Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
Maybe it’s the jet lag or the adrenaline, but I haven’t thought about Christos or Terrence and especially not fucking Bekken at the Grand Prix.
I’ve been playing my programs in my head over and over, no doubt freaking out every stranger I’ve crossed paths with in Japan.
I’m aware I’ve got no control over my hands when I’m mentally practicing, and my stare is intense.
My personal best. Enough to shoot past the current top skater and favorite to win.
I grab Maude who is saying something encouraging, but it’s like my ears can’t work the same time as my eyes and I am really, really fixated on that 200 score.
The number itself almost dwarfs winning gold. Almost.
“Third and winner of the bronze medal from France, Rémy de Villeneuve,” The announcer booms overhead.
Rémy’s thin tail swishes as he skates onto the ice.
The crowd cheers and I know it’s impossible in the sea of fans and French flags, but I search for Alex.
I haven’t seen her on or off the ice since she only scored high enough to be an alternative.
Yuri Aoba waits for his name to be announced.
He’s been the favorite for years, every skater in the league has gotten used to losing to him.
But there’s something different about him.
Something other than the drop in rank. Maybe it’s the lighting, but I swear his blue skin is washed out, or maybe his tusks are a little duller.
But then again, this is his last Grand Prix before retirement, so my brain could be playing tricks on me.
“Second and the winner of the silver medal, from Japan, Yuri Aoba.”
He gives me a smile and a nod before leaving to join Rémy on the podium.
The crowd cheers even louder, but it doesn’t feel like nearly an appropriate enough send off.
It’s hard not to feel a twinge of disappointment that there won’t be any more Yuri Aoba routines to look forward to.
Competitions might be easier without him, but not nearly as interesting.
“First and winner of the gold medal, the Grand Prix world champion, Rodrick Steele.”
I skate to the center of the ice and bask in the best part of the ceremony, my final bow to the audience. The weight of gold is nice, but it’s here, taking a moment to thank every corner of the audience, that I can finally breathe.
The press conference is not nearly as dramatic, but much the same; Yuri and Rémy at my flank and way too many lights in my eyes.
Faced with dozens of camera lenses and eager journalists, I wonder how many notifications are blowing up my phone right now.
If I should ignore them all and go straight to poundr or at least pretend like I care about anyone else’s opinions right now.
“We’ll take our first question,” the moderator announces. “The journalist in the front.”
“A question to all skaters, congratulations,” a kappa with thick glasses says. “How has your approach this year been different, if at all?”
Shit—usually I have some time to think over my answer while the winner responds. I glance at Aoba, who gives me an encouraging nod.
“I’m following my passion.” Has my mouth always been this dry? I push through. “I’m not doing a program or wearing a costume if it doesn’t excite me. I figure, if I’m wowed by it, the judges will be too.” I nod, signaling the end of my answer.
By the time I’ve downed half a bottle of water, we’ve moved on to the next question.
“This was the last chance to score points for the Olympic Team event. Are the three of you excited to face off again in two months?”
I look down but the mic catches my nervous laugh anyway. “I’ve been competing against these guys for years, but yeah. On the Olympic stage is a whole other level. I can’t get ahead of myself. None of us have officially made the team yet.”
People still like their athletes to be humble, right?
“This question is for Mr. Steele.”
Oh, what the fuck I’m Mr. Steele now? I know better than to stare directly into the camera.
It seems simple enough to avoid that glassy gaze, but that feeling of being watched never gets easier.
Especially with livestreams making it easier than ever for your asshole roommate to watch you squirm.
Maybe take a few screenshots for prosperity.
“You scored your personal best in your free program, but you’ve mentioned switching it up to a new program soon. Is that correct?”
“Yes. It’s a program I’ve been working on for a while. A medley of my favorite songs from my favorite album. I’m really excited to show it off at the U.S. championship next month.”
“No nerves about switching after your performance today?”
“If I let nerves decide what I do next, I wouldn’t be the one making the decisions then, would I?” A few people in the audience chuckle.
“There’s always a risk when debuting a new program.
Personally, I don’t want to become stagnant.
I can’t get too comfortable. There’s a balance of course.
The other day, I was thinking back to my program from last year.
I guess I’m already a bit nostalgic for it, maybe I’ll bring that back one day. ” There’s that nervous laughter again.
“More than anything, I’m excited. I’m excited to show this thing that I love to the world. And, at the end of the day, everyone else’s opinions are secondary.”
So much for humble. Was any of that even true?
