ELIDA
I watch him go.
I watch him skate to the gate with his back straight and not a single glance backward, and I wait until the gate has closed behind him and his footsteps have faded down the corridor, and then I turn back to the ice.
Twenty faces. Various degrees of discomfort.
“From the top,” I say. “Tighter rotation this time.”
Nobody moves for a half second, and then Chen pushes off first, and the rest follow, and just like that we’re moving again.
I don’t let myself feel it. Not yet. That’s the skill, the one that took years to learn and cost more than I want to think about - the ability to put things in a box and close the lid and deal with it later, when there’s no one watching, when the music has stopped and the cameras are off and you’re finally alone.
I move through the group.
I correct Ward’s shoulder. I tell Mercer his edge is better today, which is true and which surprises him enough that he almost says thank you. I watch Chen move through the sequence competently and give him a nod that he returns without making anything of it.
I do not think about what Russo said.
I don’t think about it when I extend the drill, or when I call out corrections, or when I run them through the final sequence and Calloway steps onto the ice to add some tactical work at the end. I stand at the boards with my notebook and I watch and I make notes.
Calloway dismisses them forty minutes later and they file off, subdued still, the loss sitting over everything. Calloway heads to his office.
The gate closes behind them.
I stand on the ice alone.
I’ve always loved this part. Even as a child in the Stockholm rink where I spent more hours than I spent anywhere else - this was what I loved. The stillness after.
I skate a slow circle. Not thinking. Just moving.
Why are you here? Why are you coaching a college team instead of competing?
I stop at center ice.
He doesn’t know. He said it to wound me and it worked, and he doesn’t even know why, which is almost funny, except it isn’t funny at all. He threw something jagged in the dark and had no idea what he hit.
I pick up my bag and my notebook and I go to find Calloway.
His office door is half open. I knock and he gestures to the chair across from him without preamble, which I’ve come to appreciate about him. He gives you space to say the thing you came to say.
“Russo,” I say. “I made a call and I stand by it. But I want you to know I’m aware it could be seen as an overreach.”
“He crossed the line first,” Calloway says. “He’ll apologize.”
“I’m not asking for that.”
“I know you’re not. I’m telling you anyway.”
“I want to be honest with you. I was brought in to coach the women’s program. That’s what I prepared for. This-” I stop. Start again. “I’m a figure skater. I know skating and I can translate that, I believe I can but managing a locker room full of - handling the ego of a captain who doesn’t want to be here-” I shake my head. “I could focus only on the women’s team.”
Calloway is quiet for a moment.
“No,” he says finally. “It isn’t what you were trained for.” He leans back in his chair. “But Elida - the women’s program. Are you happy there?”
I think about yesterday afternoon’s session. The girls still finding their feet, still figuring out what they’re capable of.
“Yes,” I answer honestly.
