I’m still alternately fretting over her and chastising her in my head when my cell rings. I answer, half-hoping but ultimately knowing it won’t be her. I made sure of that.
“Maisy, it’s your father.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“You sound out of breath, are you at practice? Conditioning? You shouldn’t answer your phone when you’re training, it’s—”
“I’m fine, Dad. Just in my suite watching some of the other events on my laptop, that’s all.”
“Why aren’t you with your team and your coach? You should be at the rink, getting—”
Yes, yes, everything I do is wrong. I should be practicing, but if I’m practicing, I shouldn’t answer the phone, but you can be sure if I hadn’t answered the phone, I would’ve gotten a very uptight message about where was I and I should always answer my parent’ calls, otherwise they worry. I’ve become used to not being able to win.
“We have really limited ice time between everyone who needs practice spots and also the other competitions, and I already had conditioning with my team this morning. Really, I’m good.”
There’s a pause as though he doesn’t believe me, because of course he doesn’t, and I can hear my mother in the background, asking the same questions he’s already asked of me. Seriously, these people are exhausting.
“We wanted to speak with you before your program tomorrow.” And here it really comes. Most parents would be calling to wish their child good luck, maybe try to thrust a few last-minute reminders upon them, and hopefully assure them that no matter what happens, Mom and Dad love them and are proud. My parents are not most parents.
“You need to focus on your elegance. Don’t be so . . . athletic.” Yep, because that’s a terrible thing for a SIG athlete to be. Athletic. “The judges don’t care if you can land a triple axel if you can’t charm them. We’ve done what we can with your costuming to make you look more refined, but you can’t be such a show-off.”
I wish Blaze were here. Not because she’d be able to fuck this conversation right out of my brain when it’s over, but because I’d like someone here to roll my eyes at, and offer a voice that’s a counterpoint that’s not only loud but one that I respect and from someone who seems to like me precisely as I am. Would that be so very awful? But I’m angry at her for trying to make me into something I’m not, as surely as my parents have tried to shape me for my whole life. Too much this, not enough that.
My dad is continuing to lecture me on how to be refined and graceful. I could hang up, but it’ll be easier to tune him out, tell him when he’s finished I’ll do my very best, and yes, of course, I’ll be polite to the reporters, smile and wave to my fans, and keep control of my expression when my scores are announced.
“You know it’s not too late—it’s never too late—to change your program. Maybe a double axel instead a triple. Give you more time to focus on being elegant, amiable. Maybe this time . . .”
He trails off and I can see what he’s thinking: maybe this time I’ll be the daughter they want.
“Don’t disappoint us, Maisy.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, because would it really be so awful of him to assume that I won’t? “I will do my very best, I promise. Goodbye, Dad.”
Chapter Twelve
Blaze
How dead would I be if Maisy knew I was here? Super dead or just a little bit dead? Maisy’s pretty thorough, so I’m guessing like really dead.
Despite that, I’m here. I’m not known for my caution or my strong sense of self-preservation, but I’m not a moron. I’ll still hide. Hat pulled down over my head—most importantly my hair—and I keep fucking quiet. No yelling or cheering, sitting here with the people next to me giving me serious side-eye because I’m biting my thumb to keep from yelling or pumping a fist when other skaters make mistakes.
I am by no means an expert, and figure skating is far more complex than speed skating so I haven’t been able to pick up even the basics really, but I know falling isn’t good. Which is why I get so excited when the other skaters do it. And I have had to sit through a lot of skaters. They go one at a freaking time, and there are thirty of them. Of course Maisy is scheduled to be toward the end of the line-up. What I wouldn’t give to have all thirty of them skating all at once, and have part of the competition be that they had to avoid each other while pulling off all those twirls and tricks. No, wait—that Maisy would definitely toe-pick me for. Spins and jumps.
These short programs are chock-full of the fancy stuff, though, because they have to squeeze eight elements into less than three minutes, so that’s cool. And five of the skaters won’t be moving on to the next round—I’m so not worried about Maisy being one of those.
