The crossovers got better.
Not in one night — she tripped twice on Wednesday and once on Thursday spectacularly enough that it would have been embarrassing if anyone else had been watching. No one was, which was the only reason she kept getting back up and trying again.
By Friday she could do a full lap without clutching the boards, and Dean skated beside her with the patience of a man who had taught things before and understood that the only way through incompetence was repetition and the willingness to look ridiculous.
“Better,” he said, after the Friday lap.
“Don’t be encouraging. It’s uncomfortable.”
“I wasn’t being encouraging. I was stating a fact. Better is not a compliment, it’s a measurement.”
“Well, keep your measurements to yourself.”
He was smiling. She could hear it ev
