Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
All of Skate Canada’s competitors circle each other, each waiting our turns to run through our free program before the real competition.
Three of the skaters have already finished, but I still have the first song stuck in my head.
Rémy de Villeneuve takes center stage, skating to a bouncy pop track in French.
Yet all I can hear is the staccato operatic track for the youngest skater here, Yessen Diyas.
Everyone seems to avoid the kid, or maybe they’re keeping their distance so they can keep an eye on him. He placed first in the last two Junior Grand Prix. Last month, he got silver at the China Cup.
I feel for him. There are benefits to youth, but it comes with less experience. Not that Rémy is much older, eighteen versus Yessen’s seventeen. Come to think of it, am I the oldest person here?
I take a water break, eyeing up the competition and trying to remember everyone’s ages.
It’s a lot of teenagers, another twenty-year-old in addition to myself, and thank god for JJ Chan, who is a few years older than me.
He’s looking good. Granted, we’re skating on his home turf, so it’s not like he’s jet-lagged.
What even is the time change between Kazakhstan and Saskatchewan?
I lean over the railing to grab my phone off the bench to check, when I see a poundr notification.
3dge-m3: Come by on Wednesday
Checking to make sure Maude isn’t around, I open up the app.
TwinkleTop: I’m free Wednesday?
3dge-m3: Looks like it. After seven.
TwinkleTop: Well then it’s a date.
I open up my excel calendar and, sure enough, I do have Wednesday free. Maybe I decided I’d deserve a break after Skate Canada. I click the block and type C before remembering Maude gets an alert anytime I update the schedule.
TwinkleTop: Wow I almost added you to the schedule
3dge-m3: I bet. You schedule your baths?
TwinkleTop: Ebson salt baths.
3dge-m3: For a half hour?
TwinkleTop: I’m sensing judgement.
3dge-m3: You know I have a bathtub
3dge-m3: You could bathe here
TwinkleTop: Sounds like a ploy to see me naked.
A squeaky voice mumbles, “Excuse me?”
I shove my phone in the side pocket of my leggings, forcing a smile before I know who is talking to me.
Sure enough, Yessen is standing before me, his cheeks red from the cold of the rink and some precocious acne.
He has a headband pushing back his jet-black hair.
He’s wringing his hands like he’s about to skate a routine he’s only ever done once before.
My smile makes me sound overly cheerful.
“Hi.” It hits me then we’ve never actually spoken. I’ve been out of Junior competitions for so long. The extent of our relationship is liking each other’s social posts. “I’m Rod—”
“I know.” His eyes go big but he swallows back whatever emotion has torn through him. “Sorry, I am a big fan.”
My elbow settles on the wall in an attempt to make this awkward exchange more casual. “Thank you. Hey, what is that track you’re skating to? I have it stuck in my head.”
Yessen blinks and I worry I’m speaking a bit too casually, maybe some of it’s not translating. His English is way better than my Kazakh. “It’s a DJ I really like. He remixes opera and orchestra. I can show.” He holds out his hand.
I’m about to hand him my phone but stop short.
“Sorry, one second.” I close all the apps and turn on Do Not Disturb just in case Christos messages me back.
While Yessen types the artist into my phone, I start to feel silly.
Like this seventeen-year-old knows what poundr is, never mind who Christos is.
“Thanks,” I say as Yessen hands me back my phone. “I’ll check him out. It’s nice to see kids are still having fun with their program music.”
“Kid?” He lifts a brow. “I’m eighteen.”
“Didn’t you just move up from juniors?” Sure, you can be nineteen and in juniors, but most guys switch over around seventeen.
“Yes, and my birthday was last week.”
It dawns on me. “So, you’re eligible for the Olympic games.”
His shoulders roll back before he nods, a new found confidence in his stance.
A deserved confidence, what with his recent performance.
He only lost to Yuri Aoba, who has been winning golds since I moved up to the senior division.
I’m at a loss of what to say; good luck, stay focused, don’t worry, I’ll be there too and I am not losing to some kid who still has acne.
Thankfully, someone calls his name from across the rink. We give each other a nod before he skates off. I turn notifications back on and sure enough, Christos has responded.
TwinkleTop: Sounds like a ploy to see me naked
3dge-m3: Guilty.
3dge-m3: Good luck in France. I’ll try to tune in.
