Chapter 15
RAFE
“Longer strides, wider strides. That’s your advice?” Gus’s deadpan stare was on point. He propped a hand on the boards and tsked.
“Yes. Gliding start drills help too.”
“You know I’m humoring you, right? Hockey players are faster than figure skaters, and that’s a fucking fact. Our blades are designed for acceleration and quick turns.”
My concentration drifted as a young girl in pristine white skates leaped forward and crouched into an elementary sit spin while her coach or mom cheered from the bleachers.
“Huh? Oh. I’m well aware of that, which is why I’m wearing my hockey skates.” I lifted my left foot, gliding ahead of Gus.
“I noticed. Since when do you have hockey skates?”
“Uh…what?” I replayed his question in my head and replied, “Since always.”
“Keep talking.” He circled his wrist meaningfully, a sardonic expression on his handsome face.
You know, Gus really was a good-looking man. Sharp angles and laughing eyes, and so much rugged, uber masculine hotness.
I cleared my throat and shrugged. “We were at a local rink when I was little—maybe four or five years old. Figure skaters and hockey players were sharing the ice and there was this girl in the center of everything, spinning like a top. I was fascinated. I wanted to do that. So I told my dad, and he bought me hockey skates and signed me up for lessons.”
“He didn’t want you to be a figure skater.” It was a statement.
“No, but in Dad’s defense, he was sort of preprogrammed to assume hockey was for boys and figure skating was for girls.
I went along with it and played on a little tyke team for a season.
I did okay, but it didn’t magically change my mind.
I really, really wanted to learn how to spin and jump and…
dance on the ice. The Olympics sold my case.
We watched an American couple win the first US gold medal in ice dance and Yuzuru Hanyu set a new world record in the men’s short program, and we were all blown away. At least I was.”
“Let me guess. You promised to win a gold, and you got a pair of figure skates on your next birthday.”
I pointed my forefinger at his chest. “Bingo.”
“Still doesn’t explain the hockey skates,” he singsonged.
I picked up speed, my mind drifting into dangerous, nowhere zones of idle promises. It took a moment to realize Gus was waiting for a response.
“Um…yeah. I used to sub on Dad’s hockey team if one of their regulars was out.
It became a father-son bonding thing for us while I was in high school.
Good timing ’cause I was newly out, and it was a good connection for us.
And Dad loved it because those old geezers liked to think a figure skater wasn’t a threat, and proving them wrong was entertaining. ”
Gus snickered. “That’s cool. Sounds like you’re close to your dad.”
“I’m close to my mom too. Sadly, they don’t like each other. Not that there’s any active hostility, but since their divorce, my concept of family isn’t tidy and idyllic anymore.”
“No one’s family is idyllic. That’s just Hallmark BS.
My folks are together and they like each other fine, but they aren’t exactly couple goals.
Everything is a competition in my family.
Success is what it’s all about—an elite education, a kickass job, a well-connected partner, two point three kids, and a big ol’ house in the suburbs.
It’s easy to say it’s all my mom, but my dad is just as bad.
He’s super ambitious. Wants to be noticed, admired, and it’s… exhausting.”
“Do you get along with your father?”
“Sure. In a ‘Hey, long time no see, kiddo. I’m heading to the golf course, but let’s catch up’ kind of way. Or he wants to talk about his glory days playing college hockey, and he loves to compare our stats. It’s like he can’t help himself. My dad’s default is competition and…”
Competition, competition, competition. Ugh.
Shit. Gus was looking at me funny.
“Did I miss something?”
Gus bolted in front of me and skated backward. “Yo, what’s with you tonight? You’re distracted, and your eyes are glazed over. We don’t have to be here, you know. We could be at the house, knockin’ boots and—”
“No talking,” I intercepted with what I hoped came across as a fierce glare. I doubted it, though. “I’m fine.”
He stopped on a dime, his arms spread wide. “Okay, then teach me something, wise one. What d’ya got?”
I opened my mouth to impart a pearl of wisdom and blurted, “I have the yips.”
Gus recoiled in shock and horror. Well…not quite that dramatic, but he definitely registered the severity of my confession.
“What makes you think so?”
I blew a stream of air through my puffed-up cheeks. “The fact that I can’t get more than a few inches off the ice is a major indicator of the early stages of disaster and utter failure. Now, are you ready to follow my advice on how to end your career with a bang?”
