Chapter 1

The pair floats across the ice, hands clasped together, skates scraping against the surface in perfect synchronicity.

Or, at least, they’re trying to.

“Okay!” I shout, my voice hoarse after a long day of lessons. Despite my aching legs, I’m circling around them on my ownskates with a smooth, natural glide that, hopefully, they’ll be able to mimic one day. “Keep your grip firm, but not too tight. Don’t pull her with you, Jackson. Remember, she’s smaller than you. You need to adjust your stride to match hers.” The two eight-­year-­oldsI’m coaching are getting used to holding hands and skating together, one of the foundational basics of ice dance.

My voice echoes up into the rafters of Kellynch Rink of Greater Boston, the place I’ve spent more time in than my own home. It practically is home. My sisters and I were on skates before we could see over the boards surrounding the ice, because that’s what you do when you’re born a Russo.

“He’s not pulling you along anymore, Sadie, so you have to stay with him,” I remind her after he stops yanking at her arm and she drifts behind.

Finally, they fall into step, her shorter legs stretching a littlelonger, his longer legs striding a little shorter, and from my vantage point, it looks like perfection.

“That’s it!” They beam up at me, still holding hands. “Great job.”

Sadie barely comes up to my hip, and she casts her eyes longingly at my legs. “I wish I was as tall as you, Adriana. I wouldn’thave to stride so long.”

“You’re perfect exactly the way you are. Make sure you stretch tonight, especially your feet and ankles. Gotta keep them nice and strong for when I see you two again.”

“Ugh, that’s so long from now,” Jackson whines as I lead them off the ice.

“Not too long,” I say, clicking my skate guards on as soon as I pass through the gate. “Just until after Worlds.”

“That’s forever,” Sadie says, probably because when you’re eight years old, two months is an eternity.

To be fair, even at sixteen, it feels like forever for me, too, because by then Junior World Championships, the biggest competition of my life, will be over. It can’t get here soon enough. My ice dance partner and I qualified for the second year in a row, but this year, we finally have a great shot of winning gold. So two months from now, I’ll either be a World Champion . . . or not.

Right now, though, I’m a coach. I’ve been picking up more and more lessons in the last couple of years, trying to do my part to keep the lights on.

I wave to Sadie’s and Jackson’s moms as we approach them outside the rink. They’re sitting in the parents’ viewing area adjacent to the lobby. Banners cover the walls, citing the successes of the skating club in the half century it’s been open.

“Ah, Adriana!” Sadie’s mom says, racing up to me, her strides way faster than the ones her daughter can produce on the ice. “I’m so glad I got to see you before you left!”

“Oh,” I say with a small smile.

“Please tell Elisa I said good luck! We’ll all be watching her!”

I don’t let my smile slide at all, but instead let it grow. “Of course, I will.”

“You must be so proud of her. Your big sister going to theOlympics, what an accomplishment. Your father must be ecstatic.”

“He is.” I hold that smile, big and tight across my face. It’s not the first time this has happened, and it won’t be the last. Olympic Games trumps Junior World Championships, obviously. Elisa is a ladies’ singles skater, and their careers tend to peak way younger than ice dancers. Four years from now, if everything goes as planned, I’ll be headed to my first Olympics.

“Well, we don’t want to keep you,” Sadie’s mom says, her eyes darting around the lobby, probably to make sure she didn’t miss Elisa or Dad. Jackson and his mom are already gone.

“Sadie, great job today. I’ll see you when I get back.”

I lock the doors to the rink behind them, the last lesson we’ll have for a while. It’s sad, but necessary. I flick off the lobby lights before turning thecome in, we’re open sign hanging on the door to sorry, we’re closed.

While Dad and Elisa head to Beijing for the Olympics, we’re hosting the other athletes and their coaches in the lead-­up to Junior Worlds. Dad’s always been able to charm people, especially anyone who understands our family’s legacy. We’ve had elite camps here for years, and before Mom died, she ran summer camp intensives that were famous for getting athletes ready for the next level. The lure of training at our legendary rink was just too much to resist.

The fees Dad negotiated with each individual coach are nearly double what we usually make in skating lessons and birthday parties and hockey leagues. And as much as I hate it, hate letting down our students and all the people who’ve supported Kellynch over the years, there was no way we could afford to turn down that kind of money. Because as famous and successful our family has been, we have this nasty habit of spending way more money than we bring in. Like,way more.

