by Rachel Cross
Shane had been dead set against the job. He wanted her to focus on her recovery in Los Angeles. They'd been living together since the return from Miami and she'd never lived with a man before, not as his lover. She'd also never had anyone take care of her the way he did before and after the surgery. Shane had risen to the occasion, he put up with her moodiness, pain medication that apparently made her loopy and sexually insatiable, and her finicky appetite. It was a different kind of bliss. She couldn't have asked for a better person to shepherd her through the surgery and rehab and schlep her to and from doctors’ appointments. She could see he worried about her decision to commentate at Nationals, but he'd given in with good grace. She needed to start down the new path. Oh, the irony of that conversation with Kyle back in June, no coaching, no commentating. Life had made a mockery of her plans this year.
This was it, the last qualifying competition prior to the selection of the U.S. Olympic figure skating team. It was a pressure cooker of an event.
Things had changed since she had been at this very competition all those years ago. The programs were more difficult for one thing. There would be no surprises, no dark horse. The event was a formality because coaches and judges had their favorites; the team was all but set in stone.
Giant winged birds swooped in Amy's stomach. It wasn't just the nervousness of being on network television and fearing she would make a fool of herself. She was here. Her nemesis. Yarotska.
Amy was jumping out of her skin.
Her cameraman, Chris, looked over at her.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” She attempted a smile through stiff lips.
“You're going to have to do better than that,” he said with a dubious expression, hitching the heavy camera higher on his shoulder.
She searched her mind for a mantra, rolled her shoulders, and took deep, calming breaths. Nope. Not helping. If only Shane were here to give her a pep talk. Or Rowena.
The music started, indicating the first ladies figure skater was taking the ice.
While two figure skating legends critiqued the performances during the program, Amy would interview them afterward as they craned their necks at the screens above for their scores. And the live cameras would capture the scores—those intensely personal revelations of success or failure—with its unflinching eye.
By the time the third skater left the ice, she had done her best to interview two girls who had skated flawlessly, though the judges scores didn't reflect their efforts, and one nearly perfect performance from a young woman guaranteed a spot on the team. Nothing new there. The sport had a long history of behind the scenes deal making in national and international competitions. Judging scandals and a flawed scoring system plagued figure skating.
The fourth skater, top-ranked Becky Miller, was out on the ice. She watched the eighteen-year-old athlete. She'd seen Becky skate many times over the years, and if she could have a favorite, this girl would be it.
She had clawed her way from poverty and obscurity to train with the elite solely based on her grit and athleticism. But watching her now, Amy couldn't believe this was the same girl who placed third in the world championships last year.
This was Yarotska's protégé and the top selection for the U.S. team? The girl was skating an incredibly conservative short program and while she hadn't missed any landings, there were a few wobbles. Maybe she was afraid to risk injury since the Olympics were only a few weeks away.
Becky made her final pose as the music faded out.
“Showtime,” the cameraman muttered as Amy stepped forward to greet the girl coming off the ice. Someone brushed up against her, the scent of cigarettes and an unforgettable noxious perfume stirring old memories to life. Yarotska. Amy straightened her spine and greeted Becky with her princess smile glued to her face.
The girl murmured hello and gave her a limp handshake before dropping herself next to her coach.
The skater looked exhausted, her sunken eyes accentuated by the makeup, face beaded with sweat, chest heaving. Amy seated herself next to the skater gingerly, her smile fixed, microphone at the ready. She could hear Diana and Burt, skating legends, discussing the performance in her ear-piece. They were straining for positive things to say about such a lackluster performance. Like the coach, Amy automatically craned her neck at the monitors, awaiting scores, as she had so many years ago.
She glanced at the girl next to her, but rather than looking for her scores, Becky was staring into space. While Amy watched, a startled expression crossed the skater’s pale face, her eyelids fluttered, and she slumped, her body pitching forward off the wooden seat and onto the floor.
Amy gasped. She dropped the microphone as she instinctively went down to the girl. Her coach spared the girl on the floor a glance, but went back to gazing at the monitors as the voice droned the numbers.
“Amy,” the camera man hissed.
She looked up at him. “Get a medic.”
He remained motionless, continuing to film. Amy glared at him. Looking past Chris, she spotted a few people with badges. “Get someone!”
They scurried away, and satisfied they would get help, she turned her attention back to the skater.
The girl was pasty white now, hairline damp with perspiration. Amy helped put her limbs in a more comfortable position and moved her onto her side in case she was going to throw up. With a long moan, the girl started to come around.
“Mom?” she bleated, casting about the area.
“Becky, you're okay. You fainted.”
“Feel sick,” the girl mumbled. “Dizzy.” Her hand went to her head.
Martina Yarotska still hadn't moved from her position on the bench. “Champions don't give in to the pain. Get up Becky,” the woman said.
“Rest,” Amy contradicted, glaring at Yarotska.
“Mom?” the girl said, again, struggling to rise with tears tracking through her cosmetics.
