Chapter 9 #2
Alex, satisfied with my silent promise, gets her phone, tapping away before showing me her screen. It’s a photo of Alex and a Human man. They’re cheek to cheek, smiling so hard it makes my own face hurt. I squint, but that schnoz could be recognized from space.
“Is that—”
“Yup.” She locks her phone, stowing it back in her pocket like she’s already revealed too much.
Which I get. I’d be careful if I was dating Zina Ivanovich too.
He’s a top-tier Russian skater, not that he’s competed in the last decade.
But he’s one of the rare talents with a big enough fan base to headline skating tours across Europe and occasionally the US.
Alex and I grew up watching him skate, which prompts me to ask, “Isn’t he ancient?”
“He’s not even fourty.”
“So, nearing ancient.”
She leans back, crossing her arms. “Wow, ageist much?”
With her so far back in her chair, I have no choice but to lean across the table. “I’m… kinda messaging this guy in his thirties.”
“Slut.” She grins, reminding me of a shark who has just spotted a seal swimming awkwardly. She too leans in, both of us getting a good look at each other’s pores. “Closer to forty thirties or closer to twenty thirties?”
“Thirty-five. Right down the middle.”
“Do I know him?”
“Not unless you’ve been a fan of minor league hockey without telling me.”
I pull back first, considering reaching for my phone but all I have to show her would be Christos’ old Weretigers page. That or his dick pics. Neither of which really paint our relationship in the best light. Not that we’re in a relationship.
“A hockey player? It’s so cute I could vomit.”
“Don’t waste your energy. We’re not… anything.”
She tilts her head. “Is that your decision or his?”
“Ours. He’s the new hockey coach.”
Alex’s jaw drops. “Shut up.”
“We haven’t done anything outside of messages,” I clarify. “It’s not like you and Zi—”
“Shhhhh” she practically leaps across the table, reaching for my face to shut me up.
I dodge her palms. “I can’t even say his name? Wait—” I grab her wrists since she’s still trying to silence me. “Is he here?”
“We’re doing long distance. Kinda—he travels a lot, doing some North American tour in December so we’ll see each other. Wait if your guy is the hockey coach—”
“Not sure I’d call him my guy.”
“—You must see each other a bunch. Is your roommate still a hockey player?”
“Terrence? Yeah.”
“Does he know?”
I shake my head. “You are the only person who knows.”
“I find that hard to believe. I bet you make eyes at each other from across the ice.”
“It’s not like that…”
But now I’m not so sure. Terrence would bust my balls if he thought I had the hots for Coach Chris. Unless he thinks being an ally means keeping his comments to himself. Maybe he’s too locked into the hockey season to notice.
“I’m not convinced. I need to see this yearning in person.” Her shoulders sway. “And maybe I’d like to experience a college party.”
“Girl, you’re not missing much. Just gross jungle juice and frat BO.”
Her mouth drops. “You would deny me sweaty frat boys? So much for being my best friend.”
I think about my schedule for the next few weeks. There’s class, practice, the yoga classes I’ve been taking, dance studio and general gym time, homework—I do try to sleep for eight hours a night and eat three meals. “There’s a home hockey game next week.”
Alex perks up, the gills at her neck fluttering.
“It’s one of the only games I’m going to be able to make. You should come.”
She holds her hands like she’s praying, clapping the tips of her fingers.
“A warning. Our team sucks.”
She frowns. “Maybe that’s because you keep telling people they suck?”
“Oh please, it’s not like I’m—”
“Manifesting? You so are. Here.” She holds out her hands palm side up, and I place my hands down atop hers. “My team is going to win.”
I repeat back. “My team is going to win.”
“I’m going to Milan next year.”
I take a deep inhale, as if that will make this silly ritual more potent. “I’m going to Milan next year.”
“I’m going to rail the hot hockey coach.”
I slap her hands like this whole exercise has been a game on the playground. Alex hisses, shaking her hands out. “Two out of three… I would have picked the coach over the team, but oh well.”
“I should probably get back to Mims.” I get up from the table.
She stands but doesn’t get out from behind the table. “Send me pics!”
“Course.”
We give each other one last hug, Alex whispering in my ear, “Go for the gold.”
The bell at the front of Mim’s shop announces my return. “Come, come!” She calls to me from the back. I find her hunched over a sketchbook with Maude nearby, examining two torn out pages.
I peek over Maude’s shoulder. “Skirts?”
“It’s a flourish!” Mim argues.
One of the sketches is different shades of blue; the edges scalloped like waves.
Around the hips are faint pencil lines, indicating loose fabric.
At the top of the page there are some fabric samples, including a knitted white fabric that reminds me of fishing nets.
The other sketch is all white with little dots indicating rhinestones across the shoulders and down the length of the arms. It actually reminds me of Alex, her costumes always bare at the shoulder to highlight her scales.
The white outfit also has markings around the hips, but they’re black and stark.
The top of the page has a black tulle attached.
“Looks like your wish will be granted in the name of artistic merit.”
Mim makes a sound at the back of her throat. I wonder if they argued about the not-skirt while I was gone. “Do you think the judges—”
“I trust Mims.” Maude wraps an arm around my shoulder. “And I trust you. You wouldn’t be the first skater who chose memorability over scores at the Olympics, and you won’t be the last.”
I can hear it already. Roderick Steele the first man to wear a skirt at the Olympics. Better yet—Roderick Steele the first man to wear a skirt to the Olympics and win.