Kellynch was opened by my great-­grandparents back before evenmy dad first started skating. In the last fifty years, it’s become the most prestigious club in the country. We’ve won more World and Olympic medals—most of which belong to my parents—than some countries, and it’s a state-of-the-art facility. Dad won’t stand for anything less.

It would be impossible for him to work in a place that was anything less than what someone would expect for an Olympic gold medalist, the patriarch of the most famous family in figure skating. That would be okay if it wasn’talso impossible for Walter Russo to drive anything less than what someone would expect an Olympic gold medalist to drive or live in a house that was anything less than what someone would expect an Olympic gold medalist from figure skating’s first family to live in.

No amount of rink rentals and skating lessons can make up for that kind of spending, and it’s only gotten worse as we grow closer to Elisa’s Olympic year. Figure skating is an expensive sport no matter what level you’re on, but the Olympics is a whole other thing. Trainers and choreographers and consultants on wardrobe and makeup, not to mention the publicity firm Dad hired to really make the most of it. It all adds up to a hell of a lot of money we don’t have. No matter how much we bring in, it gets spent.

The business is in massive debt and we needed creative solutions, and even I can admit that letting all the junior skaters and their coaches invade was one of the better ideas Dad came up with.

Our home is set on Kellynch’s property, steps from the rink itself, but it was there long before that. It started as a small house my great-­grandparents moved into when they saved enough money after emigrating from Italy, but every generation has expanded it, adding on bedrooms and bathrooms and a massive swimming pool in the backyard and a gym in the basement and an entertainment room on the top floor. There’s even a rooftop deck where you can see all of our small hamlet of Kellynch up against the Charles River and then across it, the massive Boston skyline in the distance.

The original part of the house is old-­school traditional with brick walls and dark shutters lining the windows, but the rest of it is a mishmash of styles and trends, ultramodern on one side from therenovation my grandparents did in the nineties and then farmhousechic on the other side when my mom and dad added on to it before my sisters and I were born. It’s a little wild to look at, but I love it.

What I don’t love is that as soon as I walk in the front door, I’m hit with a wall of noise that rivals the loudest crowds I’ve ever skated in front of. There are at least a dozen people hovering in the foyer, two holding fluffy gray boom mics up over the heads of the others, another two with cameras braced on their shoulders, aimed at my dad from different angles.

Renting the rink was one thing. This circus, no matter how well it pays, is something else entirely. The camera crews have been with us for months leading up to the Games. When Tamara Jackson, thehead of the United States Olympic Federation, approached Dad with the offer of a reality TV series starring him and Elisa, he didn’t hesitate. The money was okay, not enough to really get us out of debt, but the sheer amount of publicity was too much for either my dad or my sister to turn down. They live for publicity.

It’s made life completely insane, though. There’s always someone watching, and that makes my dad and sister even more conscious of what they’re wearing and how they look on camera. I’m pretty sure neither of them has repeated an outfit in the last six months.

I weave my way through the bustling catering staff moving ourfurniture around and setting up tables and chairs and a bar in the far corner where our dining room table normally sits. They are preparing for Elisa’s going-­away party tonight, and between catering and the camera crew, it’s a complete zoo. Dad’s directing traffic while also studying his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.

“Which side do you think?” Dad says, his blond hair slicked back, as he dabs a silk handkerchief across his forehead. It takes me a moment before I realize he’s talking to me. I tilt my head, considering, as he turns his head back and forth so I can judge.

“The right,” I say, gesturing toward that side of his face before sliding past the group and making a beeline for the stairs.

He nods and then blinks at me with my hair up in a messy bun and my sweaty skating clothes. “What are you wearing, Adriana? Youare coming to the party tonight, aren’t you?”

“Of course. I just finished up my last lesson.”

“Ice dance?” he clarifies with what I’m sure he thinks is a purely neutral voice, but Dad’s never neutral, not about what counts as real figure skating, anyway, and ice dancing definitely doesn’t. It never has.

“Yeah. Anyway, I was gonna take a nap and then shower and get ready,” I say, not in the mood to rehash that old argument. I’m too exhausted.

