Chapter Text
January 2024
"Just for this season, Tag. You and Patrick were so great, I'm sure that you could help me and Archie too!"
Just for this season. Just for now. To everyone, Taggie O'Hara is a placeholder for something better to come along.
But Taggie, who has always come second, tries not to feel the condescending sting of her mother's commentary when she announces that she's about to be her sister's new skating coach.
"Oh, that's lovely, darling. You know the old adage, those who can't do..."
Except she could do. Patrick and Taggie O'Hara had won silver at the ISU Junior Grand Prix finals just two years ago. They were at the top of their game. The Olympics were around the corner. Then a certain recruiter in a tailored Armani suit walked in, batted her eyelashes at Patrick, and promised him gold, and he was kicking off his solo career.
"It's not you, Taggie. I just want to know if I can make it out there on my own. You understand, don't you?"
Yes. Taggie understood. She understood that in her family, she would always come second. Second born, second rate, second in everything until someone needed something.
Taggie tries to tamp down her annoyance for Cameron Cook, who, by all measures, had the strongest eye for talent in the game. If she said Patrick was Olympic gold material, who was Taggie (or anyone, really) to say different? Sure, it probably didn't help that the rumor now was that Patrick was also sharing Cameron's bed, but her brother was a grown-up; he didn't need her mothering him anymore. No, Taggie was content being her 15-year-old sister's coach. At least for now.
"You sure James isn't open to training me?" Taggie asks Lizzie Vereker while watching her sister and Archie Baddingham warming up rinkside.
Lizzie snorts while nibbling a bar of chocolate. "Absolutely not. He's an awful coach for you anyway."
"I'm not hard to train," Taggie says defensively, her tone not nearly as assertive as she means for it to be.
Lizzie looks at her, surprised, before grabbing her arm affectionately. "No! No, I didn't mean it like that. James can be very... hands-on with his skaters. Anyway, he's never trained anyone at an Olympic level. He wouldn't know what to do with someone of your skill."
"Start with some stroking and crossovers," Taggie calls to Caitlin and Archie. "Well, I wouldn't have to start an Olympic level. It's not like I can afford someone like Malise Gordon. I just want to start figuring out a routine. I want to do more than just aimless twizzles around the rink." Then, after a pause, watching her sister effortlessly push off the ice and glide backward, she feels part of her soul crumbling. "I feel like I'm running out of time."
"Darling," Lizzie says, alarmed, shaking her a bit. "You are not running out of time. You just turned twenty. You have your whole life ahead of you."
"You know what I mean," Taggie replies dejectedly. Most of her peers were working toward the World Championships right now, and what was she doing? Babysitting her teen sister and her lackluster parter (not that she'd ever tell Archie or Caitlin that he was lackluster). Sighing, she continues to shout out new exercises for the pair on the ice while Lizzie updates her on the current gossip.
Perdita Macleod is the favorite going into the World Championship, while the rumors of Kitty Rannaldini running away from her husband after the Grand Prix turned out to be totally true, and she's found love with a skier named Lysander. James was apparently looking into commentating, and there were whispers that Malise was considering coming out of retirement to train a new pair, though no one was sure who it could be.
"Rupert Campbell-Black?" Taggie offers, only half paying attention as she watches Caitlin push herself into a back scratch spin, twirling like a top on the ice with flawless precision. Truly, she was wasted on Archie.
"Oh no, I doubt Rupert would ever work with Malise. The man stole his wife! But, they were a very good team, especially with Helen."
"Do you think Helen would ever come out of retirement, too?"
"At her age?" Lizzie's comment prickles Taggie more than it should. "No, I don't think so. Besides, she was good, but Rupert far outpaced her. And he was her living nightmare, two babies, and then the Olympics? Gives me a rash just thinking about it."
"I guess he's better with Nathalie; they match each other pretty well."
"I doubt that'll keep going much longer. He's apparently been cheating on her. Sleeping with her sister," Lizzie whispers as if there's anyone else to hear them.
