“Youdolove me.”
“I trust your taste. Consider it a reward for your last program performance.”
Hard to be disappointed with a reward valued at $2000—more if I really want to go hard on the diamonds and velour. “Thanks, Maude. I just got to the rink. Talk to you later.”
I approach the glass and watch the team play a heated scrimmage match. It really is like feeding time at the aquarium, with the puck being a nice chunk of chum to fight over. The sideline team roots for their respective teams with less-than-respectful banter.
“YOU HIT LIKE MY DEAD GRANDMA, TERRENCE!”
Harsh, maybe that means we’ll actually win some games this season.
Christos sneaks up beside me, as subtle as his six-foot frame will allow. He leans down, a good distance from my ear but close enough I can feel his breath. “Nice job this past weekend.”
There’s no way. I’ve never walked into a sports bar or family restaurant that just so happens to have a figure skating championship on in the background. You either have to have a niche cable package or tune into the official livestream, which is laggy as hell.
I glance in his direction. “You watched it?”
He shrugs, arms crossed. “I got curious.”
“Did you watch the whole thing?”
He licks his lips, keeping his eyes on the game. “I watchedthe men’s senior programs for a bit. Not so much after you were done.”
“So, you didn’t see me take the podium?” I say, haughty.
He laughs, offers me his full attention. “I saw a photo. Do I get points for that?”
“Deduction for stamina but points for effort.”
“I don’t understand how the scoring works,” he admits. “I know what I saw was impressive. You’re impressive.”
It’s brief, but for a moment I forget where we are. The jeers and taunts fade away. Chill doesn’t nip at my nose—if anything, everything feels warm. He’s doing it again. Looking at me with soft eyes that welcome me, but to where? Right into his arms? God, they’re such nice arms.
Two guys slam into the glass in front of us. I jump back. Christos raises his voice over the crowd. “Remember we’re all on the same team!”
I recognize Terrence’s voice from across the ice. “You wanna go, freshmeat?”
Christos shouts again. “Hey!” His voice drops to a breathy, “Sorry,” before he rushes onto the ice to settle the tension.
I scan the room for Leroy, who sits on the sidelines with a pained expression. Maybe instead of being in the top four, the Dingbats can win more than four games in a season. It would still be progress.
After breaking up the fight, Christos sends everyone to the locker room for a debrief and likely a lecture. It’s weird hearing him talk like a coach. Stern, unwavering, to use Terrence’s words, a real ball-buster. This is the guy who sends me jokey texts and wants me to have my own key to the rink?
The zamboni glides across the ice while I put on my skates. It’s not absurd that Christos treats me differently. I’m not on the team. I’m an Olympic hopeful in a sport he knows nothing about. I’m on his mind enough that he figured out how to tune in to my qualifying program. I’m impressive. I’malso about to become a big hypocrite if I keep up this line of thinking.
How good are you at writing essays?
I’m an English major, so pretty damn good.
I don’t think I knew that. They’re fine with giving you a key if you can write a 500 word statement.
Easy.
How good are you at editing?
You don’t want me editing your statement.
Yes, I do, you know what they’re looking for. At least read it once before I submit it.