“Ugh! Where is Adriana? I need her!” Elisa’s voice carries over the din before she pushes through the crowd.

Elisa is my opposite in every way. Even though she’s a year older than me, at five foot eight I tower over her by more than half a foot. Her hair falls in honey-­blonde waves over her shoulders, a stark contrast to my dark curls. The only thing we have in common are our eyes, hazel, exactly like Mom’s were.

“I’m here,” I say, stepping out from behind one of the burly cameramen, who swings around to get us both into the shot.

My sister grabs me by the wrist and tugs with insistence toward the stairs, and even with the advantage of my longer legs, I have to hurry to keep up with her.

“I need you to look at my luggage. I don’t know how I can be expected to pack my things for the Olympicsand prepare for the party tonight. Like, there’s no way I’m going to remember what I need. This list they sent us is so overwhelming,” she says as we pass through her bedroom door. She swipes the list off her dresser and shoves it back at me before shutting the door in the face of the cameraman who was struggling to follow us. I guess she doesn’t want this on camera.

I take the list and then look around her bedroom. It’s a total wreck. There are clothes everywhere, across the floor and her bed and her furniture. Every drawer in her dresser is empty, and hangers hang in her closet with nothing hung on them.

“Um, how much did you get done?” I ask, but I can answer my own question. Her two suitcases are in the center of her bed and completely empty. Nothing. She got nothing done.

“I took everything out,” she says, flopping back onto the chaise lounge in the corner of her bedroom.

With a sigh, I glance at the list. It’s nothing crazy. Just an itinerary of their training plans leading up to the Games and the events they’ll need nice clothes for along the way. Mom used to always sit with us to pack for our competitions, but after she got sick, and then after she was gone, we started to sit with each other. For Elisa, though, it usually turns into me packing while she supervises.

I place the list down in a free bit of space on her bed. “Okay, I’ll help, but you’re sitting on a pile of leggings.”

Giggling, she reaches underneath and pulls out a ball of black fabric and tosses it to me. Before I catch it, her phone is out and she’s tapping away at the screen.

“Has Brayden said anything?” she asks, not looking up as I detangle the leggings and roll them neatly into a corner of her suitcase.

“About what?” I ask, wrinkling my nose. Brayden Elliot is my ice dance partner. He’s eighteen, and he and Elisa had athing back when he and I started skating together two years ago.

It did not end well.

Not that any of the things Brayden has ever had with any girl end well. I don’t know the exact details—­and never, ever want to know them, thank you very much—­but I do know he was the one who ended it. He’s always the one who ends thosethings. Yet somehow, despite that, my sister, who could probably have any guy she wants, never seems to give up hope that he might change his mind.

Personally, I don’t get it. Brayden’s a great partner, a cool guy and undeniably hot, but when the wordfuckboy gets into the dictionary, his picture will be right there next to it.

“Did he ask about me?”

“I haven’t seen him since training this morning.” That’s not really an answer, and I hope she doesn’t notice. I don’t want to tell her no, Brayden hadn’t said anything, because Brayden isn’t interested anymore. “You shouldn’t worry about Brayden. You’re going to the Olympics.”

“Yes, and I’m currently trying not to think about how our entire family’s legacy is on my shoulders now, thanks. So . . . Brayden, did he ask about me?”

Ah, so she did notice, and yeah, that’s fair. Okay, distractions.

“He didn’t say anything,” I tell her. “Sadie Mortenson’s mom wishes you good luck, though.”

Yeah, that’s probably not that helpful.

Elisa sniffs and continues to scroll through her phone. “He never said whether or not he was coming tonight. Did he mention the party at training?”

“He said he was going to try to stop by.”

What I don’t say is that Brayden said he’d try to stop by after he met up with the girl he’s having his most recentthing with. There’s no way I can tell Elisa that without a total implosion, though.

“We’ve been training really hard. He might want to crash tonight.”

“He at least owes me a ‘good luck.’ I’m going to the Olympics.” She sighs heavily, but then pivots, clearly remembering she doesn’t want to think about that. “Don’t you wish you hadn’t switched to ice dance? You won’t get the chance for another four years at least.“

It’s a very old conversation that always comes back to one important point.

“You know I’m too tall for anything other than ice dance,” I say dully, like I have every time anyone has brought this up in the last decade.

