This is my wife,I think. If she’ll have me.
* * * *
A few weeks later, it’s my turn to sit in the stands while Monroe has her moment. I watch her careful moves off the ice, lacing up her skates, cinching them tighter and tighter. Our family and friends are seated next to me, buzzing with energy as we wait for Monroe to start her routine at the Hartford Ice Arena.
Coach, Sloane, and my guys are all here, ready for her. Finn has a sign he made himself, GO MONROE written in glittery letters. His new boyfriend sits beside him, having been completely adopted by all of us. He’s an introvert, so his induction into our very not-introverted crew was hilarious. Monroe and Sloane sympathized, and I think they’re in a group chat together now.
I send her a quick text with two minutes until her performance.
Rhodes (2:08pm):Proud of you always. Love you.
I watch her glance at her phone and look up, locking eyes with me. She’s been working incredibly hard to get back on the ice. This is her first competition. Whether she wins or not doesn’t matter. It’s not a competition that counts toward Worlds, Nationals, or the future Olympics. That may come later, that may not. It all depends on Monroe and what she wants. I’m happy for her to skate in whatever capacity she wants to.
Petra told Monroe the day she went to meet with her that pairs skating was no longer an option for her. She refused to take Monroe back if that was what she wanted to do.
She did, however, offer to coach Monroe again as a solo skater. Monroe relayed the conversation back to me when she got home.
‘If you want to skate forme, it will be solo. We will not be tying your potential to someone else.’
Monroe’s Russian accent left a lot to be desired, but I got the point. If Monroe wanted to skate with Petra again, she’d be skating alone.
I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a huge relief to me. I’d be perfectly fine if we never saw Aaron or any of the other Nationals team bitches ever a-fucking-gain. Monroe’s self-worth and her feelings about her skill level were so tied up in those people that I don’t really think she realized how incredible she could still be on the ice without the lifts and pairs tricks.
I went to her practices, when I could. I loved to watch her skate. Petra would shout at her from beside me on the bleachers. “Again. Run it again.” And she would. Over and over. To new choreography, new music. Different skills, at varying levels. Petra bumped down her difficulty so Monroe could focus on landing everything as cleanly as possible for her first competition back.
And now it was here.
I refocus as the announcer calls her name over the arena speakers. The cheers from my corner—loud, chaotic, familiar—echo off the walls. She steps out onto the ice and I hear the familiar kiss of blade against ice.
When the music swells, I close my eyes for half a breath and mentally send anothergood luckout to her. We all fall silent as we watch Monroe begin her routine.
It’s not perfect. I can see her legs tremble once, on a landing, and I clench my fists together to fight my nerves. But when she rounds the last corner, picking up speed for her axel, I know she’s feeling it.It.That high she lost over the last year.
She hits the last jump clean, and she’s solid as she comes down and bends neatly into the landing. When her routine is over and the music fades, she coasts to a stop, breathless. I’m grinning so hard my cheeks ache.
She barely makes it off the ice before I’m barreling down the bleachers toward her. I catch her before she can take another step, sweeping her up in my arms. I’m so damn proud of her I could burst.
“You were incredible,” I breathe against her mouth.
“You have to say that, you love me,” she says as she presses her forehead against mine.
“I definitely do not have to say that, but you’re right about one thing. I do love you. So much, Monroe.” I press another kiss to her mouth, taking my time to deepen this kiss—not caring one bit about the group whistling and hollering around us. I run my thumb across her cheek when I pull away, drinking in her glitter-covered freckles.
“I really did okay?” she whispers, just to me. “I was so nervous. I screwed up at least one jump.”
“You were incredible,” I assure her.
Our friends and family pile in, trading hugs and congratulations, pulling her into their chaos. Sloane snaps a picture of the sign. Tyler starts chanting,“Monroe, Monroe, Monroe.”Beck pulls her into a huge hug. My heart swells in my chest at all of my favoritepeople here to cheer for my girl. She deserves every bit of love they have to offer. She melts into all of them and takes the sign from Finn, admiring his handiwork.
After giving her a moment to soak in the congratulations, I finally nudge her toward the kiss-and-cry section with Petra so she can go get her scores. We sit side by side and wait for the judges’ scores to come up. I watch her nerves all over her face. Despite this competition not counting for anything significant in the figure-skating world, it counts for something in Monroe’s world. In our world.
We live together now. Photos of the last few months are stuck with little magnets all over our fridge. The beginning of our love story. Her apartment lease is up in a few weeks, and she has no plans to renew it.
She presses her leg against mine, knee shaking. Finally, the buzzer sounds, announcing the incoming scores. She is scored out of six for two things—her technical merit and program presentation. I had Monroe sit down and tell me what everything meant when I got tired of not understanding the rules of figure skating, and now I’m pretty much a pro.
Her first score comes up.Technical Merit. Four-point-zero.
I can see a brief flash of disappointment on her face, but she neutralizes it quickly. I squeeze her knee in reassurance.
Her second score comes up.Program Presentation. Six-point-zero.
The cheers from our friends and family erupt from beside us, and Monroe starts to cry. I tug her into my chest. Petra looks very pleased. It isn’t a perfect score, but it’s hers. She went out there despite every setback she’s had. She makes me want to be that brave.
“This is just the beginning, sweetheart,” I whisper.
“I know,” she says and nods, tears still clinging to the bottom of her lashes. I brush them off with my thumb.
This is just the beginning for us, too. Maybe it’s crazy to be so sure about someone after only a few months. And it’s definitely crazy to be carrying around a ring in my bag with me right now. But it was crazy to meet the girl of my dreams this year, too. It was crazy to win the Stanley Cup with a team who barely made it to the playoffs. It’s crazy that Monroe is back on the ice, competing again, with a fancy new diploma on the desk in our home.
Maybe crazy works for us, you know?