"I don't know why you're friends with him," Taggie sighs, pushing off from the side of the rink onto the ice to correct her sister's form and wanting to push away any of the self-conscious thoughts starting to take root in her mind. Turning to Lizzie, she waves, "I'll call you later." Her mind continues to run through potential names of coaches. The better the coach, the more the cost. Which only means she'll need to take on more students to pay for the coaching. Which means less time for practice. Which means more strain on her already aching body.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
.𖥔 ܁ ˖⋆ ˚❆. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
"Good fucking riddance," Rupert growls, as he walks into his hotel room and tosses his gym bag onto the ground, throwing his phone onto his bed after a heinous phone call with his now ex-partner..
"Bad day, Rupe?" Freddie Jones asks, appearing behind him.
"Christ! You're like a fucking cat," he jumps, patting his chest comically as if to stop his racing heart. "I just got off the phone with Nathalie."
"Bad news?"
"Catastrophic. She found out about Sylvie."
Freddie shoots him a judgmental look. "That was never going to end well. Didn't need me to tell you that."
"Don't need you to tell me now, either," Rupert says sharply. "I don't know why she bloody cares, she sleeps around too."
"Yes, but she's not sleeping with your brother."
"Adrian is gay," Rupert frowns. "If that was happening, I'd have more questions for her than just her infidelity."
"You know what I mean," Freddie grins, grabbing a little bottle of liquor from his mini-fridge. Sitting down on the couch in the room, he kicks his feet up and cracks open the little bourbon. "What are you going to do now?"
Rupert rubs his temples, fighting off the migraine that's been cooking for the last three hours after getting off the phone with a screaming Nathalie, where half of the conversation consisted of French expletives. "Drink the entire minibar?"
"After that," Freddie emphasizes.
"Grovel at Nathalie's feet? It's not like there's much I can do."
"You two are like oil and water, you don't mix," Freddie says matter-of-factly.
Rupert glares at him. "Well, I'm open to suggestions, Freddie. If you have one, spit it out; if not, throw me one of those bottles of vodka."
Freddie chuckles, leaning over to stretch his arm out and grab a vodka bottle with his fingertips. "I'll ask around. Lizzie's got her ear to the ground; she probably knows someone looking for a partner."
The last thing he wanted to do was get between Lizzie and whatever she had going on with Freddie. His attempts at pleasing her would likely mean that whatever charity case Lizzie was working on would be foisted upon Rupert. No, thank you. "No offense, but Lizzie's got the softest heart in the world. She'll saddle me with some doe-eyed pea-brain who just wants to be tossed around on the ice. I need someone who is my equal."
Freddie bursts out laughing, guzzling down the amber liquid in his tiny bottle. "You're pushing 40, how many equals do you think there are out there for you?"
The look Rupert cuts Freddie would kill if Freddie weren't already immune to the man's tantrums. "You know what I mean. She's always got some sob story she's trying to foist on someone. Is Kitty back yet?"
"She's eloped, apparently."
"But her new beau isn't a skater, is he?"
Freddie shakes his head. "Some skier. The bloke's prettier than all your lovers combined."
"Lucky Kitty," Rupert snickers a little, imagining the look on greasy old Rannaldini's face when his wife ran out on him at the Grand Prix Finals. "Is she looking for a new skating partner?"
"Dunno," Freddie shrugs. "But Rannaldini's got a newer, younger partner now. He's too busy boasting about that."
"Younger doesn't mean better," Rupert retorts.
"It doesn't mean worse either." Cracking a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels, Freddie tosses the cap onto the ground next to the empty bourbon bottle. "Heard O'Hara's got his youngest competing now too."
"Is she any good?" Rupert's brow arches, interest piqued.
"She's 15," Freddie answers his question before Rupert can voice it.
Rupert grumbles in frustration. "He really is churning out a little family of skaters, isn't he? Trying to complete his Olympic set. What happened to the other two?" He vaguely remembers the furor a few years ago when the O'Hara siblings stepped onto the stage and instantly started gaining traction as two nepobabies who had effectively inherited their parents' skill and chemistry on the ice. He shudders. You couldn't pay me to skate with Adrian.
"One's gone solo, the other's... I don't know what happened to her." Then, after a beat. "Cameron's got her claws into the brother now."
