Chapter 11 Stefan #2
When Evan passes in front of me again, I look down and our eyes meet.
He offers me the biggest smile I've seen on him so far, which is saying a lot.
"That was amazing." I'm not sure how I can read his lips, but I can; and I grin back at him with a shrug.
Then he has skated past and our moment of contact is lost.
Dad squeezes my hand, and I dart a look at the scoreboard, terrified I missed it. But no. I would have heard the reaction. So I look over at him instead. “How long do you think this will take?”
It's the coach on my other side who answers, though. "It shouldn't take long. You didn’t need your hands to get back up. It wasn’t a fall. The base values are listed. It shouldn't matter that it was the first.”
But we all know it does. "They can't be that surprised. I've been talking about practicing this for years."
Dad laughs. "You think they took you seriously, syn? I'm sure they all assumed it was a publicity stunt."
"But why? I always follow through with what I say I'm doing."
"Because it's supposed to be impossible. Because you're defying the laws of physics." This from the national coach again. "I've seen you practice it, and I didn't believe you'd actually do it in competition."
"But you've seen me land it. Over and over, successfully. I don't understand."
"Sure, at home in the safety of your rink. That's a whole different world than here at Worlds."
This time I look over at the coach. She's one of the nicer ones, and I appreciate that she's the one who's here to support me. "It's not, though. Ice is ice."
She smiles at me, almost fondly. Like I'm some wayward son she isn't sure what to do with. "Only you can say that and believe it, Stefan."
I shake my head, still confused, but I'm interrupted by a cheer erupting through the arena. Oh, fuck, my scores.
They don't make sense. Why don't they make sense? Why are the numbers blurring? I've seen so many numbers in my life. Why can't I make these ones out? Both of my hands are tugged, then dropped, and to either side of me is cheering. Fuck, why can't I figure out what this is saying?
Dad turns to me and scoops me up into a hug. "Congratulations, syn."
What? What did I—the adrenaline haze finally leaves my eyes, and I can make out what the numbers are saying. 232.12.
Well, ok. I haven’t broken my own record, but it’s high. Very high. A season’s best score, even. Higher than almost anyone else has ever achieved.
They must have decided not to punish me too hard after all.
And fuck, what would that score have been if I’d managed a perfect landing? It's almost mind-boggling to consider.
They eventually call Evan's name, but he's not skating anymore.
He's stopped about halfway down the rink, looking at me, clapping, cheering.
My chest fills with pride. How is it that a man I've hardly known for more than a few days can make me so much happier in what's already one of the happiest moments of my life?
I wish I’d skated clean, but it's no longer important.
If Max can beat 232 points—or about 222, with the lead he had on me—then he more than deserves the gold.
If more than three people can, I'll have a heart attack.
Unless Jan loses it completely, the US has its three spots in the Olympics. Which is what I came here to achieve.
Well, that and to make history, which I guess I've done, if not quite as spectacularly as I hoped.
I shuffle over to the winner's box, about a quarter of my brain paying attention to my movement, the rest watching Evan's free skate. It's every bit as riveting as his short program was. More so, because in this one he's joyful. And Evan's smile is always a sight to behold.
He's got the same two quad jumps as he had in the short program, and no more.
As expected. He does put his toe in a combination, so he manages a total of 3 quads, which isn't bad at all.
I don't know why he doesn't think he's a top-tier skater, because he is. Even discounting his artistry. But when that’s added in, I'm still convinced he's the best in the world. More convinced now, really.
He skates a beautiful program. It's not one hundred percent clean, but it's pretty close. No falls, no hands down. Which is more than I can say about my own.
And the audience loves it as much as they loved mine. I adore every single person out there for cheering themselves all the more hoarse at Evan’s skate.
His score isn't close to as high as it should be, and it makes me want to rage all over again at the unfairness of it all. Yes, his components score was amazing. But it's not weighted the way it should be. He should have beaten me, hands down, instead of coming in over twenty points behind me.
I go over and hug him after his scores are read, and he hugs me back hard. "You were insane." It is the first words I've heard from him, and they make me laugh.
“So were you. That was incredible.”
“Oh, shut up. I'm not even in the same realm.”
Does he really believe that? How can he possibly believe that? “Evan. You were amazing. What are you even talking about? I've never seen anything as beautiful as that skate.”
"Yeah, right," he scoffs, and I shake my head at him.
"I am serious. You have a gift that puts the rest of us to shame."
"Says the man who very nearly landed a clean quintuple toe loop." He squeezes me again, then lets go, shaking his own head. "You're a legend."
"Hey, maybe that's the music I need to pick for next year's program. I am Legend."
Evan starts laughing, and I laugh right alongside him, both of us way too high on adrenaline.