Chapter 8 #2
I have seen them together. Skating together, laughing and joking, hugging at the end of a successful routine.
“Why wouldn’t he? You’re gorgeous, smart, and talented, and he trusts you not to impale your blade into his femoral artery every time you do a lift.
I think that if he doesn’t like you then he has a lot of explaining to do. ”
It’s the truth, even if my stupid jealousy is raging over it.
Why wouldn’t Freddie like Riley? She’s perfect for him and it isn’t like I have any claim to him.
Not anymore. Not that I ever really did.
And who knows if what I feel for him is even real anymore?
I’ve barely spoken a word to him since he’s been here.
Maybe I love the idea of childhood sweethearts falling in love?
Clearly, I’m the only one hanging on to it, though.
Freddie definitely isn’t. I swore to myself I was going to get over him. It’s time to live up to it.
“You’re right,” Riley says. “Who needs the guy to make the first move, right?”
“Right,” I agree as we balance the coffee cups on two large trays and carry them out for the group.
Riley goes for the crew, so I turn to our group, passing the mugs around along with sugar, milk, and creamer, but one of the cables from the cameras gets caught around my ankle, and for a split second I’m falling and taking a tray of scalding hot coffee with me.
And then I’m not and the tray is steadied. A strong hand is at my elbow and an arm almost completely wrapped around my waist, its hand holding me in place.
I know who caught me without having to look, but I do anyway. Our eyes meet and hold, Freddie’s touch somehow both familiar and foreign. How is that possible?
Then his hand flexes impatiently against me.
The contact sends sparks flaring out over my entire body, a pleasant prickling over my skin, while I gently dislodge my foot from the thick tangle of wires.
But it’s like those sparks burn his fingers and he pulls away immediately, like he can’t physically stand to be touching me.
And that takes the breath out of me, like I landed chest-first on the ice.
I barely mumble a thank-you before he’s turning back to where Riley is offering him a mug.
Glancing around at the cameras, I wonder which one caught my stumble. Probably more than one. Who knows, maybe by next week it’ll be a love parallelogram. You know, just to keep those ratings up.
“Nice catch,” Jimmy says, holding out his fist for a bump to Freddie.
I step away carefully and place the tray down on the coffee table at the center of the sectional, find my seat, and wait for the competition to begin.
Brayden offers me the last mug of coffee on the tray.
I take it, the cup warming my hands, before turning to the TV so my face doesn’t give away that I am so not over Freddie O’Connell and I’m not sure how I ever will be.
The broadcast rescues me. “And here’s Elisa Russo.
She’s looked solid in practice all week, but none of that matters until you get out on the ice,” the commentator says as Elisa skates across the ice and her routine begins, almost as familiar to me as my own.
She’s so graceful, every fingertip, every tilt of her head perfectly placed.
Every old video I’ve ever seen of Mom looks just like this. Flawless.
Putting my mug down on the coffee table, I clench my fingers together, not exactly praying, but you know, not exactly not praying.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bright light of a camera focused on me, and even I have to admit that’s a pretty good shot.
Little sister praying for a good result for big sister, nearly seven thousand miles between them. Yeah, the story writes itself.
I pull in a deep breath as she goes for her first jump, close my eyes, and wait. The only sound is the music from Elisa’s program and the quiet buzz as the cameras zoom in, probably on my face.
“Oh! Oh no. A major tumble from Elisa Russo on a triple loop that’s supposed to simply get her into the routine.”
“That’s such a shame.”
When I open my eyes again, Elisa is still skating, but there’s a long wet mark down her leg, visible against her tights, evidence of her fall. I breathe out and drop my head, shoulders pushing up near my ears. Brayden’s hand lands, warm and attempting comfort, on my shoulder, but it doesn’t help.
Shit.
“And unfortunately, that’s a complete disaster for the United States. They were relying on a hit routine from Russo to stay in medal contention.”
The announcers aren’t wrong; that fall is a big deal. The US team was fighting for bronze before Elisa went out there, but there’s no way they’re going to medal now.
