Figure Skating Mystery Series: 5 Books in 1

by Alina Adams

Chris Kelly was not who she had in mind. But Chris Kelly was whom she got.

  He just showed up in her office one day, no appointment, no introduction. He obviously expected her to know who he was.

  Gabrielle wondered if she was also supposed to genuflect.

  "You're looking for a head coach," he said.

  "The sky is blue," Gabrielle replied. When he looked at her blankly, she explained, "I assumed we were exchanging declarative statements. Your turn."

  Obviously, grammar humor wasn't Chris's cup of tea.

  "I am willing to do it," he said.

  "And 'it' would be... ?"

  "Willing to take the head coach job. I know nobody else wants it."

  "Do you have any experience in the field, Mr. Kelly?"

  "Like what, now?"

  "Oh, let's start simple: Have you ever coached before?"

  "Certainly."

  "Really? I don't think I've ever heard of you — "

  "Well, in a matter of speaking. I choreograph all my own routines."

  "So you're used to working with difficult students."

  "And for the past few years, on tour, I have done the group numbers as well."

  Ah. Now that did finally ring a bell for Gabrielle. She’d heard from more than one former rink-mate about what precisely a Christian Kelly “group” routine consisted of. “It’s a Chris Kelly solo, with the rest of us skating around in circles, pointing in his direction. Even when he’s not actually on the ice, he figured out a way to loom larger than life over the rest of us.”

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  "That's not exactly coaching."

  "Close enough, I'd say."

  "Shouldn't you be on tour right now? It's the middle of the season."

  "I had a bit of an injury. Knees aren't what they used to be. I'm to be out for the next few months, they tell me. So I thought..."

  "This is a full-time position."

  "I told you I was out for a few months. Won't be going anywhere."

  "And after that?"

  "Who thinks that far ahead?"

  "People who run training centers and enroll students based on the promise of a coach being there when he says he will."

  "Look, life is mercurial, is it not? Nobody knows where they'll end up one day to the next. I said I'm available for the next few months. What say we leave it at that and see where it goes?"

  "Why do you want this job so badly, Mr. Kelly?"

  "Didn't say I wanted it. Said I was willing to do it. Now are we on or not?"

  Gabrielle wanted very much to throw Chris out of her office. She couldn't imagine dealing with his arrogance for even the vaguely promised few months.

  On the other hand, she could imagine printing up the new season's brochures without a big-name coach to advertise. And what her response would be.

  She asked Chris, "When can you start?"

  As Gabrielle was giving him a tour of the dual-rink ice surface, the ballet studio, the weight-training room, the dorms, and the cafeteria, she clarified the center's philosophy. "You are familiar with our policies, correct? We are a no-pressure, no-abuse, no — "

  "Yes, yes, yes." He nodded absently. "I heard. We'll see about that, won't we?"

  To Gabrielle's surprise, from his first day there, Chris followed her policies to the letter. He didn't yell at the kids; he didn't call them names. He didn't tell the girls to lose weight or the boys to do more reps at the gym. He didn't pressure, he didn't belittle, and he didn't threaten. Because, as Gabrielle figured out soon enough, he didn't care.

  He would tell a student to execute a move. The student would do it and, more often than not, fail. Chris would simply tell them to do it again. Sometimes, he might suggest a change or an improvement. But if the student failed to execute it as told, Chris would simply shrug and move on to something else. No one was getting browbeaten. But no one was learning much, either.

  Whenever Gabrielle tried to speak to him about it, Chris would challenge her. "Rather I yelled at them?"

  "Well, no..."

  "So everything's dandy then, isn't it?"

  It was at moments like this that Gabrielle spied the obvious and rather frightening anger Chris seemed to be constantly holding in check. But she couldn't quite discern whom it was directed at or, frankly, what to do about it.

  She felt it was her responsibility to get to the bottom of things. Not only because she had a duty to protect her students but also because, well, frankly, she was curious.

