“Which was…” He nudges Christos. “Can’t say I know how you score in skating.”
“He made podium in the final,” Christos looks to me for confirmation.
“Bronze,” I specify. “180.90 overall.”
“It piss you off, that point-ten loss?” Bekken asks brazenly.
Christos shoots me an apologetic look. Which isn’t necessary. Unlike Bekken I actually havegoodmedia training.
“Judges don’t like angry skaters.” I lean to one side, observing the Dingbats lined up like toy soldiers. “Looks like your team needs you, Coach.”
Christos wraps an arm around his old hockey buddy’s shoulder and leads him to the team, waiting for instruction on the ice. I’msonot interested in Bekken anymore, but I don’t move. Despite having a celebrity visitor, Christos wastes no time getting into drills. Of course Bekken offers commentary, shouting out everything—good, bad, and ugly. And there’s plenty of ugly.
“Shit, Chris,” Bekken says loud enough for the team to hear. “You left the league for this?”
Christos huffs. “I like a challenge.”
One drill down and guys are already doubled over and spitting on the ice. Everything I’ve heard from Terrence says that Christos always pushes the guys hard, but this practice they’ve got the extra weight of their egos. I don't need to witness this. I pack up without anyone noticing my escape.
As I walk through the lobby, my phone buzzes and I’m relieved to see it’s Alex. As soon as I accept her video call, she shrieks. “Girl! Your Mims costume?”
“I know right?”
“It’s gorgeous and so you, but I have to ask,” a smile spreads across her face, “when do we get to see it in action?”
“It’s for my new program. I can’t decide if I should debut at the Grand Prix or the Olympic qualifiers.”
We spend a good hour talking through the two options. A Grand Prix debut might mean I don’t make the podium, since there’s no way to know how the judges will react to the program till they’ve seen it. As bad as I want to do better than last year, a low score at the Grand Prix won’t necessarily hurt my chances at making the Olympic team.
“I want to medal so bad,” I admit while laying against the giantDingbat plush on my bed.
Alex hums, watching the program rehearsal I sent her on her laptop. “Which do you want more, a medal or to show off your program?”
I frown. “You don’t think the program is medal worthy?”
“Come on, Roderick, you know what I mean.” There’s a loud click as she presses pause on her laptop. “This program is cool, it’s very you. It also has a lower technical elements score than the other skater’s programs.”
I roll my eyes and groan.
“Don’t ask for advice and then complain,” she chastises.
“Okay, well I’ll turn my first triple into a quad,” I say, as if it’s that simple.
“But if you don’t make it, will that throw you off the rest of your routine? Especially your first jump? You’ve backfilled the routine with your jumps, so stamina is already a concern.”
I rub my jaw with my knuckle. “It’s such bullshit.”
“If you didn’t want to do jumps, you should have gotten into ice dancing,” she points out. “They’re allowing same gender pairs now.”
“I love doing jumps, but like, my leg extension on my upright Bielllmann is just as hard.”
Alex snorts.
“It is! Why does everyone drool over our jumps but not our flexibility? Pulling my groin hurt way more than falling on my ass.”
I know this is all coming off rather bitter. It’s not that I can’t do quads. I’ve landed a few in competition, but I’ve messed up a lot more.
“If you ask me, you should get full points for that end cantilever. It’s sooo sexy.”
