Chapter 18 Evan
Evan
It's mind-boggling, when I let myself think about it. Me, a nobody skater from the middle of nowhere Canada, teaching Stefan Petryk and his father, both legends, how to do transitions.
I’m back in the upside down.
Stefan’s father leaves Stefan and me alone on the rink after a couple hours of what his father has dubbed ‘grace training’, and Stefan grins at me. “Your turn."
He's placed a challenge in his voice, and I grin back, ready for it. “Time to jump?”
“Time to jump.” The grin drops, and his eyes narrow. It's a very familiar look; he’s appraising me, before I’ve even started. He’s switched to coach mode. “Give me triples. One of each of the jumps you haven’t mastered quads on.”
I could argue I know what I need, where I’m closest, but he’s in charge now.
This is why I’m here, after all. With a nod, I spiral away from him, picking up speed.
A few seconds later, I’m on my back outside edge, flinging my right leg around, and spinning up into the sky.
Three rotations and I land. Not quite perfect, no astonishing GOE if I were being judged, but fine.
After the other two jumps, I return to Stefan, whose eyes have narrowed again. Or never stopped.
“You’re right,” he admits. “I think the loop is your best bet for a quad. But sooner or later we’re going to improve your technique on all of them, because that Lutz was sad.”
He’s not wrong, but I flip him off, and the coach demeanor drops as he bursts out laughing. “Ass.”
“Says the one who told me my jump technique is sad.”
His smile is blinding, and I can’t help but grin back. “What? You can dish it out, but not take it?” he asks, eyebrow raised.
“I was nicer than that,” I protest, with zero heat.
“You just keep telling yourself that.”
“Fine, fine,” I mock grumble. “Teach me, oh wise one.”
"Try the triple loop again," he says, as if our play fight never happened. "Go higher if you can."
“Ok.”
I fail utterly to go higher once, twice, and then again, even after Stefan calls me in and demonstrates what he wants me to do.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp after another sequence of attempts. Whatever he’s trying to show me, I’m not getting.
"No need to be sorry." He flashes his private smile at me. "I'll show you again."
For the next couple of hours, we work exclusively on my triple loop. It's enough to make me crazy, but Stefan has nothing but patience.
Is this how he does his own training? Focusing on one element at a time until he’s perfected it? Does he direct the same patience toward himself? Is that why he’s so insanely good?
Not once does he ask me to try a quad. We work my triple until my legs are shaking with exhaustion, and I have to call it quits.
He's graceful about that, too. "I wondered how long you'd last." His breathing is easy, unforced, as if we haven't been working our asses off for the last four or five hours.
I, meanwhile, am a panting mess sprawled out at his feet in the middle of the rink. "Do you do this every day?" I manage to choke out.
Stefan lies down next to me, not seeming to be aware of the cold that's likely seeping into his clothes, into his skin. I'm appreciating the cold, though, so maybe he is too. "Not this exactly, but yeah, pretty much."
"You are utterly deranged. No wonder you kick everybody's ass at everything. How do you keep it up?"
Still sprawled out next to me, Stefan laughs. "Practice. I've been doing this since I could walk."
"Yeah, but your body, how do you manage? How do you not fall into a thousand million pieces?" My eyes are still closed, too tired to consider opening, but he’s definitely shrugging. How is he moving?
He says, "I'm very, very careful. I don't want to get injured, so I do everything I can to avoid it."
"Including working yourself into the ground? I don't believe it."
"I don't, though. I only work myself as hard as I can. I have it down to a science. Literally. I use all the trackers and everything." There's something strange about his voice, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Am I delving into territory he doesn't want to go to?
It’s obvious he puts a ridiculous amount of pressure on himself, but… I’m not his coach. I’m not responsible for his training schedule. Maybe I should stop bringing it up.
If this is a normal day for him, though, he’s going to either burn out or injure himself, no matter how many trackers he uses. It doesn't matter how in shape he is; bodies are not meant to go this far daily.
So I’ll take a tangential approach. "So what's the ultimate goal? The Olympics, I assume."
"Yeah. I'm not sure beyond that. If I have to redeem myself again—well, I don't know if I can do four more years of this, honestly." At least he's paying attention to something, living in some form of reality. Except...
"Redeem yourself for what?"
Stefan shifts, and then his face hovers over mine, brow furrowed. "What do you mean for what? For my screw-up at the last Olympics."
"What do you mean?" I frown up at him, and he frowns back at me.
"You know what happened."
"Yeah." Is there anyone in the world who doesn't know what happened? How Stefan, the undisputed favorite, the media darling, the god among figure skaters, every person in America’s—in the world’s—wet dream, crumbled under the pressure of the Olympics.
How he had a mediocre short program, then fell twice during his free skate, popped two other jumps.
I wait for him to continue; he doesn't. Our standoff lasts until the ice starts to get cold, but I’m still not sure my legs can hold me up, so I don’t move, just sigh.
"Stefan, you came in... What, tenth? That's not a fuckup. That’s incredible. Most people couldn’t dream of doing so well, especially after everything that happened in that skate. "
"Yeah, well, most people aren't me. I was supposed to win, not come in tenth." His voice is suddenly so woebegone, his eyes so sad. It makes my heart hurt for him.
I force myself into movement, sitting up and pulling him into a tight hug. "Stefan, you've got to forgive yourself. You're only human. Humans mess up. It's part of life."
Stefan's body is stiff against mine, and I burrow my head into his neck, hugging him even harder.
