Chapter 8

Sadly, as the performance went on, watching Milo made Tom Alan feel even worse about his own abilities. He had tried his best while interpreting the Tchaikovsky tune to pretend he was all white, feathery, and elegantly birdlike. He’d come off looking more like the proverbial headless chicken. He’d thrown in a few impressive jumps on the crescendos and proved himself quite limber for a hulk, managing a modified Bielman spin to end his impromptu program. But everything around the tricks, it was not what one would call pretty.

Milo’s interpretation wasn’t pretty either, but it was definitely dramatic, melodic, artistic, and, yes, arousing. Tom Alan tugged at his sweatpants.

“I think, perhaps,” Irina Mischen said, “we put you on the ice together. Milo is not much bigger than your partner back home.”