  Gabrielle hadn't known Chris well when they were training together at Lucian's. He was so much older and already a champion when she got there. She knew about what had happened with Lauren obviously, but he'd recovered from that, moved on with Gina, and then with half the global female population. Whenever she'd caught glimpses of him on television since, he'd seemed perfectly fine and in control. So why all the fury now? And more important, what did it mean for Gabrielle and her facility?

  She attempted to broach the subject in a roundabout way, telling Chris, "You know, I'm a little concerned...."

  "Have there been complains from the parents?"

  "What?" Gabrielle was taken aback. "No, no, nothing like that."

  "So everything's fine then."

  "I don't think so," she said. "You, Chris. You don't seem... fine."

  "You said there were no complaints." And another conversation would unceremoniously come to an end.

  Good thing Gabrielle had a doctorate in psychology. Or else she might really be making a mess of things now.

  The aforementioned things went on along in the same vein for another three months. And then, one afternoon, Chris was back in Gabrielle's office, again with no warning, appointment, or preamble to announce, "Remember that commitment you wanted? Well, you've got me. Indefinitely, long haul, ad infinitum, that would be all she wrote, good-bye, farewell, and amen."

  "Excuse me?"

  "It didn't help."

  "What didn't?"

  "The doctors couldn't think of anything more to do. They already tried operating. Several times. Cleaned the cartridge out of my knee so often, orthopedist said last time in, there was nothing more to remove. I attempted the holistic route myself. Acupuncture, acupressure, hot, cold, poultice on the outside, roots and sprouts on the inside, vitamins, binding. None of it worked. Last-ditch attempt was to give it some rest. Stop jumping for a spell, they said. Maybe that would help. It didn't help. I can barely land a Single Axel now. Can you imagine? I once fancied trying a quad. Didn't need it when I was competing, of course, but it was something I believed within my grasp. May even have done one or two in practice. Not anymore. Not even a single. Leg buckles right under me. It's all over. So I guess I'll be staying here, then."

  And then he walked away, leaving Gabrielle speechless.

  And inexplicably heartbroken.

  "I'm sorry," was all she could think of to say later that evening when she knocked on the door to the apartment Chris received as part of his salary package, on the top floor of the skaters' dormitory.

  Yup, certainly was a good thing Gabrielle had that doctorate in psychology. Otherwise, she might have been reduced to a blathering idiot.

  Chris opened the door, accepted her condolences in silence, shrugged, and, leaving it open so she could come in, walked away from the door and towards a table. He sat down and continued with what he'd been doing before she arrived. Studying a stack of what appeared to be X-rays and medical reports and photocopied magazine articles, all without a trace of enthusiasm. Or hope.

  Gabrielle stood across from him, desperately searching for something to say but coming up frustratingly empty. For a moment, neither of them moved. And then, in the silence, Gabrielle was struck by an epiphany. All of her years of talk therapy — as both a patient and a practitioner — were useless in the face of a person mourning his damaged physicality, a physicality that had long ago become his most expressive means of communicating. All of Chris's achievements had come about without words. They were physi
cal and tangible and visible. And they deserved to be commemorated in the same manner.

  So Gabrielle gave up trying to think of something to say. She simply sat down on the chair next to Chris and took his hand in her own, squeezing it lightly.

  He didn't respond at first. Just kept sifting through the paperwork with his free palm, looking for something, anything that might fix his dilemma. Gabrielle didn't try to stop him. She didn't try to do anything. She simply continued sitting there, holding on to Chris's hand, until finally, he shoved all the paperwork angrily away. Pages fluttered and slid to the floor. Chris reclined in his chair, head back, eyes closed, and took several deep breaths. He didn't let go of Gabrielle's hand until he, at long last, opened his eyes. He met her gaze and smiled.

  "Okay," Chris said calmly. "Plan B."

