“Who?”
Barrett turns the phone toward me.
It’s Elida. She’s younger, maybe nineteen, in a costume that catches the light, mid-spin, her face focused. The caption is in Swedish but I can read the name:Elida Eriksson, European Figure Skating Championships.
“Where did you get this?”
“Googled her,” Mercer says. “Figured if she’s going to coach us we should know who we’re dealing with.”
Barrett scrolls to a competition video. The sound is off but it doesn’t matter.
The first jump, I don’t even know what it’s called. She launches herself into the air, spins faster than I can track, and lands on one foot.
No one speaks.
Another jump. Higher this time. Three spins in the air - four? I lose count - and she lands backward, one leg extended behind her, arms out, skating out of it like the landing was the easy part. It seems physically impossible.
“Holy shit,” Barrett says as the video ends.
“Yeah,” I say.
Holy shitis exactly right.
I take the phone and scroll.
There’s more. Competition footage. Interviews - some in English, some in Swedish with subtitles. A Wikipedia page. A list of medals and titles that makes me realize I had no idea who was coaching us.
And then I scroll past a headline I don’t even need to translate. The wordsscandal,coach,allegationsjump out. There’s a blurry photograph of two people embracing, and I understand what I’m seeing.
Mercer peers over my shoulder. “Fuck! So that’s why she left Sweden. She was sleeping with her coach.”
“She’s a world-class athlete,” I interrupt him. “Whatever shows up when you Google her - whatever rumors - that’s not our business.”
“Just saying,” Mercer mutters. “Makes you wonder what she’s really doing here. If she couldn’t cut it there-”
“Mercer.”
Something in my voice makes him stop.
I look at each of them. Barrett, who won’t meet my eyes. Ward, shifting his weight. Chen, completely still.
“I don’t want to hear a single word about anything else. Ever.”
Silence stretches. Someone coughs near the showers.
“Alright,” Mercer says. “Fine.”
I hand him back his phone.
“We clear?”
“Yeah,” Mercer mutters. “We’re clear.”
I sit down at my stall and start taping my stick. Black tape. Even passes. No overlap. My hands are steady.
Behind me, someone laughs at something unrelated. The locker room returns to normal.
It’s our first match since Elida arrived to give us extra skating coaching. Fat lot of good it’s done.