It's Rupert's turn to laugh. "Of course she has. Her new protégé?"
"Apparently." Freddie leans in to whisper-shout. "And apparently her new bit on the side as well."
Rupert scoffs, but gives the boy a nod of approval. Every man needed a good older woman to properly educate them at some point in their lives. Cameron was as good as you could get. Maybe that's why she'd been dodging his calls for the last two months.
Tilting his head back, he looks at the yellowish light beaming down from the inset bulb in the ceiling, blinding himself and entering an almost trance-like state. If he found someone by the end of February, they could start immediately. But that would mean it would have to be a girl not already partnered, which halves his list. And the girl couldn't be already preparing for Worlds. Another dozen names are crossed off his list. Goodbye, Worlds in March. Goodbye, Olympics in 2026. Goodbye, any more shots at the gold. He might as well shoot himself now rather than be put out to pasture with the other senior citizens.
"You sure you don't want me to ask Lizzie?" Freddie nudges, tossing another empty bottle on the ground.
"Yes," he answers petulantly. And then, "No. Fuck it. I'm going to get a massage and find something to smoke to get my mind off of this. Do whatever you want, I don't care anymore," he lies, getting up and slinking to the fridge, grabbing three bottles before leaving his room. Maybe the masseuse would know someone. Or he could just screw her to get rid of this migraine. Or both.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
.𖥔 ܁ ˖⋆ ˚❆. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
"So, what's the good news?" Taggie asks as she sits down across from Lizzie at the cozy little cafe just a quarter mile away from the skating rink.
Lizzie, with her red curls pulled back in a gold clip behind her, looks surprisingly well put together today. She offers Taggie a glowing smile when she arrives. "I've found you the perfect partner. He's the perfect size, and his skating style will mesh perfectly with yours!"
Taggie's eyes widen. "But, I said I wanted to solo," she says quietly. "I don't know if I'm ready for a new partner."
Lizzie nods, waving her hand as if to swat away all those worries. "I know. I know. But this is a fantastic opportunity. He's already won gold before at the Olympics. And he's recently lost his partner. It's practically kismet."
Already won gold before? Taggie frowns, thinking in her mind all of the names she currently knows in the world who were former gold medalists who also happened to not have a partner. "It's not Rannaldini is it?" She feels instantly queasy.
"Oh, good god, no!" Lizzie looks almost horrified. "I wouldn't do that to you. No, he's won the gold for Great Britain and also a handful of World Finals."
Olympics for Great Britain? Straining, Taggie pulls out her phone, but only one name comes to mind. "You're not talking about..."
"Rupert! He's free!" Lizzie presents this like it's a gift from the heavens, not what it actually is. A disappointment.
"What?" Taggie looks at Lizzie in shock. "He's old."
Lizzie's smile falters a little, but she shrugs it off. "He's not that old. And he wants to win the gold. He got bronze with Nathalie just last year at the finals and the bronze at the Olympics in '22. Your style is so similar to Nathalie's, and he's far more intuitive than Patrick's. It's a match made in heaven."
Or hell, Taggie thinks quietly. "I suppose bronze is impressive," she mutters, without adding for someone his age.
Lizzie nods a little, oblivious to Taggie's apprehension. "I know it's not ideal. But Rupert has years of experience. He's the best bet for a young skater like you. If nothing, you can view it as a training exercise."
Years of experience. Yes, because he was quite literally double her age. Three months before she was born, he was already placing gold at the World Finals. She wants to melt into the ground. Is this all she was good for? Getting partners who were one foot in the grave while her brother skated his way toward the Olympics on his own? God, what would her mother say? She could already imagine Daddy making jokes about it. Might as well skate with a dinosaur like me then, darlin'.
"A training exercise..." she repeats blankly, still playing out all the mocking scenarios in her head from her family. Wasn't he the one who everyone joked about getting a younger partner every few years before his current partner could turn 25? How long would she last?
"At the very least," Lizzie insists. "You know, he helped Helen improve a lot when he was first paired with her. She was so green back then. I can't imagine the help he could offer you."
