I shout over my shoulder, “Thanks?” Because I’m not sure how else to respond. It’s best not to overthink it—it’s not often I get the rink all to myself.
“Text me when you leave,” he calls down from halfway down the stairs.
It’s nice walking into the cool rink to the sound of fans blowing instead of guys being blowhards. I’m already warmed up from the yoga class, so I grab my wireless speaker and queue up my new free program track. It’s a medley of all the songs off my favorite album, the groovy psychedelic rock lending itself well to cantilevers and spins. I prop my phone up with my water bottle, start recording, and press play on the track.
The bass riffs and bounces off the metal siding and empty seats. I become hyperaware of my body, from my stance to the position of my fingers. I never practice jumps without a spotter. This practice is about artistry. Feeling the music—reminding myself why I picked this track.
The music dips and I let myself shrink with it, careful to not let my muscles get too tight, to find relaxation in this tense moment. The drumline hits, and I take a deep breath, my arms outstretched like wings. When I was first learning to skate, I always kept my arms out. Dad told me not to be nervous—that falling was part of learning. Except I wasn’t preparing to catch myself. Gliding across the ice has always felt like flying, wings and all.
Of course, I have fallen. Maybe the greatest gift figure skating has ever given me is a bruise up the entire right side of my body. As scary as it was, there was something mesmerizing about the way my body healed, the fact that I could take such a hard hit and continue. The ache and burn of that full-body bruise felt a lot like my lungs do right now as I push through an intense step-sequence.
My lungs are on fire every time I run through a program, but I’ve learned to love it. The same way I love the blisters that come with breaking in a new pair of skates, love the tense conversations with Maude, love the ice politics, love watching sixteen-year-olds encroaching on my winning score.
You have to love the spiteful nature of your sport. Figure skating is all I’ve ever known—but I’ve seen how other sports rip and tear at athletes. Terrence showed up to finals with a black eye, my sister’s toes are constantly bandaged from ballet, and I grew up staring at the scar on my dad’s knee, leftover from surgery after an injury killed his speed skating career.
There’s always talk about how to make sports safer, like the right pads and regulations will suddenly make body-slamming prudent. If you ask me, all sports are blood sports. The specific discipline doesn’t matter; athletes are all self-flagellating devotees. What I don’t think people understand is that the reward isn’t always gold medals or championship titles. Like any good faith, the biggest obstacle to salvation is yourself.
I strike my final pose right as the track ends. There’s no roar of a crowd to drown out my heaving breath. High above the rink, the tip of Christos’ horns catches my attention as he sits hunched over his desk.
The high bottoms out into disappointment.
Finished up.
That was good music
Sorry was it too loud?
Not at all. Curious about the band.
Tame Impala. It’s just one guy.
I’ll be honest I imagined skating music was more classical
It can be. I’m cooking up something new.
It looked good.
Sorry, is your skating top secret?
Depends, are you a Russian asset?
Da
But I’ll keep this under wraps for you.
Chapter
Five
The carouselwith our bags is taking its sweet time. Maude has gone off to find us some coffee. I scroll through my texts between me and Christos. They’re pretty professional, at least they always start that way, but then spiral into something more. It feels like something more.
“Déso, peitie tamia.” Maude laments as she returns with two cups of hot coffee.
“No thanks, I can smell how burnt that coffee is from here.”
She frowns. “You know once we’re checked in at the hotel you have to practice your routine.” She shoves the coffee into my hand.
I relent, a single sip confirming this coffee is worse than the stuff they brew in the dining hall. My face curls with disgust, but I swallow it anyway. “You couldn’t have put some milk or sugar in this? Artificial sweetener isn’t going to fuck up my diet.”
