“Of course,” Bash said in English.
She groaned. “Maar ik haat Amerikanen.” But I hate Americans.
“He doesn’t count as American,” Bash said. Lotte stuck out her tongue.
First in the performance was Toshiro Sanada of Japan. The announcers rambled as he did his free skate to an EDM remix of a Brahms piece, and at the end, he was awarded high scores. Bash squinted at the screen, unsure of what that score would mean for Sanada. Was that enough for a gold medal? Bronze? As much as he’d listened to Adonis explain the ins and outs of figure skating scores, he still struggled to figure it out without Adonis’s help.
“Kunstschaatsen is zo mooi,” Lotte said with a sigh. Figure skating is so beautiful.
“Yes,” Bash said. “It is. Heb je Adonis zien optreden?” Have you seen Adonis perform?
She took a long sip of her wine. “Yes. I looked him up online. He’s very talented.”
“Yes, he is.”
Adonis was next.
“Adonis Costa, twenty-two, from the United States,” the announcers were saying. “New to the Olympics this year, Costa is a fourth-year student at Bellford University in Massachusetts. Costa wowed judges in his short program on Tuesday, winning bronze for Team USA. In an interview with NBC correspondents yesterday, Costa admitted that he is less confident about his free skate.”
The broadcast cut to a clip of Adonis, wearing warm-up clothes, talking to an attractive middle-aged reporter by a practice ice rink.
Bash leaned forward, elbows on his knees, while Adonis spoke.
“I’ve always struggled more with my free skate,” Adonis said, smiling at the camera. “I’m a very technical skater, and the free skate is more about your artistic interpretation of a song.”
The reporter flashed a million-dollar smile. “An amateur like me wouldn’t know the difference. What song are you doing for your free skate?”
It was Adonis’s turn for a million-dollar smile. “That’s a surprise.”
“God, he’s adorable,” Lotte said in English, sighing dramatically. “I hope you marry him.”
Bash threw a piece of popcorn at her. Lotte caught and popped it in her mouth. “Stil. Hij gaat zo schaatsen.” Be quiet. He’s about to skate.
On the screen, Adonis stood in the middle of the ice rink. All the lights were off except for a single spotlight illuminating him in the center of the ice. He stood with his shoulders drooping, his head down, his eyes closed. Instead of wearing the sparkling black leotard he’d worn for his short program, his costume consisted of a ripped white tank top and black leggings. His arms were bare, and the tank top was cropped short enough to show some of his stomach.
Bash didn’t know much about figure skating uniforms, but this didn’t seem normal.
The commentators agreed. “The song hasn’t started,” one of the commentators was saying, “but Costa already seems set up to do something very different from his short program. Viewers who’ve seen his free skate in other competitions might be surprised, as well.”
“Dit lijkt niet op zijn normale routine,” Lotte said, leaning forward. This doesn’t look like his normal routine.
“How do you know?”
“As I said,” Lotte snapped, “I’ve watched him online. He normally does a Mozart piece for his free skate. Does this look like Mozart?”
Then the song started.
Bash blinked. “Fuck, that’s not Mozart.”
No, it wasn’t. It was “Nightmare” by Halsey.
Lotte laughed. “Look at him! He’s incredible!”
She was right. Adonis was a vision.
He was one with the music in a way that Bash had never seen. He moved to the song as if the beat were in his blood. When the camera zoomed in, it showed the rage and the passion on his face. He was aggressive and beautiful and fluid. The music crashed through the rink, and Adonis seemed to direct the song with each fluid movement of his body.
The announcers were going crazy, saying that this was something no one had ever seen from Adonis. It seemed that he had done something virtually unprecedented: debuting an entirely new performance at the Olympics.