The room stays silent. There’s nothing for anyone to say.
I look up and try to keep my face as neutral as I can for the cameras as Elisa skates through the rest of her routine, getting through it without another fall, but the damage is done.
And when the scores come up, they confirm what I already knew.
“Don’t forget, tonight we’ll be airing another episode of KELLYNCH: The First Family of Figure Skating, where you can watch Elisa’s journey to these Olympic Games,” the announcer says as they wrap up the coverage for the night.
“Well,” Maria says, sitting back. “At least they’re not in last.”
No, they’re in fifth, so it might as well be last. There’s one routine left in the team competition, ice dance, and after Elisa’s performance there’s no mathematical way for the US team to make up the points they’ll need for a bronze, let alone a gold.
But I can’t say that out loud, not with the boom mics over my head picking up every word.
Forget Russo and Elliot, the next trend would be about how I predicted an off-the-podium finish.
They won’t even make the podium.
This is the program we’re inheriting. A shadow of its former self, when Team USA contended for medals in all disciplines, regardless of the year.
Four years from now we’ll be the ones skating in front of thousands in the crowd and millions at home.
Will we falter under that spotlight the way Elisa did or will we rise to the occasion?
“That’s not going to be us,” Freddie says from across the room, and I look up, straight at him, and his eyes meet mine. There’s a fire there, one I used to see reflected back at me when we skated together; whenever he looked at me like that, I knew we were going to kill it on the ice.
I blink and the contact is gone. He’s looking around the room, clocking the cameras, but shaking his head and ignoring them. “We’re a stronger team than that and we have four years to make sure what’s happening to them doesn’t happen to us.”
“Amen,” Charlie says from his spot next to Ben.
He’s right. He’s so right and this matters so much more than anything else. It matters more than sponsorships and social media ad money. It matters more than whether Freddie likes Riley back or whatever the hell is going on with me and Brayden or if I’ll ever be over my feelings for Freddie.
It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted, and I’m going to get it.
Four years sounds like a long time, and it is, but in a figure skating career it’s not.
Every ounce of experience we can squeeze out of the lead-up to the Games is important.
And in order to do that, I’m going to need time.
Time that can’t be spent worrying about how our bills are going to get paid.
Once the crew packs up their equipment, promising to be back for Elisa’s short program in two days, I turn to Brayden. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
We leave the rest of our team chatting about what we saw play out on TV. I slide out the front door with him just a step behind. We haven’t exactly been subtle. The conversations have fallen almost silent and most of the eyes are on us, but they disappear from view as he shuts the door behind us.
“I’ve thought about what you said and you’re right. I can’t pass up these opportunities. There’s no reason we can’t let people believe whatever they want to believe about us and if companies want to pay us because of it, well, who the hell am I to say no?”
Brayden hesitates for a second and looks down at me with his brow furrowed. “Are you sure? I know it feels…”
“Shady?” I fill in for him and he laughs.
“Yeah, a little shady, but I know how much you worry about your family’s finances, and if this can help, even a little…”
“It will,” I say, thinking about that money already in our account and how much more will show up when he and I take some stupid picture later and post it for the world to see. “More than a little.”
Looking up into his eyes, I bite my lip, wondering how much of my integrity I’m sacrificing for my dream.
“Hey,” he says, reading the concern in my expression.
He reaches up and cups my face in his hands.
“We’ll make sure it’s worth it, okay? We’re going to kick ass in Paris and then in four years, we’ll do it again in Milan.
And in between, we’ll win Nationals and Grand Prix and Skate America and Skate Canada and Worlds a few times too. You and me, Russo. All the way, okay?”
I wrap my arms over his shoulders, holding him in a tight hug.
His arms easily fall into place around me and squeeze.
There’s warmth in this embrace and a flair of heat I know could turn into an inferno if I let it, but I don’t have time for that either.
Instead, I pull him closer and agree. “All the way.”