"Didn't he do that with Malise's hel,p though?"
"Nevermind that. Listen, Taggie, I know you wanted a coach to help you with your solo career. But you and I both know how expensive those trainers are. You don't have a sponsor right now to help you pay for it, and I doubt your coaching money is enough to cover the costs—"
"It barely covers my rent," Taggie complains.
"Exactly. It's a thankless job."
"But if I train with Rupert, then I would definitely have to drop Caitlin and Archie. I don't think I'd have the time for two training sessions while also getting back into shape."
Lizzie strokes her jaw, thinking. "I've got an idea for that, too."
Taggie doesn't want to doubt Lizzie, if only because now that the idea is in her head, her dreams are once again within reach. Sure, he was old. But Lizzie was right. He was an Olympian. Not only that, but one with half a dozen medals from both the Finals and the Olympics. His skill was legendary even in singles. He'd managed to win the '10 gold with Helen in the middle of a marriage breaking down, after she'd just given birth less than a year ago, and bounced back after a brutal injury and Helen leaving him to qualify for the subsequent games in '14.
She could do worse...
"I'll agree—"
"Yes!"
"—but only if he agrees to train me as a solo skater too," she says, not letting Lizzie's euphoric interruption stop her.
Though this doesn't seem to dampen Lizzie's happiness at all. "I'm sure that's something that we can work on. And don't worry about the money, I think I've got a lead from the man who just gave me this Rupert news. It'll all work out, darling. I promise."
Taggie gives Lizzie her best, encouraging smile, but can't shake the feeling like she's already in over her head.
.𖥔 ܁ ˖⋆ ˚❆. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
"I quite literally told you no doe-eyed pea-brained partners," Rupert says angrily, watching the tape of Taggie O'Hara, sixteen, being tossed in the air by her surprisingly lean brother. Her coordination is slightly off, she's getting far too much height compared to him, and she's clearly uneasy with lifts. She's too small. Too timid. And far too... cutesy.
The young girl in the video smiles on the silver podium with her brother next to her, hair slicked back and held in a mind-numbing bun, sparkles all over her pink costume, and hideous red lipstick on her face that makes her look both childish and geriatric.
"There's nothing pea-brained about her." Freddie scrolls back on the tape, showing a particularly chaotic throw jump where Patrick had clearly thrown Taggie too wide. "Look at that landing. Even with her brother fumbling, look how hard she hits the ice, not a wobble in sight. She's got talent, you can't deny that."
Rupert rolls his eyes. He pulls out his phone and quickly finds Taggie's Instagram. Thankfully, she doesn't post a new picture every few minutes or a thousand stories documenting her daily journey, but he opens the first selfie he can find and throws it in Freddie's face. "This is quite literally the definition of doe-eyed."
Freddie looks at the picture and smiles a little. "She's cute, what's wrong with that?"
"She's innocent."
"Helen was innocent. So was Fen. Hell, you managed to skate with her without ever touching her."
"Yes, because I was eight years older than her. I'm not that much of a lech, give me some credit," Rupert snaps harshly. "And she's already 20. Her worst habits are already basically set in stone."
"So is she too young or too old?"
"Both!" Rupert exclaims, throwing his arms up. Hell would freeze over before he'd pair up with that O'Hara brat.
"She's a fantastic partner. She's adaptable, even at the creaky old age of 20. She's much softer than Nathalie, she's more controlled than Fen, she's far more experienced than Helen. She will counter your style perfectly. Like yin and yang."
Rupert glares at him, clearly hearing Lizzie's words spoken through Freddie. "What happened to oil and water not mixing?"
"That's different. Plus, she's half your age, I don't have to worry about you laying hands on her."
Rupert, lost in thought, quickly nods to acknowledge that fact before Freddie's nostrils can flare and he can start lecturing Rupert about his dating habits. "If she's so perfect, why isn't she partnered? Her brother must have dropped her for a reason. I don't want damaged goods."
Freddie lets out a mirthless laugh. "Rupert, if you didn't cock things up with Nathalie, we wouldn't be here. Beggars can't be choosers. I've got a good feeling about this girl."
