Summer's End by Kathleen Gilles Seidel

packing. “What did she sound like?”
    â€œPolite. She was polite, I was polite, that was it.”
    â€œYou’re good at that.”
    â€œThanks. I also got a message from Mother, but I’m not sure I got it right. It said I was to be sure that you didn’t bring a generator.”
    â€œA generator? Me?” he protested. “Now, why would she ever think that I would do a thing like that?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Holly sighed. “I’m not completely sure what it is, but don’t bring one, okay? She doesn’t want you to.”
    â€œOkay.”
    Â 
    Tommy was already on the ice when Amy came out to the boards and slipped off her skate guards. Technical people were milling around; a group of schoolgirls were sitting in a tight cluster on the bleachers, having gotten permission to watch practice, but Tommy and Amy were the only skaters.
    That wasn’t unusual. Henry Carroll, Tommy Sargent, and Amy Legend, Oliver Young’s three skaters, were widely known for the length and diligence of their warm-ups and cool-downs. They were always the last ones on the ice to take their sweaters off, the last ones to start practicing their jumps, their routines. They never stretched until their muscles were warm; they never finished for the day without stretching again. Even when practice time was as limited as it often was during the big tours, they never shortened their warm-ups. They were fastidious about it.
    And none of them had ever had a serious injury.
    Amy waved to the schoolgirls—she would sign autographs for them later—and caught up with Tommy. This early into the warm-up, they could still talk.
    â€œHow’s Mark?” she asked.
    â€œLousy.”
    They were in Canada, having come to guest-star in Canadian skater Mark Widemann’s television special. Of their threesome, only Amy and Tommy were there. Henry had not been invited because he and Mark were alike as skaters, muscular, powerful, technically precise, only Henry was better, and Mark would have been an idiot to have Henry come overshadow him on his own special. Everyone, including Henry himself, understood that. But Mark was having problems with his ankle. Like so many skaters he took too many chances with his training routines.
    Amy and Tommy went on, warming up. The first tenminutes were always the hardest for Amy. After that her body took over, but until then self-discipline was the only motivation. Fortunately Henry and Tommy felt the same, and the three of them flogged each other through their opening drills.
    Henry and Tommy were her closest friends on the skating circuit. Almost none of the women she had grown up competing against were still skating at her level, and because women’s skating had by now become like gymnastics, with very young girls dominating the amateur competitions, Amy had little in common with the new skaters. She, Henry, and Tommy had by far the most sophisticated management in the skating world; the three of them spent their off-ice time reading reports from charitable foundations and studying business deals while the other skaters were playing ping-pong or flipping through catalogues. Often accompanied by a personal assistant, they were still the ones the media was the most interested in. While they would have hated the idea that they had become unapproachable stars, even “everyone-please-love-me” Amy had to admit that they didn’t spend much time with the new kids.
    The three of them balanced each other, and the balance seemed essential to each individual career. Henry was still determinedly competitive; he kept them all skating their best. Tommy was the witty showman; he kept them from taking themselves too seriously. Amy was all warmth and sentiment; she reminded them why they were doing this. Henry was the muscle, Tommy the brain, Amy the heart—together, Tommy often joked, they made one fine human being.
    Their warm-up routine was a