Finally, finally, after a skater from Kazakhstan has a solid program, they announce Maisy, and there she is, taking her guards off at the entrance gate in the boards, and skating onto the ice. She’s wearing a pale pink thing with a flippy skirt, long sleeves, and encrusted with crystals. It’s pretty, but it’s not her. She should be in bold colors, and they should show off every bit of her figure they can, because her body’s enough to make anyone drool.
But here she is, her hair rolled up in a taut bun, her over-the-skate tights making her legs look a million miles long, and her face heavily made-up. She’s beautiful, but she looks fragile in a way, which is ridiculous. She’s one of the strongest people I know. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t look into the stands while she skates to the center of the ice. Doesn’t look at anyone. What is going through that busy head of hers? Probably a million things. I hope at least one of them is that she’s happy.
The music starts, and it’s definitely not the raucous stuff she was performing to when I walked in on her. Is that for her long program? The strains of classical music fill the arena, and I don’t recognize them. From her pose in the middle of the rink, she starts her program, and my eyes are glued to her.
People clap when she executes her jumps, oooh and ahh when she spins, but to me she looks . . . plastic. Technically very good as far as my untrained eye can see, but kind of lifeless. I don’t understand it. Maisy is one of the most passionate and vibrant people I’ve ever met—when she’s letting herself be—but all I can see is that she’s holding herself back. What could she do if she left everything on the ice? Is she pacing herself for the long program tomorrow or is this how she skates because this is how she thinks she’s supposed to? If so, who told her that? I hate that she’s so wooden.
She finishes out her program, posing in the center of the ice with her arms wrapped around herself, and she doesn’t look delighted, she doesn’t look proud. I clap, but . . . that was downright painful to watch. Well-executed, I think, though the scores will tell me for sure, but smiling and waving as she skates toward the gap in the boards looks like something she has to do. My stomach feels as though I’m on a small boat in rough seas, and I don’t think I can blame it on my head injury. Maisy doesn’t seem to be faring much better as she picks up a bunch of white roses that will look pretty with her dress and skates off, meeting her coach at the exit to put her guards on and head to the small set where she’ll sit and wait to be judged.
Maisy
That was fine. Not earth-shattering, but solid. Exactly what I’m supposed to do. I nailed my jumps, my spins were textbook, my footwork was perfect, and no one could say word one about my presentation. My coach tells me quietly and sedately that I gave a very good performance.
As I sit on the small bench with her and wait for my score to come down, I want to scream. I know I did. Everything was perfect. A robot couldn’t have performed a more flawless program than that. But that’s the thing . . . I felt like a robot. Reciting my program in my head, counting, checking off a thousand boxes of the things I was supposed to be doing. Double axel, check; step sequence, check; triple salchow into a double toe, check; combination spin, check; flying camel spin, check; triple lutz, check; a layback spin, check; and not an ounce of passion. Methodical, disciplined, meticulous. I can see the headlin
es now. Except those kinds of performances don’t get headlines.
Waiting, I wish Blaze were here. Except maybe I don’t. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach that she’d be disappointed in me. And the stupid thing is that I’m kind of disappointed in myself. I don’t want to see playback of that routine, because even if it was technically perfect, I probably look like a skating corpse. No personality, no passion—an automaton doing what it’s been programmed to do.
When I get ahold of my phone, I’ll likely have a message from my parents telling me that they saw my performance. Then a pause. Then a grudging “You did well,” followed by the inevitable “You’ll do better in the long program.”
Except I won’t.
That was the best I could do given the constraints I’m working under. Maybe that’s the problem, that I feel constrained. I want to feel like I’m flying, I want to feel as though I’m free, not like I’m dragging chains of obligation and expectations and requirements around the ice. Not to feel caught between the walls of too much and not enough. But perhaps this is as good as it gets. How depressing is that?
Then there’s a rustle that carries around the icebox of the arena, and my coach nudges me to look at my score.
