First Competition (1)
"Oh, right—Seolhwa. Here."
Just as another grueling but satisfying practice was winding down, Yerim held something out as if she had only just remembered it.
In her hand were—
"They said it took a little longer this time because there were so many people."
—a small badge that glimmered softly, and a certificate edged in gold ribbon.
The badge was so light it might have rolled off a palm in a breeze, and the silver figure-skating icon stamped at its center held a quiet sheen. But the weight contained in that tiny piece of metal was anything but light.
That was what Level 1 meant in figure skating.
Strange.
I brushed my fingertips over the back of the badge. The faint embossed texture met my skin; I closed my hand around it carefully and slipped it into my pocket, oddly anxious that I might drop it.
Maybe it was because, from Level 1 on, I had decided to take skating seriously. The Beginner badge had left me cold—but receiving Level 1 filled me with a quiet pride.
"And this is the group assignment for the upcoming competition. You don't know the other skaters yet, right? Show your mom on the way home and go over it together."
Yerim handed me the competition draw sheet as well.
"Yes."
"See you tomorrow, then."
"Goodbye."
Badge, certificate, and draw sheet in hand, I bowed and left the rink.
"…So you're saying you can't get the fabric? After I asked you like this?"
I changed out of my skates and stepped outside to find Mom on the phone with someone.
"Then send it by next week. All right? Next time I produce a piece, I'll use your fabric."
"Mom."
"Huh? You're done already?"
"Yeah. We finished early today."
Walking home with my hand in hers, I carefully drew out the draw sheet.
"I got this today."
"What's this?"
Names and groups packed the paper from top to bottom.
Girls Level 1 — Ages 5–7
Ordinarily divided by age, but entries for ages five through seven were so few that the categories had been combined.
Sub-groups A through C followed beneath.
Cha Seolhwa — Group A, No. 5
"Oh my, Seolhwa's in Group A?"
"Yes."
"So if you place first in Group A, you win the whole thing?"
"No. The groups just split the skating order because there are too many people. To win, you have to be the best in the entire Level 1 field for ages five to seven."
"I see. So to beat the seven-year-old big sisters, you'll have to work really hard, huh?"
"That's right."
Among five-year-olds, no one could beat me. But once the field climbed to seven or eight, the story changed. Elite skaters often started at five; by seven, you could already call them experienced.
…They're all probably going for double toe loops, at least.
Right now I was rebuilding from the ground up. I could force higher-difficulty jumps if I pushed, but I was climbing one step at a time with the future in mind. That meant if anyone showed up with a jump I still couldn't land, I couldn't guarantee a win—and this competition had exactly that kind of person.
Jin Sehee.
Right beside the entry for Group A, No. 4, a familiar name sat waiting.
Jin Sehee. In my past life our genders had kept us off the same ice, but we had traveled the same circuit and grown close all the same.
She was two years older than me.
I had expected to meet her once I started competing as a girl—no earlier than middle school, I had assumed. I never thought it would be this soon.
At seven… how far had she gotten with her doubles?
After secondary sexual characteristics settled, women's skating valued quality of execution over raw difficulty more than men's did. Before that, though, a girl's physique was often the advantage, and junior girls' jump layouts could actually run harder than the boys'.
If I remembered right…
Salchow… maybe even the loop?
A double toe was roughly as hard as a single Axel, so most kids picked it up without too much trouble. Salchow and loop were another tier entirely—the stage where you could truly say someone was jumping doubles.
…Doesn't matter.
Worrying myself into knots was pointless. The only rival I had to beat in this life was myself—Cha Yunsung, who had landed a quad Axel, and Cha Seolhwa after him. Winning because someone else fell short meant nothing. What mattered was winning by doing the absolute best I could right now.
"One, two."
Tak. Taaak.
On Yerim's count, Seolhwa landed once, then drove her free foot into the ice in a continuous pick and launched into the air—a single Lutz into a double toe loop.
Yerim narrowed her eyes, watching the angle of the landing. The center of gravity never wavered; Seolhwa rotated cleanly through and came out true. That level of precision in a child was not something "good athletic ability" could explain.
