She swings again. The ball takes a hard left, bouncing off a light fixture.
“And then it came out. Not because either of us said anything. A tabloid - someone had photos, and it was everywhere overnight. And Erik… Erik rushed to end our coaching arrangement and cover his own ass. He told the federation I’d misunderstood the nature of our relationship. He protected himself and he let me drown and he did it so fast I didn’t even see it coming.”
I watch as she takes another ball from the bucket.
“He’s coaching a Russian champion now. Competing at the highest level. His career is completely intact.” She gives a bitter laugh. “Men in positions of power tend to land on their feet. I tried to get another coach after. Briefly. But my reputation wasn’t… I got a few rejections and I couldn’t-” She shakes her head. “I couldn’t keep walking into rooms where people had already decided what I was.”
“So, you came here,” I say.
“I saw the ad and answered it on impulse,” she says. “A women’s college-level skating program in Minnesota. It sounded like the opposite of everything I’d had before. Which was exactly what I needed.”
“Has it been? Good?”
She considers it honestly. “Yes. Mostly. The women’s program is genuinely great. I love those girls. Watching them get better, watching them figure out what they’re capable of. The guys’ team, too.” She stops.
“But?” I probe.
She shakes her head. “It’s good.”
She picks up her club and tees up another ball. I watch her and I think about her skating her routine when she didn’t know anyone was watching. The way it was obviously different from everything else she does here.
“Don’t you miss it? Skating? Actually skating?”
“Of course. But coaching is good, too. Watching other people do what you love and get better at it – that’s important, too.”
I look at her for a long moment. She doesn’t light up like she does when she’s talking about figure skating.
“That’s why I said what I said,” I say softly. “The real coach thing. I said it wrong and I said it really fucking badly, and I’m sorry for that. But-” I pause, finding the right words. “You’re not a coach, Elida. Not at your core. You’re a figure skater. Maybe you haven’t figured out how to take back what you want?”
I say it tentatively. I don’t want to tell her what to do. I only want her to see what I see - to believe in herself.
“That’s not-” she starts.
“All I’m saying is you’re the best skater I’ve ever seen. And Erik Lindqvist is coaching a Russian champion while you’re teaching college kids. Which is fine. If that’s what you really love doing. But is it?”
Her eyes are very bright.
“You sound like Iris.”
“Iris?”
“My sister. She’d like you.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you should go back to Sweden. To skating. Not because of anything that’s happened here. Because it’s yours and he doesn’t get to keep it.”
She looks at the net for a moment.
Then she picks up her club. “Show me what I’m doing wrong with the swing.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Show me anyway.”
ELIDA
He’s a surprisingly good golfer.
I don’t know why this surprises me - he’s an elite athlete with exceptional spatial awareness and a body that does what he tells it - but watching him step up to the bay and send the ball straight and clean and exactly where he intends it to go is somehow irritating in a way I find quite enjoyable. I’m an elite athlete as well, but somehow not even one percent of it seems to transfer to golf.