67.89. That’s . . . excellent. Not quite a career high for me, but close. Definitely medal-contender territory.
My coach is so excited, she squeezes my arm. I think I’m smiling, but the elated feeling I get after skating my exhibition program is missing. The joy, the rush, the delight. That feeling I get when I’m with Blaze—in private of course, or in a quiet way in public—or when I’ve been doing a program based on what I damn well please.
I wave and smile at the camera, but the hollow feeling remains. I want to—for once in my life—feel full. Filled to the brim with all good feelings, and no room for shame. Yes, I’m still furious with her for betraying my trust and for allowing her own values and priorities to trample so completely over mine, but Blaze might be the only person on earth who would want that for me, too. I can’t help think of her as I move off the set and head to a place where I’ll be able to watch the last few performances.
Maisy
Back in the privacy of my suite after all the insanity is over, and I can reasonably excuse myself from being around other people, I lie on my bed. It’s quiet on the hall, quiet in the building, and it leaves me alone with all my thoughts. Including a wish that we could skate the short and the free programs on the same day because I would like to get this over with. Yes, I appreciate the break, because it gives me a chance to rest and refill the well before I have to skate again tomorrow, but it leaves a lot of room for thinking. Too much.
If Blaze were here, she’d fill up all that room with her big, strong, badass body, her wild hair, her loud voice, and yeah, some excellent sex. I’m not sorry I left her, and I don’t regret being angry with her and letting her know it. She was wrong. So, so wrong, and if someone had ignored her wishes like that, I have no doubt she’d do exactly the same thing, if not something even more dramatic.
I also realize that she’s an impulsive person, which is part of what makes her fun. It’s irritating to love and hate the same of her personality traits. The thing is, though, that if I explained why these things are different, why sometimes it’s okay and sometimes it’s not, she’d do her best not to do it again. Sometimes she’d fuck up because her mouth and her body move way faster than her brain.
But to have a voice in my life that was so emphatically pro-me, pro-what-I-want, 138 percent of a believer that I should have whatever I want whenever I want it and will go out of her way to help me get it? What’s a girl to say to that except “Yes, please”?
In the silence of the suite, the ping of my phone is loud. There’s a notification for a text, and I hold my breath. What, exactly, should I hope for? Doesn’t really matter, though, the message will be the same so I should get it over with. My heart beats harder when I see it’s from Blaze. And it’s not short.
Maisy,
Idk if you’ll read this. I hope you do. I came to see you skate today—don’t be mad. You were beautiful, as always, but . . . there was something missing. I know jackshit about figure skating so I don’t expect you to give a flying fuck about my evaluation of your performance. To me it looked perfect. Your score was awesome and I hope it gets you a medal.
But—and the only reason I’m saying this is that I don’t expect you to ever talk to me again anyhow, and I need you to know—you didn’t look happy, you didn’t look fulfilled. I’d like to think I know what you look like when you’re in the throes of passion, and you don’t look anywhere close to orgasm on your skates. And fucking A, I think you should.
You love skating. I’ve seen you love it. I’ve seen the way your eyes light up when you step into a rink and breathe in the air. How your face gets bright when you even think about lacing up your skates. But someone killed the joy of it for you. I don’t know when, and I don’t know who, and it doesn’t really matter.
I have one wish for you, and you might tell me to go fuck myself (which would actually be kind of hot, but this I swear is not about sexting, I’m being SERIOUS F0DFSee, shouty caps) but it’s for you to enjoy yourself tomorrow. Let’s be real that this is probably your last time at the SIGs—though if anyone is badass enough to pull off a third appearance at the SIGs as a female figure skater, it’s you—so do it your way.
I miss you, I’m sorry, and I . . . I want all the good things for you, Mais.
xoxo Your Redheaded Hellion
Wow. Way to make a girl tear up. I’m not ready to forgive her. Hell, I’m not ready to even talk to her yet, but what I am ready to do is read her message over and over and over, let it wash over me like a steaming-hot shower after a long, hard, disappointing practice, and let it soothe me. Let the warmth of it sink into all the places that hurt. And before we leave, maybe get a chance to tell her that, because something occurs to me—I didn’t know she was there, I’ve seen no press talking about how she was there. That wouldn’t have been an easy thing for her to do, and yet she did, for me.
