“Right. Makes sense.”
He grabs the strawberry powder and puts it in his shopping cart. That should be the end of it. We should part ways and continue our respective shopping, but neither of us move from the other’s side.
“When did you dye your hair?”
My hands fly to my crown to cover my obvious roots.
He chuckles. “Sorry—”
“You’resonot.”
His smile spreads. I look away from his face, noticing his thin white tail wagging. Not like a dog’s, it’s more fluid,reminding me of ribbon dancing. “Kind of hard not to notice from where I’m standing.”
“Pointing out my rootsandcalling me short? Charming as always, Christos.”
“When was the last time you dyed it?”
My hands fall to my sides. “Back in July. I haven’t found someone to do a touchup yet.”
I should find a salon. I can’t look unkempt at my next competition.
He opens his mouth, but shuts it without saying a word.
“You do hair?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But I did bleach a bunch of my teammate’s heads in high school. Old tradition. All the freshman guys had to bleach it. Including me.” He rubs the tuft of snow-white hair between his horns. “Not that you could tell.”
“Did they have to keep it blond for the whole season?”
“A lot of guys shaved it off after the first game of the season. One guy tried to dye it black with some box he got at the drug store and ended up with blue hair.”
I run my fingers through my bangs. “I want to do pink.”
“Like…” He picks up the jug of strawberry protein. “Strawberry pink?”
“Hot pink.”
He smiles so wide I can almost hear him saythat would look nice. Instead, he asks, “Why don’t you?”
“You remember my final scores from qualifiers?"
An awkward noise builds at the back of his throat. “I remember you had a high score. I mean, obviously, you got gold so, that would be a high score.”
I swallow down a laugh, worried he’ll think I’m laughing at him. Which I sort of am, but not in a malicious way. It’s funny, seeing such a big guy get so awkward the second he’s out of his element.
“Part of my score is program components, so choreography, costuming, overall presentation. I’d lose points.”
He furrows his brows. “Seriously?”
“Sometimes the difference between first and second place comes down to the judge’s taste.”
I’m downplaying it. Everyone knows judges used to pick favorites. There have been changes; a complete rework of the points system and more transparency. Even so, strong, skilfull athletes still get picked over in favor of petite darlings.
“Well, the blond is nice. You look good with your natural hair too.” I let that statement linger. More muddled, awkward sounds escape his mouth before he finally composes himself. “There were some old photos online—”
“You researched me?”
“I wanted to make a good argument to the Dean to get you a rink key. I’m a professional like that.”
