Despite my fame being pretty niche, or perhaps because of it, getting recognized always feels weird. I tell them, “Thanks,” and disappear into the modestly sized crowd. At least that interaction was brief. I don’t mind chatting with fans at the airport or outside the arena. It’s part of the job. Tonight I’m off the clock.
Christos isn’t my coach but I’m taking his advice anyway. I’ve earned a break. Even if watching painted college students lip-sync to showtunes isn’t that different from figure skating. There’s enough choreography, glitter, and camp that if I squint I swear the queens are wearing skates. I’m standing at the back where the audience flings crumpled up dollar bills onto the stage. All that’s missing is the kiss and cry.
In-between numbers, I go to the snack table, eyeing the liter bottles and hoping one of them is diet, or ideally, sparkling water. I chew the inside of my lip as I weigh my options.
“Roderick, hey!” A voice shouts over the beginnings of a pop track.
A skinny pair of glasses sits on the scaly snout of a green Dragonfolk. Marcus puts a cautious hand on my shoulder, his other arm outstretched. I step into the hug, his skin somehow both smooth and bumpy. Marcus and I met early on in our freshman year, when we went back to his place with plans to hook up but ended up playing fighting games for hours instead. To this day, we’ve never done anything more than hug and I’ve still never beaten him in a round of Dual Drakes.
“Sorry I haven’t reached out—”
Marcus holds up a clawed hand. “I don’t follow sports, but even I know it’s an Olympic year, I get it. Are you on the team yet?”
“I won't know till January. Got to keep competing till then. Even if I win qualifiers that doesn’t guarantee me a spot, so can’t slack off.”
His jaw drops, showing off a wide mouth more rows of razor-sharp teeth than I could possibly count. “That’s intense.”
I play it off with a shrug. “You win any Dual Drakes tournaments recently?”
He shakes his head. “But my boyfriend qualified for a big tournament in New York.”
My brows lift. “Boyfriend?” Not that Marcus having a boyfriend is all that surprising. He’s a cute computer science nerd who never says no to a club activity. Pretty sure he set up the lights and sound system for tonight’s event, because that’s just the kind of guy he is.
“Oh yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “He goes to this tiny college out in Vermont. We’re doing long distance.”
I hope the pop ballad hides any bitterness in my voice. “That’s great. He’s a lucky guy.”
“Maybe you’ll get to meet him sometime? If you’re not too busy. I was thinking of starting a tabletop RPG group.”
“I’m not sure I’m built to sit at a table for four hours,” I admit.
Marcus explains to me that there are shorter games. That we could play online so his boyfriend could join. Totally flexible schedule. I let him talk, because it is fun hearing about all the different games I could play post-Olympics. Or sooner… if I don’t make the cut.
Except, I am going to make the cut. There’s no point in hypotheticals, in imagining what my life would look like if I fail. I’m not going to manifest failure because rolling dice or going out to drink with the guys would be easier.
Marucs is still explaining percentage dice when I grab his shoulder. “Love when you talk nerdy to me, but I want to say hi to some other folks before bailing. I’ve got practice in the morning.”
“Right, sorry, rambling. Hey, let me know when your next competition is, I could set up a watch party for the hockey team.”
“Aw, that’s sweet of you.”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I want an excuse to watch the jocks play outside of the boy aquarium.”
I scoff. “Girl.”
“I can’t help it!” He throws his hands up with a dramatic flair. “You got shoved in enough lockers and it does something to you psycho-sexually.”
“Does your boyfriend know he’s dating a wannabe puck bunny?”
“I wouldn’t gothatfar, but yes,” he hangs his head in shame, “he’s aware.”
Maybe I should assure him he’s not alone in pining for hockey bros and that it could be much worse. At least all the Dingbats are around his age.
I started To Frost the Thaw.
Typical performative intellectual.
Wow. Harsh. I was about to tell you I’m liking it so far.
