“Why you want to watch skating?” Connor asks. “We just got off the ice.”
“I don’t know. It’s just something to do.”
“Eating is something to do.”
“I can eat any time. I may never again get the chance to experience Olympic athletes in their element.”
The closer we get, the louder the music becomes, until I can sort of make it out.
It is true, I may never have an opportunity to see the best of the best up close like this, but there’s also something about the classical piece of music I hear behind the wall that has me curious about seeing what’s going on inside. There’s no guarantee I’ll get in, but I sure as hell want to try.
When we reach the doors, they’re unguarded, so we head inside like we belong here. Worst case, we’ll pretend we’re lost. Our badges state who we are, so I doubt we’ll get in trouble.
The music intensifies as we navigate our way to the ice. We walk through the doorway and spot the rink. There are quite a few people here watching from the seats, but I’m pretty sure this is not a public event. Though, I do see some other athletes sitting, so maybe watching practices is allowed?
When I first started playing hockey, knowing I was being watched was hard for me. I was great at practice, but when it came to games, I’d choke. I’d focus so much on everyone watching me, that I’d fuck up. I had to stop thinking about it all together, and now my only focus is that puck. I still get nervous, though. Like being here, since it’s new. Sometimes traveling is difficult and brings the nerves back. Certain arenas are bigger, and that always fucks with me. Now, it doesn’t take long to snap out of it though, because I know how to push it away. Once the game is going, that’s the only thing on my mind.
“Oh, shit,” McVoy mutters. “That’s Nico Laurent.”
“Who’s Nico Laurent?” I ask as I watch the young man skate like he’s part of the ice. It doesn’t look like he’s trying, his body just moves. Effortlessly. It glides, spins, and twirls with sharp accuracy. His footing is perfectly on point, his body straight and fluid, as a dancer should be. He can’t be all that tall, not even six foot with his skates on. He looks like he weighs no more than 150 pounds, if that.
I can’t pull my gaze from him. From the way his sparkling blue outfit hugs every inch of his lithe body and leaves nothing for the imagination. The way he smiles as he skates, the way his dark blond hair flops around as he spins. It looks like he’s somehow working with gravity in a way no one else can. Like the way a fish moves in the ocean, only he’s doing it through the air and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed in all my life.
I’ve always appreciated figure skating. No way in hell could I ever do any of that shit on skates, and I’ve been skating since I could walk. But I’ve also never paid that much attention to it because why would I? We may both be on ice, but we’re very different kinds of people.
“Hello?” Connor shoves me gently.
“Huh? What?”
“Dude, you’re drooling.”
I wipe my chin, and he laughs.
“Did you hear anything I said?” he asks.
“No.”
Nico skates around the curve of the rink, jumping into the air in a tight spin that seems never-ending. He lands on one skate, his other leg sweeping out in a circle. It’s perfect. Beautiful. Then he skates to the center of the ice, holding his hands in a prayer motion and spinning… and spinning, and spinning endlessly. How the hell doesn’t he get dizzy? All the while, there’s a smile on his face like this is the best thing in the entire world, and I guess if you’re doing what you love, it is. His hands move up and out as the spinning slows, and he swoops down again, moving forward with precision.
“I said he’s Canada’s number one figure skater. He’s from Montreal. Been skating since he was three. And—”
“How do you know this?” I ask.
“Because my mom is obsessed with him,” he says like I should know that.
I look back at Nico, noting his smooth, pale skin and full lips.
“How old is he?” I ask, feeling weird for having such a visceral reaction when he looks so young.
“Twenty-one.”
Thank fuck. I was starting to feel like a creep.
He goes in for another jump-twirl thing. This time when he lands, it’s off. He wobbles, almost falling but catching himself. He laughs, loud and bright, like it was the punch line in a joke. It does something to my insides that I can’t begin to explain.
“Are you having a stroke? What the fuck is going on with you?” Connor asks, shoving me again.
“I’m just watching him,” I say. “He’s good.”