But there was no time to stand around marveling.
"Next."
The word was barely out before Seolhwa was already skating toward the far end of the rink. Her setup was short and clean—no wasted power, no hesitation.
Yerim crossed her arms and quietly gathered her breath.
Is putting a double loop after the combination really the right call?
Given Seolhwa's build, strength, and age, the double loop was a high-risk element. It demanded a solid edge and a hard spring at the same time; go in half-committed and you failed more often than not.
If we're aiming for the win, the loop is the right choice…
With Seolhwa's current strength, a double Axel—two and a half revolutions—or a double Lutz, which required the opposite edge, were still out of reach. Filling the layout with only toe loops and Salchows would look flat, though. So they had settled on the double loop: difficult enough, high enough in value, and just within reach with training.
…Whoa.
As if to laugh at Yerim's worry, Seolhwa put up a perfectly clean success. Two full rotations finished without a hitch; she came out of the air in a tightly wound posture and set her blade down with exact control.
Yerim's brow twitched as she replayed the element in her mind.
…What do you even do with a five-year-old who has instincts like that?
No matter how you looked at it, that was the absorption rate of someone who had lived decades on the ice. One more month. At this level, a win felt well within reach—and that thought filled Yerim's head completely.
"Wow, there are so many people. Right?"
"Yes."
Competition day at last. Inside the crowded venue, I answered while looking up at Mom, who held my hand tight.
Because it was a municipal cup, the event was being held at one of the better rinks in Seoul—not Mokdong-level, but still an impressive scale for what was essentially a commercial meet.
"Hello—are you spectators?"
"No, our daughter's competing today."
"She looks so young to be skating… That's amazing. The athletes' waiting room is that way."
"Thank you!"
Mom asked a nearby staff member for directions and headed for the waiting room. Looking around, I saw most kids were there with their coaches.
…Same as ever.
My own coach, Yerim, was still racing over. From what I'd half-heard, something had come up and she had overslept.
Alcohol, obviously.
Her first student was about to compete; she had probably been too nervous to sleep, so she drank, and then she passed out. It had happened more than once or twice in my past life. I knew the pattern well.
"Should we change right away?"
"Yes."
The moment we reached the waiting room, I started changing. The 5–7 age block skated first, and I was in Group A—I had to be ready immediately.
"Look at this—isn't it pretty? Mom stayed up for a whole week making it."
What she held out was a black one-piece dress. I went still for a moment looking at it.
…Amazing.
Against the black base, white stones scattered like fallen snow caught the light and shone faintly. The design felt like a feminine reworking of something I had loved to wear in my past life. That memory should have belonged to me alone.
There was no time to stand there admiring it, though. I hurried into the costume, faced the mirror, and drew a single breath.
"I'll be back."
"Wait—shouldn't Mom go with you?"
"It's crowded inside the rink. Only coaches and skaters are allowed in."
"Really? Then as soon as your teacher gets here, I'll send her straight over. My girl—fighting~!"
Leaving Mom's cheers behind, I stepped out of the waiting room and started toward the ice. Midway there, my gaze stopped short.
At the edge of the rink, a girl was warming up on a stretch mat. She looked a little bigger than most kids her age, and the deep fold of her upper body was strikingly flexible. Every time she raised her arms, the play of muscle was smooth—and something about her felt familiar.
No. "Familiar" didn't quite cover it.
Jin Sehee.
Maybe it was because she was still drunk on her own talent, but her face looked a touch sharper than the one I remembered from my past life. Adult Jin Sehee was basically a golden retriever in human form—pure walking vitamin.
I watched her without a word.
"What are you staring at."
That much bite at seven years old. We had only roomed together from high-school training camps onward, so I had never seen this side of her—but her own claim that she had been unbearably full of herself until the middle-school competitions suddenly made perfect sense.
Learning what it feels like to be broken early isn't a bad thing.
The wall I had to clear. My first opponent in this body was a past-life comrade—and one I had never once skated against. That fact alone made me happy.