"She's Declan O'Hara's daughter, what good feelings could there be?" Rupert shoots back acidly. He hadn't forgotten the high he'd ridden winning gold in '10, stealing it right out from under the O'Haras, only to have the happy couple gloating about their euphoric marriage a few months later after his had completely fallen apart.
But two weeks and several dozen calls made to every corner of the globe later, Rupert begins to understand why Freddie had called him a beggar. From horror stories told by Helen to warnings spread by Nathalie, there were only a handful of women who could even consider skating with him and all of them were preoccupied with the championships, not with him.
In the end, he finds himself back with Freddie. This time with Bas and Billy tagging along for moral support.
"A trial period. And in the meantime, I've got half a dozen women who could fit the bill after March," Rupert offers.
Freddie, smoking a cigar quietly at his desk, looks from him and then to Bas and Billy, lounging behind him. "Are they here as your cheerleaders?"
"We're here to make sure he actually goes through with this," Billy calls back. "He's been a bloody nightmare these last two weeks."
"I just want to get a look at Declan's daughter," Bas teases.
Freddie points directly at the man and scolds him without hesitation. "Absolutely not. No sleeping with Taggie. No funny business. Any of you!" Then, turning to Rupert, Freddie jabs his finger in his direction. "And what is Taggie meant to do when you find your perfect partner?"
"Move on with her life?" Rupert shrugs.
"You'd be screwing her over," Freddie says harshly, sharply eyeing Bas before he can make a double entendre joke. "Working with you when she could be training the full season with a different partner. Or she could be making real money training other skaters."
"I'll pay her for the weeks we work together," Rupert waves carelessly, already looking at his phone and checking his emails for potential replies from other skaters.
"A few weeks' pay is hardly enough." Tapping the end of his cigar in the ashtray, Freddie leans forward. "You could pay for the whole season upfront."
Rupert barks with laughter. "You're mad. Absolutely not. Not when she's only going to be around for a month, maybe two."
"You do realize that most of us are not born with silver spoons in our mouths, right?" Freddie rounds on him. "She's working two jobs right now just to keep up. She wants to train, but she's being forced to coach. You haven't had to live hand to mouth once in your life, and you think you can just pay her for a few months and wash your hands of her? I never thought you were cruel, Rupert."
Rupert ignores the attempts at making him feel guilty; he refuses to sacrifice his own shot at gold just to humor this girl or to make Freddie feel better (or lay Lizzie more likely). "What's cruel about it? She gets to skate with a gold medalist and pick up some new tricks, and then she can go back to teaching. There's money to be made teaching children; I'll find her some students. But I'm not paying her for the whole season, that won't happen." It wasn't as if she were completely hopeless.
Freddie sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Fine," he says, and Rupert breathes a sigh of relief. "But if that's the case, then we've got to find someone else. I don't want her wasting her time with you."
Before Rupert can agree, Bas pipes up. "Isn't she trying to make a solo career anyway?" The room of men look at him in surprise. "What? She's coaching Archie. I heard from him that she's trying to compete in singles like her brother." Scratching his chin, he points at Rupert, "How about, instead of paying her, you just give her lessons?"
"I'm not a teacher," Rupert replies plainly. "I'd be a nightmare."
"Undoubtedly, but you'd be a nightmare for, what, two months at most? Like you said. You won the gold for singles. She'd get far more value from learning from you there than any second-rate coach she might find on her own. Is that a fair trade-off?" Bas suggests, looking at Rupert and Freddie back and forth.
Rupert thinks about it, but he must be thinking too long because Freddie quickly ignores the offer for him. "That won't work. Lizzie said she wants James to train her one-on-one."
Billy chortles. "Oh, James will train her one-on-one, alright."
Rupert, who is still scrolling through his phone and refreshing his email for replies that won't come, taps back to looking at Taggie's profile. Something prickles at the back of his neck. Doe-eyed had been the best descriptor, but something about those doe eyes seemed to call out to him. Don't make me go to James Vereker. He's definitely imagining it, because the fake Taggie's voice in his head is high-pitched and grating. But no skater should be subjected to Handsy James' methods or his attentions.
