Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Terrence flips through his class syllabus as we walk to the dining hall for lunch. “So, with the Olympics happening, does that mean you won’t be able to edit my lab reports?”
I hang my head and sigh, putting a hand on Terrence’s shoulder in faux bereavement. “I fear so, friend.”
“You’ve read my work, have I gotten any better since freshman com?” he asks, hopeful.
I pat his shoulder. “A little!”
“Enough to pass Advanced Nutrition 302?”
“Sure. No one in your department cares about sentence structure anyway.”
Terrence’s face scrunches. “I dunno man.”
“You’ll be fine. You know you can get a tutor, right?”
Terrence has already lost interest in his doomed academic career, his bereavement glossed over in favor of the real prize. “Coach and Leroy are grabbing lunch together.”
Sure enough, the two men sit near the dining hall entrance. Leroy’s hands are flying faster than a hockey puck in overtime. Whatever he’s saying has Christos absorbed, his expression stony as he nods along.
“Leroy give you any sense of what kind of guy he is?”
“What do you mean?” Terrence’s brows furrow with confusion. “He’s a coach. They bust your balls and you say, ‘thank you Coach, can I have some more?’”
I know this is just Terrence being Terrence, but the imagery he’s conjuring contradicts what I do know about Christos. “Yeah, but some coaches are better than others. What did you like about the last coach?”
“Old Man Finke? He reminded me of my grandpa. Which is also why he sucked as a coach, real old school. We’d run plays from the 90s and he’d straight up call me an enforcer. And look, I love throwing elbows as much as the next guy, but it didn’t exactly win us any matches.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to remember he got suspended last year for unnecessary roughness. It sounds like he was doing exactly what he was told to do.
Right as I scan my card, Leroy shouts, “Rod!”
He waves me over to his table. I could ignore him, but Terrence waves back.
“Guess you can find out for yourself what kind of guy Coach is.” He slaps my back, pushing me in Leory’s direction. Each step I can feel myself shrinking. When Christos looks back to see who Leory is calling to, he too gets smaller– minus his eyes. They pop right out, full of confusion and fear.
“Coach Chris, this is Rod—er, Roderick.”
“Nice to meet you, Chris,” I squeak out in a panic.
Christos nods in my direction with a grunt.
Leroy continues, “He’s a figure skating legend.”
I correct him, “Hoping to be.”
Christo’s eyes are still twice the size they should be, but he’s less timid now. “Really?”
“You’ve got a match this month, right? Terrence and I talked last night,” Leroy explains.
“Qualifiers are in Boston on the 28th. Grand Prix is in December in Japan, but I haven't gotten enough points to qualify for that yet, so I’ve got to compete in a few other places between now and then.”
I’ve been doing this long enough that the sparkle of international travel has waned. I’m kind of looking forward to Boston, since the trip won’t completely wreck my sleep schedule.
“I figured you could work something out with Coach so you can practice. Our schedule is different this year, way more intense.”
My lip twitches into a smile. “Really whipping the Dingbats into shape?” I avoid Christos, keeping my eyes on Leroy, whose face is serious.
“We’re aiming to be one of the Frozen Four teams.”
“Didn’t you end the season 4-29 last year?” Better than freshman year, sure, but not by much.
“New coach, new possibilities, right?” Leroy grins, showing little fangs that are reminiscent of the horns on his head.
“If the rest of the team is as committed as you are, we’ll smoke ‘em.” Christos’ voice is confident, verging on cocky. “We’ll have to do a lot of training off the ice. So, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to practice, Roderick.”
I make the mistake of looking Christos right in his big handsome face. His arms are crossed, and even in a hoodie, I can make out the muscles in his biceps and forearms.
“Th-thanks, Coach.”
“Let me get your number,” he shifts his body to grab his phone out of his pocket. “Our practice might change depending on how well the team does. Makes it easier to keep you in the loop.” He pauses, his phone a grim reminder of how we actually met. “Unless, email is better?”
Everyone has an official school email, and I check it, but somehow three years later, I still get important emails being sent to spam.
I’ve got some professor’s numbers on my phone already.
There’s nothing special about Christos’ number.
Even as I tell myself this, it feels like an excuse, but I push past, diving right into disaster.
“Cell works.” I grab my phone and we exchange numbers. I catch myself putting him down as Christos in my phone and change it to Coach Chris before saving. “I appreciate it.”
“Anything you need, let me know.”
I glance back at Leroy, afraid he notices… whatever that was. Assuming it’s anything beyond Christos being a supportive coach. Sure, I’m not on the team, but we’re all athletes here. There’s solidarity there, and as awkward as this is, I’m grateful the hockey team has my back.
“Thanks, Leroy.”
“Course man, hey.” He lifts his drink like it’s champagne. “We’re all going to crush it this season. And the next. You allowed a plus one to the Olympic Ceremony?”
“Terrence asked me the same thing. Maybe you can sit in his lap.”
Leroy chuckles. “Good team bonding.”
Without acknowledging Christos, I take my leave. I grab the first high protein thing I can find and link back up with Terrence in our normal spot. His huge portion makes mine look even more depressing in comparison.
Terrence has the good courtesy to swallow his food before asking. “What Leroy want?”
“To be my plus one for the Olympics.”
He snorts. “Figures.”
“And he wanted me to meet Coach. Said we could work out a schedule so I can get practice in. Gave me his number.”
Terrence nods. “All of us on the team got his cell. Said if we ever needed anything to give him a call.”
