Chapter 7 Stefan
Stefan
Evan Marquez is a remarkably good roommate.
The morning of our short program, he wakes up early and leaves before my alarm even goes off.
But sleeping with him in the room is just…
harder. I’m constantly aware of his presence, no matter how quiet he tries to be.
It’s like he brings extra warmth wherever he goes, and it’s melting the cool reserve I need to stay afloat through all of this.
The media is pressing down on me, hard, and the national coaches aren’t letting up, either.
Not even Dad is immune, and his concern over the room situation doesn’t help my nerves any. Instead, it reminds me, every time he mentions it, how much it could fuck everything up.
And though Evan is long gone by the time I’m up and ready for the day, he’s still on my mind. I want to watch his flawless movement in person, even though I shouldn’t. I should spend the morning focusing on my program, the way I always do.
But the temptation lingers, until, eventually, I give up trying to avoid thinking about him and do the thing I never need to do. I look at the competition schedule.
He's in the second group, which starts at 10:15 a.m., while I’m in the sixth, scheduled for 1:00. Getting to the rink at 10:15 is earlier than my preferred arrival time, but that makes the idea easier, somehow.
I’d just be sitting alone in my room, visualizing my routine over and over. Why not go to the rink, watch a few skates, and then move into my warm-up?
It’s the perfect compromise.
I don't realize until I'm actually stepping into the arena a half hour later that I'm compromising. On my competition day routine. The thing I never, ever compromise on.
One change has led to many. I should be more nervous than I am.
I manage to find an empty seat about halfway up the first block of the audience. It’s not the best view in the house, but it’s far from the worst. I do have to keep an eye out in case someone comes to claim my borrowed seat, though.
Group two is just finishing its warm-up, and I catch sight of Evan as he makes his way to the edge of the rink. He still glows in that green shirt, his black pants showing off the lean muscles of his legs.
The first skater out is from Kazakhstan, but I ignore his skate, just waiting. He does fine, and I’m happy for him, but when Evan skates out, all my focus goes straight to him. The scores being announced don't register, because Evan is skating around the rink.
He's all but ethereal in that green. Standing taut, yet relaxed.
How? How is such a contradiction even possible?
Gazing at his fingers, which are so elegantly displayed that his opening stance alone is enough to make my breath catch.
It has to be an innate talent. No way anyone could teach that kind of grace.
His music starts. And he moves. And Evan is a dream come to life.
I'm sure at some point the screen said what his music selection was, but I wasn't paying attention.
It doesn't matter that I don't recognize it, though.
What matters is the way it makes me feel.
The way I think it makes every single person in this arena feel, if the absolute silence around me is any indication.
Evan flows from one move into the next as seamlessly and gracefully as if he's floating instead of skating.
He creates a bone-deep sadness in his program.
I hadn't caught it when we watched him on video, but now that I'm here watching him live and in person, it infects me.
The entire arena is affected. I'd be surprised if there was a dry eye in the house.
The anguish on his face as he moves, in every angle, in every line of him.
I don't know what prompted this program, but it makes me cry.
And I don't fucking cry.
When it's over, Evan stands center stage, staring at his fingers again, his chest heaving. Out of breath, or with his own unshed tears? A long, long pause silences the arena as everyone tries to escape from the spell he's put us under. And then the applause starts.
It roars. Evan's face transforms into that smile of pure, unadulterated joy, and I'm clapping with everybody else. Standing with everyone else. How often does a Group Two skater receive a standing ovation? No idea, but it can’t be all that common.
The smile doesn't fade as he takes his bows. And then he's waving, spiraling back towards the boards. He pauses, leaning down to scoop up a stuffed animal and when he rises again, I make out a polar bear, which makes me laugh. Of course, the Canadian would pick up a polar bear.
Evan waves with his polar bear until he gets off the ice. And then he and the woman I assume is his coach head to the kiss and cry. Someone else is on the rink, but I couldn't care less, watching the big screen, which is still focused on Evan.
I'm radiating every bit as much tension as anybody else in the room, waiting for Evan's scores.
They have to be excellent. Sure, his technique wasn't flawless.