"I'll train her," Rupert says loudly before anyone else can interject. "She skates with me until the championships are over. By then, I'll have found someone. I'll set her up with students after, and she can go on her merry way. Richer in the pockets and in experience."
Bas sniggers but quickly stifles his laugh when Rupert shoots him a deadly glare.
But it's Freddie who surprises Rupert. His frown instantly melts away into a smile as he leans back in his leather chair and puffs on his cigar. "Well, I think that's a fine deal," he says, and Rupert has the annoying feeling that he's walked right into Freddie's trap.
.𖥔 ܁ ˖⋆ ˚❆. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Taggie tries not to let her nerves show, though she's sure they do. It was one thing to stare up at a poster on a wall for years; it was a whole other thing to be confronted by the real thing. She's not really sure where to first look when she finally meets Rupert Campbell-Black in person.
He's taller than she imagined. Leaner too. On TV, he seemed to be a towering, giant figure, and while he did stand almost a head taller than her, his wide frame tapered down into a much more trim waist. Not an ounce of fat on him, she thinks. Far more intimidating is his cold stare down at her, his arms crossed, those blue eyes piercing into her as if he can see every flaw so clearly after just ten minutes of non-verbal meeting. In the worst way, it reminds her of her father.
Declan O'Hara was a relentless trainer. Endless drills, eight-hour skating practice every day, maximized diets to build protein and cut out flavor. And after discovering Taggie's dyslexia, school fell even lower on the priority list. No point in reading, Tag. Go get your skates. Somehow, Mum, with her back-handed comments and lowered expectations, had been a reprieve when Daddy realized that Patrick was far more responsive to his harsh methodology.
"I'm not here to coddle you," Rupert says, the first real sentence he's spoken to her since meeting her.
"I don't need to be coddled," she says, tilting her chin up arrogantly. Perhaps to outsiders, the idea of a parent training you sounded soft. Someone to baby you, someone to hold your hand. No, that was not the O'Hara way. Anything Rupert could throw at her, she could handle. Nothing could be worse than Mum and Dad.
"We'll see about that," he says under his breath, pushing off on his skates and gliding so gracefully over the ice that he might as well be floating. "We'll be skating the routine I was working on with Nathalie before she left. Romeo and Juliet."
Taggie nods, following his movements and skating alongside him when she realizes that he's warming up. "I know it. I saw you performing it last year at the championship."
"And?" His brow arches, as if daring her to critique him.
Had it been her father, she would have backed down immediately. But that sort of behavior led to belittling comments like, You aren't paying close enough attention, Agatha, rather than any love reciprocated when she attempted to compliment him. "It was good," she says slowly, pushing ahead of him in the lap around the wink. "Could have been better."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"You're too forceful," she says without hesitation.
"Excuse me?"
Taggie shrugs, turning around to skate backward, stretching her muscles. "Nathalie commands a strong presence. She isn't really convincing as the heartbroken Juliet, just like you don't really seem like a love-lorn Romeo. You were both acting like enemies when the whole point of Romeo and Juliet is that they aren't enemies."
Rupert looks deeply unimpressed, or perhaps just upset at her calling him out.
Taggie picks up her pace, gliding over the ice and enjoying the feeling of the wind on her skin. If she could just close her eyes, she could pretend like she was alone.
"I was looking for a more technical analysis," Rupert says, sounding almost amused. "Nothing on that front?"
"Plenty, but the performance is important as well."
"Judges care more about technicalities. If you're interested in heartfelt performances, perhaps the stage is a better fit for you than the ice."
She suspects he might be trying to get a rise out of her. Regardless, the suggestion doesn't sting. Just silver? Taggie, really, you should spend more time on your technique. His barbed comment is nothing but the echo of crueler words that she's heard a thousand times. "Maybe, you're right."
She takes a bit of satisfaction in shutting Rupert up when he doesn't make any follow-up comments. When he switches practices, she follows him. Drills come second nature to her. Three turns, mohawks, stroking laps around the rink, she can do it with her eyes closed, and so can he. She does her best to match his pace, sensing when he slows and speeds up, skating parallel to him.
