Chapter 3 Stefan #2
"Yeah, his coach dumped him over it and everything."
“Fuck.” That's extreme. What kind of coach dumps their skater for not making it to the Olympics? Especially given Evan's quality of skating. The rest of us are doing our best to emulate him and his coach dumped him? It doesn't make any sense. “But why? He’s amazing.”
“I don't know. There was a whole scandal around it, but I don't remember the details.”
“Weird.” I can't imagine. He had to be heartbroken with that kind of double hit. It's a wonder he didn’t quit. “Do you think it had something to do with the loop?”
"Maybe." Jan looks back down to his phone, where Evan is finishing up his long program. His smile is more brittle than it was after his short, but still blinding. "I could go back and find a video if you want. I know they’re out there."
"That's ok." I can look it up later if I want to. Or ask.
Jan sets down his phone. “Well, how are you guys feeling about the competition?” His voice is almost lost in the ruckus of yet another group of skaters arriving, filling the room to what has to be over capacity.
“Ask me again tomorrow,” Chris, the third member of our little group of men’s skaters, groans, sitting back in his chair. “It's a good thing we've got you, Stefan.”
“How do you mean?” I know, but I’m so tired of everyone putting pressure on me.
“Well, you know, so we can get three spots at the Olympics. Jan and I aren't going to podium, but with you, we should be fine.”
There it is, as I expected. “I mean, I appreciate the confidence, but—we all know it doesn't always happen,” I respond, through gritted teeth.
“It will this time.” Chris's smile is sweet, as if he thinks he's being helpful. “I saw what you did at Nationals. And the Circuit Championships.”
"Yeah, but you also saw what happens when I'm under too much pressure." He wasn’t at the last Olympics, but nobody who follows skating missed it.
It's the elephant in the room, and I've addressed it. Maybe it will make him back off.
Being the nation’s darling is exhausting.
"Anyway, who says I'm not going to podium?" Jan adds, voice sharp
Chris winces, and Jan takes a deep breath, then gives him a forced grin. Maybe he feels bad. The kid is awfully young. Sixteen? Fifteen? Still figuring out social skills, probably. Growing up at the rink isn't the best way to learn them.
Jan turns to me. “This is just Worlds, Stefan. You've always done great at Worlds.” Jan's hand is on my shoulder now, but I'm pretty sure he's supporting Chris more than me. Since when is he the peacemaker? “Anyway, you'll be prepared next year.”
“I was prepared three years ago.” Another conversation I’m so, so tired of.
Every interview I've done for the past three years has centered on that four minutes.
What will I do differently next time? Why did I crumble?
How did it feel to fall apart on the biggest stage in the world?
What was I thinking when I went into the quad axel?
Why did I even attempt it? It doesn't matter how many times I answer the questions.
They're still thrown at me. Every. Single. Time.
And now my irritation's starting to build up, which isn't a good sign. Last night was bad enough.
Me, irritated, especially when it comes to thinking about the last Olympics, means me about to go off. And that's something I can't do. Not again. And definitely not at Worlds. Is this entire week going to be a series of attempts to control myself? Fun.
“Hey, I'll catch you guys later.” I get up as abruptly as Evan and leave the table before they have a chance to respond. It's for the best. They're nice guys and generally they're great company, but not today. Probably not until after I finish this year's free skate.
Because I'm planning to do the impossible in that program and I can't think too much about it. Can't let myself get too far into my head. As everyone keeps reminding me, I have to podium this year. Failing is not an option. Suspension is really not an option.
I make it to the arena before Evan's training session has started, but the first group of skaters are flowing onto the ice as I finish my pre-stretch warmup. Perfect.
I set my mat up in front of the TV, keeping an eye on my roommate. Evan's in the middle of the group, wearing the t-shirt and athletic pants he went to breakfast in, with the addition of a pair of gloves.
Even before he starts doing anything complex, the something about the way he moves is incredible.
I saw it in the videos. But knowing he's only a couple rooms away from me makes it all the more fascinating.
He goes straight from an extended Ina Bauer into a jump, and my breath catches.
It's a transition. It's nothing exciting.
Nothing special, nothing difficult, other than its placement. Yet it's pure artistry.
For as long as he's been on the circuit, he's been incredible. Even in Juniors, I admired him. If I'd seen him in movement last night, I'd have identified him immediately. But somewhere along the line, he's gone from incredible to breathtaking. His new coach, maybe, whoever that is.
Evan skates around the rink a few more times, then begins his short program step sequence.
It's amazing. He's done some work on it since Nationals, made it better, added, somehow, more impressive edges.
It's more complete, astonishingly perfect.
He dances across the rink like he's gliding through air. His every edge is a work of art.
Fuck—I want to be him when I grow up.
I don't realize I've said it out loud until I hear a laugh behind me.
“Don't we all, man.” It's in smooth, cheerful French, and when I look over my shoulder, my friend Jacques is standing a few feet away.
Jacques and I have been competing against each other and doing training camps together since we were seven.
If I were to call anyone my best friend, it's him.
“But the great Stefan Petryk, wanting to be somebody else? I don't believe it.”
“Come on, you know my artistry's for shit.” Since he's speaking French, I do the same.
He gives me his trademark grin, even more sparkling than Evan's. The one that made him famous and breaks hearts daily. “It is not. You've gotten so much better.”
“I appreciate the confidence, but... Not compared to him. Look at that.” Evan's jumped into a camel spin, not even an overly difficult entry. And he still makes a spin every single one of us does look like he's in an entirely different realm. How does he do it?
“I hate him a little.” Jacques' bald pronouncement makes me laugh. As another skater known for his artistry, I'm sure it's uncomfortable watching Evan wipe the floor with him. And at a seven a.m. practice session, no less.
“How do you think he does it?” I ask. Maybe someone who focuses primarily on artistry can answer the question.
Jacques doesn't even crack a smile, his voice very matter-of-fact. “He has a fairy godmother. Obviously. Nobody can move like that without magic.”
“Yeah, probably.” I'm not sure either of us is joking.