He needs this, I can tell, but it's not something he'd ever dream of asking for.
I've learned Stefan doesn't ask for help, not when it counts.
Oh, sure, he was willing to ask me for help with his skating, but that's different. That's not him, not his core.
Not the inner Stefan, who’s so much more of a mess than the public knows, with the calm, cool, conceited persona he puts on for the cameras.
He's not answering, maybe not willing to acknowledge my last statement.
"What counts as redemption? When do you stop pushing yourself so hard?" I mumble into his neck. Will Stefan ever be happy if he doesn’t bring home Olympic gold? I don’t know how to convince him, ease the ridiculous amount of stress that’s written all over him.
Skating isn't supposed to be this hard, this stressful. For me, it's fun, an art form. I still smile every time I step out onto the rink, feel the ice gliding beneath me. Does Stefan ever have that?
If he’s been in skates since he could walk, has he ever had the opportunity to decide for himself this is something he wants to do?
He lets out a sigh, and with it, a hint of the tension leaves his body. "When I win."
I hate that answer. What happens if he never wins? If Max manages to overtake him? If he injures himself?
Does he keep treating himself like this for the next four years? And again, and again? At what point does he break down completely?
"You know," I say, carefully, choosing my words. "You've won at Worlds. Multiple times. Circuit Championships, too. Aren't those basically the same thing?"
His head shakes, pressing into my face. "Nobody cares about those."
"Everyone in our world does."
"It's not the same." He's got his stubborn voice now, the one I'm not going to win against. I've learned something, though. He's letting the expectations get to him. The media, his fans. It matters to him what they think, so much more than he lets on.
I pull away from him, not a lot, just enough to see his face, look into his eyes.
His eyes are brimming with a complex mix of emotions, and I haven't learned him well enough yet to be sure what they are.
I can guess. Frustration, sadness, disappointment.
Some self-loathing thrown in, because it's Stefan, and he never does anything by halves.
"Ok." I force myself to pull up to standing. My muscles groan at the movement, but I ignore them. It's something I'm very good at, and this is far too important to let them win. Anyway, I have to stand up sooner or later. I can't live on this ice rink, tempting as it is. It’s freezing.
"Ok?" Something new added to the mix; confusion, maybe. Did he expect me to argue with him? I’m not going to, not right now.
I don't know how to work with him on this, don't think I'm qualified to. He has so much going on he’d be much better served by a therapist than me.
But maybe, maybe I can help him in a different way.
"Ok," I repeat, adding a smile. "When's the last time you just had fun? Did something for yourself." I'm pulling him toward the gate, off the ice, and he’s letting me, gliding in my wake.
“I did spend two weeks touring Europe." It gives my racing thoughts a pause. Maybe he does know how to have fun, and it’s not so dire after all.
Nonetheless, it's time for some more. We can go back to thinking about skating tomorrow.
For today, he's mine, whether he likes it or not.
"All right, fair enough. I acknowledge you're capable of having fun on your own.
But..." I stop and grin at him as we settle into chairs and start unlacing our boots.
"But what?" He sounds rightfully suspicious.
"From now until we get to the rink tomorrow, we're not thinking about skating at all."
Stefan looks over at me, brow furrowed again. "I'm not sure I can do that."
"To be honest, neither am I, but I'm willing to give it a try." It turns his frown into a smile, which is all I could ask for.
We banter about what not thinking about skating entails while we shower and change, right out into the parking lot.
"All right, here’s a compromise,” I state, squinting against the bright sunlight.
“We can think about the fun parts of skating.
Have you picked out your music for this season yet?
" Stefan looks a little intrigued, and I give myself a mental cheer.
"You do pick out your own music, right?"
"Yeah, I do." A smile breaks out on his face, and I love it. He's back to himself. Back to the Stefan I know. "My parents and choreographer are in charge of my costumes, though. If I had my way, it'd be sweats and a t-shirt."
"Yeah, somehow I don't think that would give the same element of gravitas to your performance." We exchange grins before I continue. "Do you have a say in your choreography?"
He lets out a little huff of laughter. "I don't do my own choreography, no matter how many people claim I do. But yeah, I help with it. And I have been working with some of the Juniors. It's really fun."
Interesting. Have I stumbled upon something Stefan likes for himself? It's still skating, but it's something that doesn't involve him training himself to death. I can work with that.
He looks proud of himself, too. It's not the same kind of pride he shows the cameras, the great Stefan Petryk, arrogant and self-assured. This is different, a more private sort of enjoyment, something he does for himself, that makes his eyes sparkle. The kind of thing he obviously needs.
"Then that's what we'll do this weekend."
Stefan glances in my direction, looking confused. "Choreograph Junior skaters' routines?"
"No, of course not, you idiot." I give him a light punch to the arm.
"We're going to work on your new routines and add in some of the transitions we're working on." It’s the perfect solution. We’ll be in the rink, training, but doing something he enjoys. With the bonus that transitions and choreography won’t let him work himself into the ground.
It's not quite a break, for him, but it might be as close as he'll ever get to one, excluding the two weeks in Europe.
At least not until he has satisfied himself with his version of a redemption.
I will, however, let him continue to destroy me every day to train my jumping. I'm going to master this loop if it kills me.
Stefan smiles, more cheerful than I had expected. "That sounds like a really good idea, actually. Thanks."
I grin back at him. No idea if he's thanking me for coming up with a good idea or for letting the whole overtraining thing go, but I'll take it either way.