I bite my lip, wondering what he gets out of watching me compete. Is the fact that I dominate in the bedroom and on the ice the ultimate form of foreplay? Maybe I shouldn’t care. Our desires are the same: me on top podium over the rest of the competitors.
The music changes and I hear the starting notes of my track. As a reflex I announce, “Shit—” before setting my phone aside and skating out to the rink’s center. My rookie moves don’t stop there.
I pop my first jump. Instead of transitioning into a step sequence I take a lap, closing my eyes to feel the music and forget about everything outside of this patch of ice. Including Christos. Especially Christos.
“I’m going to go to the library to study,” I tell Terrence as I shove a textbook into my backpack.
He’s sitting on his bed and pulls one headphone out of his ear. “What?”
“I’m going to go study. Might be home late.”
“Why can’t you study here?” he says, genuinely confused. “I was just gonna hang and watch game highlights.”
I shrug, doing my best to keep a neutral expression.
“Now you can watch game highlights and jerk off. You’re welcome.”
I make a swift escape, kicking myself for saying anything. I pedal hard on my bike, flying past the library and zipping into town. The crisp October air is already gone, replaced with icy blusters that make my teeth chatter.
Outside cold is much worse than inside cold—that is, the artificial cold of the ice rink can’t really compare to Mother Nature’s cold. It’s always the wind that makes winter so unbearable.
The sun has set by the time I get to Christos’ place, another warning that fall days are over and winter is taking its place. I drag my bike up onto his porch, cupping my frigid fingers to my mouth before ringing the doorbell.
Christos answers with a smile, then concern. “Your cheeks are red.”
I push past him. A bit rude, but I’m sick of the chill.
“You want me to make you something to drink? I’ve got some herbal tea. It’s for colds but it’s warm.”
I shake out my hands. “Sure.”
He goes to the kitchen, and I follow, oil wafting under my nose. There’s a skillet on the stove and something in the oven. “You made me dinner?”
“I hope that’s alright.” He opens the oven, revealing cubes of orange and yellow. “I made squash and chicken breasts.”
“Daring. Groundbreaking,” I tease but my mouth is watering in anticipation for a home made meal.
The dining hall got old three months into Freshman year. It’s nice seeing full chicken breasts instead of strips with flat, textureless grill lines.
“It’ll take a few minutes for everything to be done. Sit wherever,” he gestures to a nearby table and chairs before nodding back to the living room. “I’ll get you that tea.”
While he rummages around his cupboards, I settle at the table, realizing with slight horror I’ve still got my backpack on. Sexy. The straps slide off my shoulders, and it drops to the floor with a thud. Real sexy. That damn textbook.
He stands at the stove, stirring the pan while a kettle warms nearby.
“Do you mind if I study?”
“Go ahead.” He knits his brows, kneeling in front of the oven. “I think I fucked up the timing so this might be a while...”
I ignore the textbook and instead grab one of the novels we’re reading in class.
It’s an unsuspecting-looking book, the cover not much larger than my palm and the spine as thick as my thumb, but the short prose is dense and I find myself having to reread to make sure I get the whole picture.
Sure, there was less to do in the 1700s, but there’s no universe where people read this for pleasure.
Kind of fucked up how my field of study is making me hate my field of study.
Christos drops off the tea without a word. The medicinal smell tears right through my sinuses. I’m halfway done with the cup when he returns with two plates. I could throw the book across the room but I settle for dropping it into my open backpack.
The color of the squash reminds me of the fall leaves that have all blown away. I hate that I hesitate taking a bite, too busy calculating carbs.
“It’s got rosemary, salt, and sunflower oil. Chicken is pan seared. Nothing fancy.”
I have to laugh. “A guy has never made me dinner before.”
He stabs into his chicken. “Really?”
“We’re usually past the dinner part of the date by the time we go back to his place.” I take my first bite, going for the squash first. It’s soft but not mushy; that hint of rosemary making a world of difference.
“His place being… the dorms?” Suddenly his chicken breast requires his full attention. “I almost blew up the kitchen in my freshman dorm.”
I suspect he wants me to ask for details, but I answer him first. “Not the dorms.” I wait and watch as he chews slowly, curious if he’ll say anything. His teeth are still grinding when I add. “Not always.”
He finally swallows. Clears his throat. Pushes some squash around his plate. “Are older men your type?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure I have a type. But on average, yeah, I’m usually with older guys.”
“You are pretty young.” He winces and stumbles into another question. “You really don’t have a type?”
I laugh to ease the tension.