But switching to power pulls, where a skater must hold one foot up while balancing and swiveling side to side on the other foot, she notices instantly that Rupert is not nearly as fast as she is. She slows her pulls, gathering less momentum to match his speed and making her muscles scream out in pain as they lengthen under the tension. What she initially thinks is a side effect of his age soon becomes clear to her.
"Are you purposefully going slow?" she asks, her legs wobbling a little after the fifth lap.
"It's about control, not speed. Any idiot can zoom around the rink. You're not playing hockey, it's called figure skating for a reason."
Taggie rolls her eyes. Why use one word when you can use ten? "So this is still the warm-up?"
He ignores her question. Instead, he picks up his pace a little. "Keep up, O'Hara. You've been doing so well, and now you're falling back."
The instant speed he gathers confuses Taggie for a minute, but the compliment is even more surprising. She knows the words are laced with sarcasm, but his actually acknowledging that she was working hard to keep his pace was more than Patrick had ever done. Patrick relied on speed and momentum, so she was often racing to keep up with him, but now, after the slow and deliberate laps Rupert's put her through, she can see why Patrick avoided this pace. It was excruciating.
Gaining speed, she kicks off from the ice, following him and dipping painfully low when he strokes against the hard surface. The sound of his skate skidding off the small bumps and grooves in the ice forms an insistent staccato that skips every time he swivels his foot.
"Good, good," he says under his breath, devoid of any sarcasm or condescension as she copies him, eyes focused on his skates.
She stops counting the laps, and by the time they stop, both of them are covered in sweat. He leaves her and skates toward his water bottle while she struggles to keep her knees from knocking together. She has no idea if he's testing her by throwing her into the deep end or if this is just a regular day of practice for him. Two months, she tells herself. Freddie had already paid her for the entire season upfront, telling her it was an investment in her success and she could see it as her first unofficial sponsorship.
"Better not to tell Rupert," Freddie had said, tapping the tip of his nose cheerily as Lizzie stood at his side, beaming up at him.
She only had two months to learn as much as she could from Rupert Campbell-Black before he sent her packing. Pain or no, there was no time to waste. And she wasn't going to waste her time with water breaks.
"Come on," she says, tapping her skate impatiently on the ice.
Her short-term partner shoots her an annoyed look. "Spins," he says to her. "They're a big part of the routine; you need to perfect them."
"I'm not an amateur, I can do them just fine."
"I said perfect," he enunciates at her like she's a child. "Let's go."
She's sure that at one point in her young life, the word twizzle was simply a silly nonsense word. But she's sure by the end of their practice that even the mention of the word will make her light-headed. Rupert spends a healthy half hour spinning, backward, then forward, then forward, then backward. From power pull to twizzle sequences that bounce to and fro to stroking the ice and spinning so many times, Taggie thinks she sees stars.
By the time Rupert's skate shears the ice, coming to an abrupt stop, she feels painfully light-headed.
"Drink some water. Now," he says authoritatively. "Go."
She doesn't bother arguing with him; she weakly skates to the edge and scrambles for her water, chugging it at first before slowing down and taking long gulps.
"You need to work on your spins. You and Patrick couldn't coordinate, and you're going far too fast," Rupert says, appearing in front of her silently. Then again, could she even hear him over the sound of blood pounding through her ears?
"He went fast," she says, trying not to sound so out of breath.
"He did," Rupert acknowledges, another odd thing for Taggie to hear.
No one ever acknowledged Patrick's faults. Not the small ones. If he was going too fast, the actual problem was that Taggie was too slow. If he spun too many times, losing count, it was Taggie who couldn't count properly. If he was exhausted, it was because Taggie was forcing him to practice too much since she just couldn't get it right.
"It'll be easier with the music, but you have to slow down. No one's racing with you, and you definitely shouldn't be this tired afterward."
"Okay," Taggie answers dolefully. He was right. She knew he was. But breaking her habit of speeding through a routine would be easier said than done. When she realizes that Rupert is still staring down at her silently, she quickly stands up, once again conscious of all the time she's wasting, and shoves her water bottle into her bag. "Let's go again," she says brightly.