He frowned. “Usually I like that smartass mouth, but not when you put yourself down. Start from the top, and tell me what’s going on.”
So I did.
We skated side by side at a leisurely pace as if we were old friends who’d met by chance at the local park.
I doubted that the custodian hosing the mats in the visitors’ section gave us a second look.
Neither did the dad shooting pucks with his two kids at one end of the rink or the couple stealing smooches in between bursts of showing off their dubious skills.
Free skating hours were few and far between at this time of year, and though I would have preferred to have the rink to ourselves, it was nice to see that others were taking advantage of the small window of opportunity…
at nine o’clock p.m. on a weekday, no less.
“I know what I’m doing wrong,” I said. “I can feel my muscles tighten as I’m telling myself to relax. Mentally, I know how to correct the problem, but my body isn’t listening to my brain and if I don’t snap out of this funk, like tomorrow, I might be screwed.”
“Are you worried that you won’t qualify for the college thing in July?”
“Very worried.” I flipped to skate backward. “That event is my best shot at getting my career on track postcollege. I’d be able to get into any reputable club with a quality coaching staff and if the stars aligned, I could maybe, possibly…”
“Go to the Olympics,” Gus supplied.
I pulled a face. “That’s the ultimate dream, but World Championship or ISU Championship would be unbelievable too. I don’t know what I’m thinking anymore, because what I really need is a job that pays the bills, and—”
“Watch where you’re going.” He yanked my arm, guiding me out of the way of the spinning girl gliding by us with one leg in the air.
I got out of her way and ended up sidling closer to Gus. I elbowed him in the stomach playfully and he overreacted, bending at the waist till I snorted at his antics.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe, but I know how to fix your problem.”
I came to an abrupt stop. “You do? How?”
“Easy. Let’s get out here.” Gus jetted to the exit, leaving me staring after him in confusion.
“What? Wh-Where are you going? We’re in the middle of a conversation, and I haven’t had a chance to give you advice.” I stepped onto the rubber mat, furrowing my brow as Gus untied his skates.
“Let’s get real, Rafey. I’ve got one to five games, tops, left in my college career.
Would it be sweet to go out a legend? Fuck, yes.
But Smithton is the end of my hockey journey as a player…
unless I join a club team for fun. That’s life.
And I think I’m finally over being bummed about it.
Or I’m getting there.” He toed off his skates and straightened.
“You probably have some sweet words of wisdom and I’m all for it, but I can help and you need results quick, so get your fuckin’ skates off and follow me. ”
I had no clue what Gus was up to, but I didn’t argue.
Fifteen minutes later I found myself on the shore of Lake Ontario, skipping stones.
As one does.
Well, not me, but Gus insisted that conditions were perfect. The water was placid, the wind was minimal, and there was a nice supply of flat rocks on shore.
I flicked a pebble and watched it plop into the water. “What are we doing? And how is this supposed to help?”
“We’re skipping stones. It’s called having fun, and having fun is the cure.”
I should have known.
“Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting that throwing rocks into the lake will solve my very serious dilemma,” I drawled sarcastically.
“Yeah. But listen, we gotta loosen you up. Roll your shoulders. Good…now the other way.” Gus nodded in encouragement. “Bend your knees. A little more. Okay, cool. None of that’s gonna help you, ’cause the secret is all in the wrist.”
“And what am I supposed to do with my wrist?”
“Pretend you’re flinging a Frisbee. Thumb on top, forefinger on the edges, and a quick flick action. Like this.” Gus grabbed a handful of small stones, sifted through them and held one up. “Watch the master at work.”
He crouched slightly, angling his body before tossing the stone. It skidded onto the calm surface—one, two, three, four, five, six. Gus whooped, raising his arms in victory.
I shook my head in mock censure. “This is…ridiculous.”
“Absolutely fucking ridiculous,” he agreed. “Your turn. Remember, don’t throw it. Skip it.”
One, two, three.
“I did it!”
Gus held a hand up for a high five. “Well done. Let’s see if either of us can beat my record.”
“What’s your record?”
“Fifteen. That’s chump change to some people, but I’ve never been able to match it,” he lamented, offering me a handful of stones. “Here. These are for you.”
I narrowed my eyes, studying my…friend. Yes, Gus was my friend. My very peculiar friend. Just when I thought I had him figured out, he threw a curveball at me.
But this was a relatively harmless curveball, so I tried again. And again.
In a twist, I was surprisingly good at skipping stones.