again.
Hugh Im entered quietly, shrugging out of his jacket. The Team GB crest was still faintly visible beneath the temporary South Korean patch stitched over it.
He had made the extended roster for Britain but not the final Olympic individual selection.
So Araminta had poached him, sent someone to get him after she’d found a slip of paper with his credentials and his name and heritage on it.
Unbeknown to her, Posy had left it, thinking since her mother was desperate for a partner for Sophie and no one else stayed, that he would be perfect and he would do it for her. He would swap to represent South Korea with Sophie, for a chance to compete, and be closer to Posy without anyone being any the wiser as she knew her mother would never approve of their relationship.
“That’s him?” Araminta said, squinting slightly. “He’s taller than I expected.”
“He’s six foot,” Alfie replied.
“That’s fine. It’ll look dramatic.”
Hugh stepped forward.
His expression was neutral, he knew the deal, he’d heard it all from Posy, what her mother was like, but he knew Sophie’s talent was unmatched. Team GB had been desperate for her to sign with them, the daughter of two olympic champions, with the talent to rival anyone’s. He’d met Sophie a few times at competitions throughout the years, they’d skated together once but it had been like skating with his sister… There was no chemistry there but this was his shot at the Olympics and he was going to take it, even if it was on Sophie’s coattails.
“Sophie,” he said, offering a nod and a friendly smile.
“Hugh.”
Araminta clapped once. “Let’s see the lift, the twirly overhead one.”
“The rotational?” Hugh clarified carefully.
“Yes, that.”
Irma closed her eyes briefly.
Hugh stepped onto the ice.
His edges were strong, not breathtaking, but dependable. His posture was clean. He approached Sophie with quiet professionalism.
“Rotational first?” he asked her, ignoring Araminta’s commentary.
“Yes.”
His hands settled at her waist.
“Ready?”
She nodded.
He lifted.
Strong core engagement. Stable axis. No wobble.
She rotated easily and landed with barely a sound.
“Again,” Araminta called. “But look happier.”
Hugh’s mouth twitched faintly.
They repeated it.
Then a throw jump.
His timing was a fraction late. She compensated automatically.
He noticed.
“You adjust before I finish,” he murmured.
“So do you.”
They reset.
After the third run-through he said quietly, “For what it’s worth, I know this isn’t your focus.”
“I know and I know why you are here really…” she replied just as quietly.
Relief flickered across his face as not having to lie to his partner would make it easier.
There was no spark between them. No charge. Just rhythm.
They worked well.
They did not burn.
When the music started for their pairs short, they moved through the choreography cleanly. Step sequences aligned. Turns matched.
But when their hands linked, there was no electricity.
From the boards, Araminta beamed.
“See? Chemistry,” she said brightly.
Irma snorted, there was about as much tension between them as water in the desert.
Training stretched into late morning.
Media coordinators arrived. Cameras tested lighting angles. Araminta positioned herself precisely where she could be seen.
Sophie collapsed onto the bench beside Alfie.
“You were flying earlier,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“What changed?”
She glanced across the rink where Araminta was explaining to a journalist how “figure skating scores are mostly about presentation.”
Sophie wiped her blade carefully.
“When I skate alone,” she said softly, “I can feel them.”
Alfie didn’t ask who.
He knew.
Richard’s steady hands guiding her shoulders.
Marie’s old programs flickering through empty arenas.
“They’d be proud,” Alfie said.
Irma approached, pressing a bottle of water into Sophie’s hands. “You skate like you’re apologising when she’s watching.”
Sophie swallowed.
“I don’t mean to.”
“I know.”
Across the rink, Araminta laughed too loudly at something trivial.
“She’s going to burn you out,” Irma said under her breath.
“She won’t,” Sophie replied.
But she wasn’t sure whether that was confidence or defiance.
When the session finally ended, the Zamboni rolled out, smoothing away every mark.
Hugh lingered near the gate.
“You’re still the one they’re afraid of in the individual tournament,” he said quietly.
She looked at him.
“You are,” he insisted. “Everyone knows it. You are world champion after all”
“Fear doesn’t win medals, nor does the fact I am the world champion...”
“No,” he agreed. “But joy does.”
She stilled.
He shrugged lightly. “You had it earlier.”
A pause.
“I’m glad it’s you,” he added.
“As a partner?”
“As a person.”
She nodded.
“Me too.”
It was honest, it was friendship, nothing more.
Just steady ground.
The resurfacer finished its slow pass. The ice gleamed again, flawless, unmarked.
Sophie stepped back onto it one last time before the lights dimmed.
One long glide.
This time she let it run.
For her father.
For her mother.
For the girl who had once laughed when she fell.
For the love that had started this.
Not the pressure that threatened to finish it.
And for a brief, fragile moment, she felt the pulse again and hoped the lights of the Games would let her forget about Araminta and skate how she felt.