Elisa’s gaze flicks up from her screen. “Whatever. If he doesn’t come tonight, tell Brayden that—­”

Whatever I’m supposed to tell Brayden is cut off by the bedroom door swinging open. Our younger sister Maria flies through it, flinging it shut behind her so hard the walls shudder.

“Charlie is the worst, and I am so sick of him,” she whines, marching straight for Elisa and throwing herself into the empty space on the chaise beside her. Maria is only two years younger than me, but sometimes those two years feel like twenty. Charlie is Charles Monroe Jr., her skating partner.

She skates pairs, which is nearly as acceptable as singles skating, according to Dad, at least. My sisters both inherited our dad’s blond hair, our mom’s tiny stature, and the firm belief that icedance doesn’t really belong in the sport of figure skating. Apparently, it’s only a real sport if you hurl your body through the air while spinning like a top. Unlike Dad, however, they’re both totally fine with my chosen discipline, since it conveniently never puts any of us in direct competition. Mom loved that part of it, thatshe never had to worry about who to cheer for on the ice, that if her girls all went out there and did their best, then she knew we’d come home with three gold medals.

“What now?” Elisa asks as Maria curls into her side, but she meets my eyes over her head and rolls them dramatically. Elisa doesn’t usually have patience for our youngest sister’s drama, but apparently, it’s a decent enough distraction for her right now.

“He’s just there and hot and so nice and . . . why does he have to be gay?”

“I know it’s tough,” Elisa says, squeezing our little sister’s shoulders. “Maybe it’s better, though. Mixing a partnership with romance can be tricky. That never really works, right, Adriana?”

I freeze. My stomach lurches and the air prickles around me. Elisa stares, waiting for me to agree and tell Maria she’s better off not dating her skating partner because it is actually good advice. There’s no innuendo in her voice. She’s not talking about . . . him. She probably doesn’t even remember the crush I had on him before he left, before I made him leave. In fact, knowing Elisa, she probably doesn’t remember him at all.

He is Freddie O’Connell, my former partner, former best friend, and first crush.

Two years ago, I sprouted up to my current height, and he barely matched it, with no guarantee he’d ever grow enough for us to be successful together. So I had to decide.

It was the toughest choice I’ve ever made in my life, to leave Freddie and partner up with Brayden Elliot.

Now he skates with a good friend of mine, Riley Monroe, and they’ve been pretty successful. So much so that they’ll be headed to Junior World Championships too, after training here at Kellynch,starting tomorrow.

I push that thought away, like I have since Dad told us about the arrangement with the rest of the Junior Worlds team, ignoring the fact Freddie will be here soon, at the same rink as me. The ice dancing world is small. I haven’t been able to avoid him completely, but we aren’t friends anymore. I can probably count on one hand the number of words we’ve exchanged since his last day training at Kellynch.

The last time I saw him was at Nationals, when Brayden and I beat him and Riley out for gold. He’d done what you’re supposed to do, shook my hand and mumbled congratulations before I stepped up onto the podium to get my medal. He didn’t even look me in the eye. Not that I can blame him, really.

“What do you think?” Maria’s voice cuts into my thoughts. Only seconds have passed. I blink away the memories and focus on her.

I pick up a dress from Elisa’s bed, a red sequined minidress that I’m pretty sure actually belongs to me. Folding it into a neat square, I place it in my older sister’s suitcase and then turn to my little sister.

“You deserve someone who wants to be with you as much as you want to be with them.”

Maria blinks at me once, then twice before her face crumples and tears start to gather at the corners of her eyes, her cheeks flushing bright. “But I can’t help it. I love him.” She launches herself off the chaise and starts pacing the room.

Elisa stands, moving by me with the grace of the Olympic figure skater she is. She reaches into her suitcase to pick up the dress I put there. “Here,” she says, holding it out to Maria. “Wear this to the party tonight. I’m wearing white, and the dress I got for Adriana is blue. It’ll be so perfect for pictures. I’ll do your hair and makeup and we’ll find someone who will appreciate how absolutely gorgeous you are.”

Maria drags Elisa out of the room and across the hall into hers, leaving me with two nearly empty suitcases. Glancing around at the stuff that needs to be in them before tomorrow morning still strewn everywhere, I sigh before getting to work.