  Neither one of them initially expected that Chris's Plan B — was Gabrielle imagining it, or had she heard an echo of Lucian in Chris's pronouncement? Lucian, after all, always had a Plan B — should necessarily include Gabrielle in anything but a professional capacity. And yet, it did.

  In a way, Gabrielle supposed that she should have predicted it. The training center was located on an isolated stretch of land in Southern California. When it came to social company, her and Chris's choices were limited to the kids, the parents who periodically drove up to make sure everything was going all right, and the coaches. The latter were all nice people, but as far as romance was concerned, Gabrielle was definitely not the male staff's type. Chris had a rather easier time of it with the women coaches. Gabrielle felt positive more than one was interested in him — and not shy about expressing it.

  But Chris seemed exclusively focused on her. Which Gabrielle found flattering... and disconcerting.

  But what she found even more disconcerting was that, as the months went on and she and Chris grew closer and closer, Gabrielle couldn't shake the nagging sensation that their relationship had more than the requisite duo in it. There was her. There was Chris. And then there was... Lauren.

  It wasn't obvious. It wasn't even omnipresent It was just... cumulative.

  Chris wore his wedding ring along with Lauren's on a chain around his neck. Up in his apartment, he had a photo of the two of them after his win at the Olympics. He reminisced about places they'd visited and restaurants they'd eaten at and people they'd both known. He remembered her favorite movies, her favorite books, her favorite music, her favorite TV shows. When he looked at his first Olympic Gold medal, framed in a velvet-lined box on the wall, Gabrielle practically could see him remembering Lauren. When he saw a young couple holding hands on the street he thought of Lauren. When he told stories from a decade ago, even when Lauren wasn't mentioned by name, she was still somehow in them.

  Which was all normal, Gabrielle supposed. She shouldn't be disturbed by it. And yet she was disturbed by it.

  But not as much as she was by the fact that she and Lauren kind of looked alike.

  Well, not exactly alike. This wasn't a cheesy horror movie or even Vertigo. Their resemblance was surface, not precise. They were both petite, blonde, with shoulder-length hair they pinned up in a French twist, blue eyes, small features, and a nose that turned up just a bit at the end. It was a description applicable to a lot of young women. (How did that joke go? "I'm one in a million. That means there are three hundred people in the United States alone who are just like me.")

  Gabrielle just wasn't too thrilled about it applying to her and the late Lauren.

  She tried broaching it with Chris. But when he refused to grasp — or refused to admit to grasping — what she was getting at, Gabrielle finally gave up and flat out told him, "I don't think you've gotten over her yet."

  "Of course I haven't," Chris said.

  Oh. Well. Gabrielle should be happy to be right, shouldn't she? Why didn't she feel happy?

  "I am never going to get over her. She was my wife, I loved her, and she died for absolutely no reason. Why should I get over it? On the other hand, what does that have to do with you and me?"

  "I'm not sure I'm thrilled with the idea of being second choice."

  "What second choice are you talking about? Lauren is not here. I am not making a choice between her and you. I am with you. There was no choice to be made."

  He made it all sound so reasonable.

  "How can I be certain that you're in love with me and not just with some woman who happens to look like your late wife?"

  "Which you happen to do."

  "Yes."

  "You are not making this easy for me, Gabrielle. What do you want me to say? Do you want me to say that you do not remind me of Lauren? That would be a lie. I do see some similarities. But so what?"

  "I'm sorry. I can't explain it any better."

  "Gabrielle. Luv. How do you expect me to deny an accusation that you cannot even coherently make?"

  "It's a stumper, all right," she agreed.

  "I love you," he said, calmly. "I love you for being you. Not Lauren. I love you for the way you start sentences that you don't know how to finish. I love you for the way you are always energetic in the morning while the rest of us are still trying to stumble toward the coffee machine. I love you for how you'll cling to an argument even when you can't recall which side you are on. And I love you for the way you've bucked every traditional assumption and historically tested method to open this training center, against the odds."

  "You think my bucking every traditional assumption and historically tested method is stupid."