Amy put a hand on her shoulder. “Becky, stay down until the medics come check you out.” The girl was panting, her heart racing inside the too thin chest. Amy's gaze swept over the slender body, examining her critically. No wonder she was having trouble with her performance—up close the girl looked too thin; she had lost that athletic build since last year.
“You did this, didn't you?” she hissed to Yarotska. “You took this beautiful girl, this virtuoso on skates, and pushed her to this, didn't you?”
“Ah,” her former coach said, loudly. “The failure speaks.”
The girl at her knees tried to push herself up, fear evident on her face. “Coach Yarotska?”
The beady eyes stared down at the girl on the floor. “Da. Get up, child.”
“What have you done?” Amy whispered. But she already knew. No wonder Becky had skated so conservatively. She probably didn't have the energy for the most complicated jumps.
The paramedics arrived and loaded the girl onto the stretcher. They asked Amy a few questions before they pushed her through the crowd that had gathered.
And the entire time, a burning anger smoldered inside her until she couldn’t ignore Yarotska’s pretense that this was only a momentary weakness on Becky’s part. “You've made her anorexic, too, haven't you? With your weigh-ins and your bullying.” Her voice rose. “It's not worth it, nothing is worth her health. Certainly not a medal on a podium.”
The coach rose from the bench; she was short but stocky and stood too close, trying to intimidate.
Amy stood her ground.
She pointed a finger, nearly touching Amy’s nose. “You know nothing, you spoiled girl. You failure. I make world-class.”
Amy leaned right up in her face. “So that's what we all watched just now? World-class? God. Nothing ever changes, does it? You drive these desperate girls to starve themselves, to work out until they bleed, to skate with fractures. You sicken me.”
Amy turned away and spotted the nearly silent crowd that had gathered to watch.
She made her way to where the swarms of people were
outside the exit and stood before the white rectangular doors of the ambulance. She knocked.
A medic opened the door and saw her standing there. “No interviews,” he barked out.
Realizing she was still wearing an earpiece, she ripped it off and threw it onto the ground. “I'm not here as a reporter. I'm a former skater and I'm worried that she won't tell you what's really wrong here. “
The blue uniformed man opened the door wider. “In that case come in. Maybe you can give us some answers about what's going on.”
Amy sat on the bench and watched Becky, already hooked to a heart monitor, an oxygen mask strapped to her face. The other medic was starting an IV.
She looked away, squeamish.
“Can you give me any history on her? Her parents haven't made it down here yet. They were in a skybox. Does she have any chronic illness? Using performance enhancing drugs?”
“All I can tell you,” she said softly, “is that when her coach was my coach, the woman encouraged me to starve myself. I collapsed after an event and had to be taken to the hospital with an erratic heart rate.”
The two medics exchanged a look, then they all stared at Becky, whose tears were sliding down her cheeks, making rivulets around the oxygen mask.
“I was low on protein and my electrolytes were dangerously off—I don't know specifics. It took the doctors a while to figure out what the problem was. I wasn't honest about what was happening. . .” Her breath hitched and she corrected herself, “About what I was doing to myself.”
The medic turned to Becky. “Do you want your coach or parents to ride with us?” he asked.
Becky silently shook her head and pointed a finger at Amy.
“She's eighteen,” the female medic piped up, “and I've got this IV started. I'm not a huge fan of what I'm getting on the monitor,” she said calmly, with another meaningful glance at her partner. “Let's go.”
They arrived at the hospital in a matter of minutes, only to find a swarm of reporters parked outside the emergency room and an overwhelmed security guard.
The doors opened and the mob of people surged forward, blocking the entrance. The medics lowered the stretcher.
Reporters were shouting her name, Becky's name, and, bizarrely, Shane's name. Four police cars pulled up and half a dozen cops hopped out to do crowd control. Amy ignored the microphones pushed at her as she followed the stretcher. Becky waved Amy closer with eyes wide and terrified above the oxygen mask. While they waited for a room in the hallway, Amy took the hand without the IV and gave it a squeeze.
She bent over. “You're going to be okay, Becky.”
But was she? It had taken a year of therapy to get her head anywhere close to right after she and Rowena had fled. And the disease was still there—the mindset never completely went away. Regain control, it whispered, control the food and workout.
Her cell phone rang continuously while she waited in the curtained area with the young skater. She hadn't forgotten about her job, exactly, but this was more pressing. The emergency room nurse gave her a dirty look and she switched it off. Whatever it was could wait.
The nurse changed the IV bag and took vitals while the medics unhooked their equipment and switched over to the hospital ECG and oxygen.
Finally, the two medics wheeled the stretcher away, but not before the uniformed woman reached out to touch Amy on the arm. “Good luck,” she said quietly.
Ten minutes later the nurse left and the white-coated emergency room doctor came in and pulled the curtains behind her. “What a zoo,” she remarked. “Young lady, your parents and coach are here—they're out in the hallway and insisting they be let in to see you. Do you want me to send them in?”
Becky bit her lip, her gaze downcast.
“I guess,” she said.
Amy held in a sigh.