He could have done harder jumps, racked up a few more points than toeloops and Salchows offer.
But he got through what he did without mistakes, and the component score should more than make up for anything lacking on the technical side.
If it doesn't, I might have to pay some judges some visits.
It takes forever for the scores to come up.
They're reviewing something. Under-rotations, maybe.
But once they're announced, I’m cheering for Ethan again before I realize it.
102.23. That is an excellent score. It rockets him so far into first he'll probably stay there until the last group.
Hell, he might stay there the entire time.
I can get over 102, but it's not guaranteed.
Not for any of us. Anything over one hundred is top tier.
Good for him.
I'm holding way too much pride for an achievement that has nothing whatsoever to do with me. But there it is.
And now it's well past time to start on my warm-up. No more loitering. No more paying attention to my competition. I need to return to my own head, and stay there.
For some reason, I wish I could see Evan again before I go on.
It’s like he cast a spell on me with his performance and now I can’t get enough of him.
But he’s long gone by the time my group is called.
The six minute warm-up flies by, and then I’m back in the hallway, biding my time.
I am last to skate, the handicap, or benefit, for being rated number one in the world.
I never watch the skaters that come before me, because I don’t want to be distracted, but Jacques is the first up, and—I want to see what he can do. Now I’ve started watching the others, it appears, I want to keep doing so.
Dad and I are back in the warm-up room, but I’m standing in front of the TV, doing slow pliés while Jacques moves toward the center of the rink, keeping my muscles warm. Dad, noting my positioning, frowns. “You’re watching?”
“It’s Jacques.” I flash him a smile, then go back to watching my friend take his starting pose. Another slow, controlled plié, arm reaching up and over. Dad nods beside me, but I can sense his unease at the change in procedure. “It’ll be all right, Dad. I’m ready.”
And I am. The fears of sabotage, of bad luck, of an inability to focus, of everything else that has been flooding my mind since I stepped into the room and found Evan in it, are gone. My short program is ingrained in my muscles
I won’t screw up.
Jacques’ performance is beautiful. It’s not Evan’s, but it’s not as far off as he likes to pretend it is.
Every time I watch him perform, he’s improved in some small way, and today is no exception to the rule.
He pulls out a quad loop—Evan’s dreaded jump—I didn’t know he'd mastered, and I cheer internally, not wanting to disturb anyone focusing on their preparation, along with the audience, when there’s only a small wobble on the landing.
He’s the one who finally pushes Evan out of first, but I doubt Evan minds. Even if everyone in the last group beat him and he only gets seventh in the short, it’s a higher placement than Canada expected. Especially if he can keep it up on Friday.
A few more skaters, a variety of successes and relative failures. Evan’s in fourth, with Jan in second, Jacques in third, when I move to take my place in the wings. I'm waiting for one more skater before it’s my turn to take the ice. Max Sennhauser, the man the national coaches are worried about.
The hallway is cold, to make up for the arena being so much warmer with all the bodies in the audience, and I slip back into my jacket for the few minutes I’ve got while I do my best to block everything out.
I can’t see Max perform from where I am, but Dad is further up the hall, and even as focused as I am, I don't miss the way his back tenses as the screaming and applause from the arena pick up.
Max must be kicking ass. When Dad turns back to me, his eyes are narrowed. “You should change Sal to flip.”
Oh, shit. Max must really be killing it, if my base score isn’t good enough as is. What is he landing out there? “I could do that. But if I’m going to change, why not switch both and do the Lutz in combo instead?”
“That will work.”
“Ok. I can do that.”
Dad nods curtly. He knows my limits better than I do, and this doesn’t make my program anything close to impossible. If I turn the Salchow into a Lutz, it’ll be a more difficult lift off tired legs, sure, but it’ll be worth more points. And it’s just the short program.
Then Max is done and my name is on the screen and being called.
I slip out of my jacket, handing it and my blade guards to Dad, and head onto the ice.
Circling the rink, I struggle more than usual to ignore the announcement of Max’s final scores.
It shouldn’t matter. The only thing that should exist is the rink and the swell of my music. Focus, Stefan.