Chapter Thirteen
Blaze
Maisy didn’t write me back last night, which kind of sucked. But she also didn’t write me back and tell me to throw myself off a bridge. Or the Canadian equivalent of that. Drown myself in maple syrup? Choke on my poutine? Get run over by a moose? Whatever. What matters is that she didn’t tell me not to come, so here I am.
I have sat quietly and politely through a shit ton of free programs, and while it’s given me a greater appreciation for what these women are capable of, mostly I’m twitchy with impatience because I want to see my girl. I also am dying over trying not to call attention to myself. How do people do this all the time? Is this how Maisy feels? Tied up—and not in a fun way—by trying to act a certain way? No wonder she looked so stiff yesterday. This is no fun. But I can do it, will do it, for her.
She’s again one of the last skaters, and I bide my time by drubbing my heel, tugging at my sleeves, and reflexively pushing nonexistent hair back under my hat. Apparently if I can’t use my energy to be loud and move around, it gets channeled into twitching. Awesomesauce.
At long last, they call Maisy’s name and she skates onto the ice. She’s wearing this gorgeous royal-blue skating dress with a short-ass skirt that shows off her ridiculous legs, and a keyhole back traced with sparkly crystals. It’s got a jeweled halter neck that bares her shoulders and her arms, and she looks . . . radiant. Like whoa, glowing. Even from here. And I could’ve sworn her costume for this number was some ombré black-and-grey thing. Pretty, sure, but boring. This is . . . anything but that.
My seats aren’t super good so I could be making this up, but I think the corner of her mouth is curling up in a hint of a smile, but she also shakes out her hand as if she’s jittery as fuck as she skates to the center of the ice and strikes a pose that makes her look like a goddess straight out of some French castle’s garden. Maisy’s not the type to get nervous. Or really, to
show she’s nervous. So what’s . . .
That’s when the music starts. The whole arena is silent for a second and then there are ripples of murmurs going throughout the place. What is she doing? This isn’t the expected program. Did they make a mistake?
I don’t think they did. A few beats in, I recognize it. It’s the song I walked in on her skating to that day all on her own. The murmurs in the audience get louder, but they all blend together and melt away because I feel like I’m here by myself. No, that’s not right. I feel as if Maisy is in the arena, on the rink, all by herself. That’s how she’s skating, with the lights low, and the way she’s moving is all power. Grace for sure because I don’t think the girl could look clumsy if she tried, but she looks strong, formidable. And to my delight, she looks excited. Like she’s actually enjoying herself.
Soon enough the jumps and the spins start, and all I can do is sit here in the dark with my chin in my hand and watch her blow the fucking roof off this place.
Maisy
The only things I can see are the white of the ice, the colors of the logos on the boards as they flash by, and the black beyond. Otherwise, I’m alone. Free. Doing what I damn well please. And though I can’t see her—because I can’t see anything, and she’s not making herself known—I think Blaze is here. I can feel her in some woo-woo way that would usually make me roll my eyes because what kind of nonsense is that? But as I turn to get in position for my first combination, I can practically feel the fiery heat of her approval on me. Not that I’m doing this for her. No, it’s all for me. But I can’t deny she lent me some of her massive amounts of not-giving-a-fuck in order to do this. Switch out my staid free skate for my exhibition program—which my coach and my parents alike will downright murder me for—but I feel good. God, it feels good.
Triple lutz into a triple toe, and I nail them. The crowd knows it, because the blackness erupts into applause. It feels good, it feels right, and the ice feels like a co-conspirator in this suicidal plot of mine. Smooth and steady under my blades, it lets me fly. And screw being a swan or some other long-necked graceful thing like a heron. Today I’m an eagle or a hawk. Strong, sturdy, vicious; an acrobat in the sky.
Fire on the Ice--Snow & Ice Games Page 13