  "Indeed I do. But I admire your gumption in futilely attempting it." He smiled and touched her cheek gently with one hand. "I love you, Gabrielle. I love you for being you. And I think I know a way I can prove that."

  Unfortunately, Chris's idea of proof involved larceny.

  Gabrielle was rather not expecting that.

  A few days after their conversation, with Gabrielle feeling no more reassured about her place in Chris's life vis-à-vis Lauren than she had before embarking on their disastrous chat, Chris asked for a long weekend off. She granted him the mini-vacation, despite his tight-lipped refusal to reveal where he was going.

  When he returned, he handed Gabrielle an unlabeled floppy disc and said, "There. If that doesn't prove that I love you, I don't know what will."

  "What is it?”

  "A disc."

  "Yes, thank you, I can see that. Anything on it?"

  "Funny you should ask...."

  "It seemed appropriate."

  "It just so happens that, on this disc, are records of every lawsuit ever filed against Lucian Pryce and the Olympic Training Center."

  "Wow," Gabrielle said. "Average men just send flowers. At most, jewelry. What prompted you, Chris, to go with information I have no use for?"

  "I beg to differ."

  "I beg you to clarify."

  "Don't you see? All these lawsuits, they were filed by parents of students that Lucian injured in some way through his training methods. We are not just speaking of a broken bone here and there. There are records of life-altering back injuries, head injuries, knees — not to mention the psychological issues."

  "I don't need a disc to tell me that." Gabrielle held up both her arms, the faint scars on her wrists still visible above each sleeve.

  "But the rest of the world does. Think about it, Gabrielle. We release all this information to the press. Someone is bound to do a story on it, especially as we head into the Olympic season. The right reporter can make Lucian and his training methods sound positively Draconian."

  "So?"

  "Which is where you come in. With Lucian being vilified right and left, that puts you in the perfect position to promote your center as the alternative."

  "Oh..."

  "Now do you see?"

  "Where did you get this, Chris?”

  "From Lucian's computer."

  "What?”

  "That's where I was this weekend. Colorado. Stopped by to say hello to Lucian, Gina, and along the way..."

  "He just ga
ve you this information?”

  "Not exactly."

  "You stole it?”

  “Technically, the information is just where he last left it. I merely made myself a copy."

  "How?”

  "I pressed 'Save As,' Gabrielle. It's not that difficult."

  "How did you get on Lucian's computer?"

  "The 'On' button is traditionally a fine place to start."

  "He doesn't have a password?"

  "No."

  "And he just keeps his computer out in the open, where anyone can jump on and read his personal documents?"

  "Well, not exactly. The man's not a fool. It is located in his office, at the rink. For goodness' sake, Gabrielle, why are you being so petty? I wanted to demonstrate how much I care for you, how much I believe in you, how much I support what you are trying to do here."

  "By breaking, entering, and stealing?"

  "By George, I think you've got it!"

  "This isn't funny."

  "Actually, I was shooting for romantic, so I'm glad."

  "I can't do this, Chris. It would be wrong."

  "Fine. Do with it what you like. It isn't my business. I just wanted you to see how far I was willing to go for you. Maybe then you'd believe that Lauren has nothing to do with you and me being together. She is my past and she will always be my past. She will always be there. But she has nothing to do with my present."

  "Chris..."

  "What, luv?"

  "How could you do it?"

  "I told you, office, computer, 'On,' 'Save As.'..."

  "No. How could you do this to Lucian? I mean, I don't think I'm going to release this information, it's too... too exploitive; I'm not ready to go that far, yet. But you... you were willing to throw him to the wolves."

  "For you. I am willing to do this for you."

  "Only for me?"

  Chris shrugged. He looked away.

  "Chris... I thought... I thought that Lucian was like a father to you. You're crazy about him. At least, you always act like..."

  "I know what I act like."

  "You mean, it isn't true?"

  Another shrug. "It doesn't matter."

  "It does to me."