I do love my new program. Mrs. Mims absolutely killed the costume—rhinestones, skirt, and all.
Except, if the judges hate it, if I don’t get even remotely close to two-hundred again, it would be silly for me to cling to that program out of pride. Better a hypocrite than a loser.
Thankfully, the rest of the questions are pretty standard; what is your advice for young athletes? What exhibition skates are you looking forward to? Do you ever rest?
The last question seems to hang over the three of us as we exit the press conference. I tap Yuri on the shoulder.
“Amazing job out there.”
“Oh.” He perks up, his mouth opens wide so his tusk brush his upper lip. “Yes… you too…” He bows his head slightly. “Sorry, very tired.”
“Sure. I’m probably going to crash soon.”
Rémy comes up from behind, wrapping his arms around the both of us. “Come on, now. We’ve still got the exhibition skate tomorrow! Smile!”
Out of nowhere, a photographer snaps a photo of the three of us. I guess I’ll have to wait and see if I look deranged, tired, or a lovely combination of both.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I grumble once the photographer is out of earshot.
Rémy scoffs. “So le seum despite winning.”
Yuri nods. “Faire la tronche.”
Remy acknowledges his mother tongue with a hum.
“After this competition I’ve got finals,” I say, but I know that’s not the only reason I’m so crabby.
“School? I took a semester off.” He finally releases the both of us. “Too much training.”
Yuri’s eyes narrow with concern. “You work a lot.”
“I’m going up to my hotel room to sleep till the exhibition skate.”
As I walk away, Rémy shouts, “We have rehearsal at—”
Yuri tramples over his words. “Rest well!”
Maude catches me before the elevator, my gym bag slung over her shoulder. I take it and we wait for the elevator in silence, but she’s staring at me expectantly. I give in and glance her way.
“You’re welcome.” She nods at my bag.
“Sorry—I mean thanks.” I rub circles over my eye. “I’m such a lame winner.”
There’s a ding and the elevator door opens. “You seem to have a lot on your mind.”
“Exactly.” Once the doors close, it’s easier to unload. “I mean finals, school finals,” I clarify. “And now I’m second guessing changing up my program, and you know the media is going to want to put me up as the favorite to get Olympic gold now that I’ve beaten Aoba.”
Being the Olympic favorite is the kiss of death. It’s a wonder why—what with all the good wishes amassing into a mountain of expectation and all the casual figure skating fans suddenly becoming experts.
I sound so pathetic. “What do I do?”
Maude rubs my back. “Sleep. Eat a good meal. Call your friends.”
“Fuck.” I open the side pocket of my gym bag and grab my phone. “Terrence, you don’t have to text me fifty times.” I make the mistake of swiping open his texts.
THAT’S MY FUCKING BOI! ????
200 on em! ???? ????
69 69 69 69 69 ??????
Mr. Steele lmao
“That’s a lot of emojis,” Maude whispers.
I slide down the notifications, hit clear, and sigh with relief.
She squeezes my shoulder. “Proud of you. The hard part is over. We can talk this out more when you’re on winter break.”
I give her a side hug before exiting the elevator and heading to my room. The hotel door clicks behind me, and I lean against it, opening my phone again and heading straight for poundr.
3dg3-m3: I stayed up late to watch you free skate (I think everyone on campus did). Don’t know when you’ll see this since I’m sure you’re getting hounded by everyone but wow. You’re amazing.
By now he’s probably asleep, but I type out a message anyway.
TwinkleTop: I wish you could be with me in the kiss and cry.
TwinkleTop: I’m heading straight to your place once I’m home.
A shower, nap, and an absurd amount of rice and eel later—I get a message back from Christos.
3dg3-m3: I’ll have the place ready for you.
3dg3-m3: Kinda messed up they call it the kiss and cry
TwinkleTop: That does tend to be what happens there.
3dg3-m3: But you didn’t cry.
TwinkleTop: I was in shock. Still am.
3dg3-m3: Is it bad that I still don’t understand how the scoring works?
TwinkleTop: You’re fine. Really.
TwinkleTop: Sorry my brain is fried. Kinda like all the eel in Nagoya.
3dg3-m3: Speaking of. Any meal requests for when you’re back?
TwinkleTop: Your Ass.
3dg3-m3: Figured.
We’re sitting on the tarmac at PHL when I text Terrence that I won’t see him till tomorrow morning. Which isn’t a lie.
“Are you going to be alright to drive back to campus?” Maude asks.