The doctor's gaze was steely and directed at Amy. “The medics filled me in, but we see this occasionally—and the blood work speaks for itself. Don't worry,” she said in her clipped but friendly fashion, “there's only so much bluster and denial we'll allow.” She switched her stare to Becky. “This is serious business, young lady, and we need to know what is going on in order to figure out how to help you. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” the girl on the bed whispered.
“I'll make my recommendations once we have more information from your labs. Is there anything you want to tell me now?
The girl shook her head, but her eyes pleaded for something.
The doctor signaled to Amy. “I need you to step out while I try to get to the bottom of this.”
She leaned against the counter outside the curtained room. Almost immediately the Millers and Yarotska walked in. Mrs. Miller glanced at the curtain, heard the sobbing.
“Becky?” her mother entered the room, closely followed by her husband and the coach.
Five minutes of eavesdropping taught her that Becky was not made of stern enough stuff to face down her parents and Yarotska, or she wasn't willing to admit what she had been doing.
“Exhaustion,” Mrs. Miller insisted. “She's training too hard. Could happen to anyone.”
“Dehydration,” Yarotska's heavily accented voice put in. “No problem.”
Amy grew angrier and angrier as they cajoled and bullied the girl into saying she was ready to rest to prepare for the Olympics. And of course she couldn’t give up now.
Thank God the doctor wasn’t buying it. “I'm concerned about a number of things. There's the fainting, and your child is significantly underweight.”
“She's a champion figure skater,” Mrs. Miller said.
“Her heart rate is abnormal and I'm waiting for the labs. At the very least she'll be kept overnight for observation,” the doctor said.
“Fine, fine,” Mr. Miller’s voice came through the curtain. “She'll be fine. She's exhausted, training too hard.”
“Yah,” Yarotska agreed. “We will taper now.”
“Becky?”
There was a long silence.
“Becky?” the physician said. “If this is more than exhaustion—and looking at you, looking at the monitor, I suspect this is more than that—you need to understand that starving yourself could cost you more than your figure skating. It could kill you.
“I'm fine,” the young girl said, so softly Amy could barely hear her. “I'm tired. I need to rest,” she pleaded and started to cry again.
The doctor left the room, shaking her head at Amy.
“You can't let them do this,” she hissed. The doctor glanced around and pulled her into a staff area.
The woman stared at her, compassion evident. “In my business you learn the hard way that you can't save people from themselves. They have to want to fix their problems, make the changes. She's eighteen.”
“So what? You have a responsibility—”
“I can't have her committed for an eating disorder—not at this point. And even if her parents were in agreement that she needs treatment, it doesn't work unless she wants to help herself. I suspect you know this,” the doctor said, giving her a hard look.
“I've had similar struggles,” she admitted.
The woman touched her on the arm. “Then I don't need to tell you this is a battle no one can fight for you.” With that, the doctor left the room.
Amy wandered to the waiting room.
A man wearing a network badge approached her.
“Amelia?”
She sighed. “Yes?”
“There's a meeting in the conference room a few doors from here. I've been asked to bring you over.”
The producer was in the room, pouring a coffee into a Styrofoam cup. He put the cup down when she entered. “Amelia!” he greeted heartily. “We only have a few minutes until the skating people get here.” He pulled her into a corner and whispered, “Did you get an exclusive? Will she be agreeable to an interview with you?”
Amy frowned. “I'm sorry, what?”
“We weren't too thrilled when you dropped your mic, but t
hen you went toe to toe with your coach and we got some great footage. The blogosphere is all abuzz speculating on the real story, your history, her history with Coach Yarotska. Is Becky anorexic? Are you?” He couldn't mask the excitement in his voice.
Nausea rose up, the sour taste of bile in the back of her throat. This was some kind of ratings bonanza for them.
“We need to nail something down,” he continued. “The figure skating world is going to come down hard on us to bury the real issue here,” he rubbed his hands together, “but there's nothing they can do if we get an exclusive with her.”
The door opened and three members of the U.S. Figure Skating Commission entered the room.
They were all staring at Amy.
“She won't talk about it—about anything,” she told him loudly.
Relief was evident on the faces of everyone in the room except the two network people.
The producer's hand tightened on her arm. “What do you mean?” he said in an under voice. “I thought we'd have an exclusive.”
Amy wrenched away. “No.” She pulled her ID badge over her head and threw it on the table. “I'm done.”
She returned to the waiting room—the physician had said they would have to admit her to get her heart stabilized. Once her coach left, Amy would make one last ditch effort to talk to the girl.
Chapter Twenty-one
Where the fuck was she?
He ordered another drink at the bar. Practice had run late tonight, but eight of the guys on his team had browbeaten him into going to their usual hangout, Excel. He'd called twice and texted four times since late afternoon. Nothing. Thirty minutes ago he'd called the front desk of her hotel and told them there was a family emergency. The hotel sent a bellhop up to her room at 2:30 A.M. her time, but there was no answer to the knock. She wasn't there. She hadn't contacted him.
His gut twisted. Maybe she was out. Did he think he was the only one who did that?
Shane pocketed his phone and finished his drink in two swallows.
He looked down the bar to where his friends were flirting with a group of women.