"Let's end here for the day, you seem tired," he says after another moment's pause.
"No!" Taggie doesn't mean to sound so insistent when the word bursts out of her mouth, but it even makes Rupert start a little. "I mean, no, we just started. Sorry, I've been training my sister for the last few months, and I haven't been working as hard on my own. Let's just keep going. At least through the rest of the practice."
"Pushing yourself to the limit won't magically improve your skating," he says dubiously, leaning against the wall of the rink.
"I'm not," she insists. "Like you said, I'm not good with spins. But I can show you my jumps. I'm actually really good at those. Please?" She tries not to think about how she must look like a pathetic puppy dog begging him to skate more, and instead takes it as a win when he steps back onto the ice.
Once again, Rupert starts muttering good, good under his breath as she shows him her jumps. He doesn't jump with her initially, instead watching her and fixing her foot placement. And when instruction via words isn't enough, he takes off on the ice, picking up insane speed before launching into a perfect double axel. She's far too mesmerized to take in any detail so he does it three more times for her, each more perfect than the last.
Had she been proud of her jumps? They must have looked amateur compared to his. Biting her lip, she takes another loop around the rink, winding up for her first jump. But she's still a little light-headed, and the pressure of performing after seeing Rupert execute perfect jumps is enough to psych her out. She lands roughly on the ice after just one and a half, trying to stabilize herself.
"Again, don't hesitate this time." His voice echoes across the ice, making Taggie cringe in embarrassment.
Once again, she glides and strokes the ice, picking up speed. Don't hesitate. Don't hesitate. Don't hesitate. But repeating the mantra only makes her hesitate, and before she can even leap into her spin, she loses her balance and nearly goes face-first into the ice.
"Jesus!" she hears Rupert exclaim, skating toward her with lightning speed.
"I'm okay! I'm okay!" she says quickly, trying to regain her balance and her pride. "I just..."
"Hesitated," he says, but this time his voice is far warmer, and he's got a bit of a smirk. "Come on," he says, reaching out for her hand and taking it with his. Pulling her away from the edge, he stands still. "Take a few breaths. In, out. In, out. In, out." The guided breathing is both humiliating and offensively effective. "Do it again. I saw you jump at the Junior Grand Prix Final. I know you can do it."
Taggie stares into his eyes, not seeing a speck of condescension or teasing, and she lets go of him, nodding. In and out. In and out. She repeats his words in her head, taking two slow laps around the rink to get her bearings. This time, when she rounds the rink a third lap, she knows she has enough power in her to throw herself into the air without thinking twice. Kicking off, she tucks her arms into her body and snaps her legs together. One, two, thr—
She comes crashing down, suddenly realizing she's gone too far and — worse than before — lands in a heap on the hard, frozen surface.
Once again, Rupert is by her side in a flash, helping her up while Taggie wonders if her pride has ever taken a beating like this before. "I overshot it and—"
"That was impressive," he says lightly, the little curve at the corner of his lip dimpling his tanned cheek as he holds her steady. "Almost a triple."
"Almost," Taggie laughs weakly. "Almost might as well be nothing." Her father's words roll off her tongue far too easily.
Rupert's brows knot together. "Well, it's not nothing. Don't be modest. That was good, another lap around the rink, and I think you could have completed the final rotation."
Taggie looks at him suspiciously. "Are you just saying that to make me feel better after that crash?"
Surprisingly, this only makes Rupert laugh. "We're dancing on a wet, slippery surface wearing razor blades. I'm not saying anything to make you feel better; falling is part of skating. Take the win, O'Hara. Come on, let's do some more jumps."
And just like that, he's skating on without her. No berating, no guilting, no meticulously tearing apart her technique until she's biting the inside of her cheek so hard it's bleeding. Falling is part of skating. A mindset so opposite to her mother and father's that it almost sounds alien.
"Let's go, stop daydreaming," Rupert claps, jolting Taggie out of her reverie.
"Coming, Campbell-Black," she says quietly, not nearly as confident as he said her name. But not nearly as nervous as she had been this morning.