Page 78 of What If We Break?
Brooke next to me exhaled deeply, her hands clasped tightly together, her gaze fixed on the judges’ table as thearena filled with a pulsating energy. Anticipation crackled in the air like electricity.
Once upon a time, my heart would’ve been racing in rhythm with the thrumming beat of the music echoing throughout the arena, but it was now beating to a different song.
The announcer’s voice reverberated through the speakers, cutting through the buzz of the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your third-place winners… Natalia Kozlova and Alexei Romanov!”
Brooke reached for my hand, gripping it so tightly that she might as well have been cutting off the blood circulation to my fingers. “Oh, my God,” she muttered under her breath. She was still holding back her excitement.
Top two.
And still nothing.
“We might’ve actually gotten first place,” Brooke said, looking up at me. “Erik’s going to be pissed.”
“Yeah.” I nodded slightly. “He’ll be furious.”
“I haven’t ranked this high in years!” A little excited shriek slipped out. “I told you that you’d do amazing!”
I sighed. “You did.”
“Ah, pssht! They’re about to announce…”
“Please welcome your second-place winners,” the announcer spoke through his microphone. The words seemed to echo endlessly, each syllable stretching out into an eternity, prolonging the agony of anticipation.
I braced myself, my muscles tense, praying not to have placed second for Brooke’s sake.
“Brooklyn King and Reece Carter.” His words hit me like a blow to the gut, stealing every ounce of oxygen left in my lungs.
Brooke’s hands loosened, her shoulders sinking as she closed her eyes to take a breath.
The words hung in the air, a mix of relief and disappointment washing over me like a wave.
Well, these were certainly emotions… but only because I knew Brooke was going to feel awful.
Second place.
Not first. Not the gold medal that had been Brooke’s singular focus for weeks on end, but second.
I was relieved Brooke was placed at all, but second place…?
It was an achievement, no doubt, but in the competitive world of figure skating, second place was just short of the ultimate goal.
You were the first loser—good enough to rank high but not good enough to win.
The disappointment washed over me in a wave, threatening to engulf me entirely. If I felt bad about second place, I could barely imagine how Brooke felt.
I forced a smile, a facade to mask the bitter taste of defeat that lingered in my mouth. When I looked at my fiancée, she had tears in her eyes. Her lips were turned downward, but within seconds, Brooke shook off her sadness and plastered a smile onto her face.
Applause erupted from the crowd, a cacophony of cheers and whistles that served as both a celebration and a reminder of our first place as losers.
I took Brooke’s hand and we skated onto the ice to get our medal. Silver, the color of failure.
We took our final bow, drowning out the applause thundering around us. We hid our true emotions behind a smile so bright that nobody would ever think we weren’t happy about our placement.
Despite the pang of indifference inside of me, I knew what losing felt like. I knew how awful second place felt, and just because figure skating had never been my true passion didn’t mean I was okay with losing.
My mind drifted from the glittering arena into the dimly lit confines of a hockey rink.
I pictured myself clad in my jersey, the number 17 largely displayed on the back, with the familiar weight of the hockey stick in my hands and the adrenaline-fueled rush as I charged towards the net. The place where I felt alive, on the ice during a hockey game. The place where every stride, every shot was a testament to my dedication and skill. Nothing had to look pretty or be executed neatly and with too much precision.