I wonder how he saves the team’s names in his phone. Jersey number? Lots of guys have nicknames, to the point I’m not actually sure everyone’s legal name. What name am I under? Roderick, Rod, Future Olympian, that guy who figure skates?
Over my shoulder, I spot Leroy and Christos wrapping up their meal, walking shoulder to shoulder to the dish pit.
He’s a good judge of character. Freshman year he clocked the guy I was hooking up with wasn’t serious about me, or any of the other guys he was fucking.
He’d hop from campus to campus to string guys along.
He also never had good things to say about Terrence’s freshman girlfriend.
To be honest I thought it was jealousy at first, this girl getting in the way of his bromance, but he was right. I don’t like calling women bitches out of principle, but if there was ever an exception…
I guess I can trust Christos. The same way he trusts me to keep what almost happened between us a secret.
This awkwardness between us shouldn’t define our relationship going forward.
I like the guy. In a completely bro way.
A professional relationship. We’re both adults; we’re fully capable of that.
Hey Chris, What days and times you’ll be using the rink this week.
Practice is from 4 to 6 every day except Friday. We’ll be doing drills Monday and Tuesday but rest of the week is strength training if you want the rink.
Nice, that’s perfect.
Not sure when you like to train but mornings are free
All my classes are in the morning since my coaching sessions are in the afternoon.
Weekends I got to my home rink.
Smart. Well let me know if you need anything.
Likewise.
I deserve a reward for not falling asleep in yoga.
The stretches felt good, but the spa music and instructors breathy voice made it a whole new kind of endurance test. The beginner class was also way too easy.
There were people squirming the moment they had to stand on one foot. Now I’m feeling a real challenge.
The sky is a soft shade of pink when I walk up to the rink. One short tug at the door tells me it’s locked, as expected, but worth a shot anyway. If I rush, I might be able to catch the last hour of open skating at the ice arena. That or I could grind it out in the gym.
I turn to leave and bump right into a firm chest. Christos looks down at me, bewildered.
“Sorry.”
“I bumped into you.”
He grins. “But I saw you first. Trying to get some practice in?”
I roll my shoulder carrying my skating bag. “Yeah.”
“Let me.” He slips past me and unlocks the rink, holding the door open for me.
I hesitate. “You really don’t have to.”
“I’ve got some paperwork. Lot easier to manage in my office. Come on.” His head bucks in the direction of the rink. Something tells me he can be stubborn. It would be a fight anyway, so I relent and step inside. “I can look into getting you a key.”
“Aren’t those reserved for faculty and facilities?”
“You’re a pretty special case.” We veer in different directions, Christos heading towards the stairs while I continue on to the rink. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I shout over my shoulder, “Thanks?” Because I’m not sure how else to respond. It’s best not to overthink it—it’s not often I get the rink all to myself.
“Text me when you leave,” he calls down from halfway down the stairs.
It’s nice walking into the cool rink to the sound of fans blowing instead of guys being blowhards.
I’m already warmed up from the yoga class, so I grab my wireless speaker and queue up my new free program track.
It’s a medley of all the songs off my favorite album, the groovy psychedelic rock lending itself well to cantilevers and spins.
I prop my phone up with my water bottle, start recording, and press play on the track.
The bass riffs and bounces off the metal siding and empty seats. I become hyperaware of my body, from my stance to the position of my fingers. I never practice jumps without a spotter. This practice is about artistry. Feeling the music—reminding myself why I picked this track.
The music dips and I let myself shrink with it, careful to not let my muscles get too tight, to find relaxation in this tense moment.
The drumline hits, and I take a deep breath, my arms outstretched like wings.
When I was first learning to skate, I always kept my arms out.
Dad told me not to be nervous—that falling was part of learning.
Except I wasn’t preparing to catch myself.
Gliding across the ice has always felt like flying, wings and all.
Of course, I have fallen. Maybe the greatest gift figure skating has ever given me is a bruise up the entire right side of my body.
As scary as it was, there was something mesmerizing about the way my body healed, the fact that I could take such a hard hit and continue.
The ache and burn of that full-body bruise felt a lot like my lungs do right now as I push through an intense step-sequence.
My lungs are on fire every time I run through a program, but I’ve learned to love it. The same way I love the blisters that come with breaking in a new pair of skates, love the tense conversations with Maude, love the ice politics, love watching sixteen-year-olds encroaching on my winning score.
You have to love the spiteful nature of your sport.
Figure skating is all I’ve ever known—but I’ve seen how other sports rip and tear at athletes.
Terrence showed up to finals with a black eye, my sister’s toes are constantly bandaged from ballet, and I grew up staring at the scar on my dad’s knee, leftover from surgery after an injury killed his speed skating career.
There’s always talk about how to make sports safer, like the right pads and regulations will suddenly make body-slamming prudent.
If you ask me, all sports are blood sports.
The specific discipline doesn’t matter; athletes are all self-flagellating devotees.
What I don’t think people understand is that the reward isn’t always gold medals or championship titles.
Like any good faith, the biggest obstacle to salvation is yourself.
I strike my final pose right as the track ends. There’s no roar of a crowd to drown out my heaving breath. High above the rink, the tip of Christos’ horns catches my attention as he sits hunched over his desk.
The high bottoms out into disappointment.
Finished up.
That was good music
Sorry was it too loud?
Not at all. Curious about the band.
Tame Impala. It’s just one guy.
I’ll be honest I imagined skating music was more classical
It can be. I’m cooking up something new.
It looked good.
Sorry, is your skating top secret?
Depends, are you a Russian asset?
Da
But I’ll keep this under wraps for you.