Ink and Ice

by Erin McRae

  “You know I have a therapist for conversations like this, right?” Zack tucked his phone between his shoulder and ear and went back inside so he could toss things that weren’t his in boxes. “Anyway, I’m terrible company, but I still have a mortgage, because I got the condo. What’s the gig?”

  “That depends,” Sammy said, his voice coy, almost flirtatious, despite his heterosexuality.

  Zack chuckled. They’d been roommates their freshman year in college and had somehow survived getting journalism degrees together. But while Sammy had excelled at a life that didn’t involve an excess of adrenaline and unwise risk-taking, Zack had not. Which made Sammy’s call right now a bit of a godsend. Whatever the job was—and he really could use the work—it probably wouldn’t mess with Zack’s head too much.

  “How soon can you get on a plane?” Sammy asked.

  The words themselves were familiar. But the circumstance was definitely not. Zack stopped sorting DVDs and straightened up. “Dude. What the fuck? You edit a sports publication.”

  “With a circulation of over three million,” Sammy said proudly.

  “Yes, yes, you have an awesome job and seem almost as cool at reunions as I do.”

  “Almost?!” Sammy protested.

  “I have more tattoos and also literal battle scars.”

  “Fair.”

  Zack went on. “But unless something really bizarre has happened involving Division I NCAA players toppling foreign governments, ‘how soon can you get on a plane?’ is never a question you should be asking me.”

  “It’s about figure skating,” Sammy said, his affect completely flat.

  Zack stared at a framed picture above the TV. It was one he’d taken of his now-ex, showing rope coiled against skin. This had to be a prank. “Are you joking?”

  “No.”

  “Figure skating?!” Zack trusted Sammy, but really, how was this not a prank?

  “Yep.”

  “The only things your readers care about are basketball, football, and the swimsuit issue!”

  “Baseball sometimes,” Sammy reminded him. “And hockey’s a thing.”

  Zack ran his free hand over his face. He should probably shave at some point, but he thought the facial hair thing was starting to work for him.

  “Okay. Tell me why you want me to get on a plane right now for figure skating.” He couldn’t be sure, but he had a sinking suspicion his life was about to get more absurd than it already was.

  “The number one men’s figure skater in the U.S. just shattered his leg,” Sammy said. “Super gory. Which our readers will love.”

  “I’m not in a mental place to do medical stories right now,” Zack said immediately. No matter what the source of the injury, he suspected he would never be in a mental place to do medical stories again.

  “Whatever, it’s just a paragraph,” Sammy said, breezing by Zack’s concern. “I’ll shove it in if you can’t deal. The point is, the Winter Olympics are in February in Almaty. The U.S. has two men’s figure skating spots. Which everyone in the sport knew were going to go to Luke Koval and Jack Palumbo. But Koval fucked his leg up and now everything about every competition this season is in turmoil and his spot is up for grabs. There’re two main contenders—Cayden Sauer in Phoenix and some kid in Minnesota. Aaron Sheffield... Sheftall? I don’t know, something like that; you’ll figure it out.”

  “You’re making me chase ambulances to try to make America care about figure skating and you don’t even want me to chase the actual ambulance? And can’t remember the names of the people I’m supposed to write about?” Zack was pretty sure he was offended; he just wasn’t sure on whose part.

  “Kind of, yeah.”

  “Which is why you want me to get there before anyone else does?” Zack said, as if multiple reporters were going to be banging down the doors of skating rinks across the country. Which, for all he knew, maybe they were.

  “Basically. Also figure skating is an absolute trash fire of drama, and it has hot ladies’ skaters to appeal to our core demographics.”

  “I hate you.” Zack sighed heavily. The reasonable thing would be to ask for time to think about it before uprooting his entire life for an unforeseen amount of time. But his life here in Miami wasn’t at all appealing at the moment, and work would give him something to focus on. “I don’t get what you’re thinking, but hey, it’s your career’s funeral. You still pay a dollar a word?”

  “You bet.”

  “And this is why I love you,” Zack said. “So, uh... do any of these people know I’m coming?”

  “Yeah, I set up a whole thing. It’ll be like an embed. Well with the Minnesota people. The other major training center hasn’t gotten back to me yet, so that’s on you.”

  “Okay, I’ll go. On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “Never compare covering figure skating to war reporting again.”

  TWO DAYS LATER, AFTER an endless series of mechanical delays, Zack was on what had become a late-night flight to the Minneapolis−Saint Paul airport. Once upon a time, boarding a plane would have felt not just exciting, but like a relief. Being in the field as a reporter, ready to talk himself in and out of chaos and danger, was where he had felt most himself. Had, of course, being the operative word. Now, whenever he got on a plane, his mind, body, and adrenaline levels were convinced he was flying into danger again, and reacted accordingly. The entire experience was extremely unpleasant, and as his heart pounded in his ears during the taxi for takeoff, he wondered if he should have driven.

  As soon as he was allowed, he pulled out his laptop and started trying to learn everything he possibly could about skating. He watched a video about how to identify each of the main jumps at least six times before he had to accept that he still had no idea how to tell the difference between them despite slow motion and arrows.

  Watching the previous year’s U.S. Nationals just as unhelpful. Zack may have intellectually understood why some programs with falls got better scores than those that seemed, to his inexperienced eye, to go off without a hitch, but he was emotionally baffled by it. At best, he was able to classify skaters into essentially meaningless boxes: lyrical, cocky, confident, and chaotic.

  By the time he got off the plane at Minneapolis−Saint Paul he was overtired and motion sick and hadn’t yet gotten around to watching any post-competition interviews with the skaters he was being paid to write about.

  For bonus points, Brendan Reid, one of Aaron Sheftall’s coaches, had arrived to pick him up at the airport. Which struck Zack as excessively courteous, but then, this was Minnesota.

  “Hey, you must be Zack,” Brendan said brightly once they’d found each other at arrivals. “Glad you made it,” he added as warmly as if they’d been friends for years. He was exceptionally attractive, too, with neatly-cropped sandy brown hair, keen green eyes, and the faintest dusting of freckles across his fair skin.

  Too bad he’s married to his skating partner, Zack thought glumly as he shook Brendan’s offered hand. “Sammy sent you a picture?”

  “No, we googled you. Congrats on the book, by the way. Though I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”

  “Ahhh, that’s fine,” Zack said awkwardly; Brendan was a wall of charisma. And his own charming war reporter schtick felt grim and boring in the face of all this middle-American sparkle. “It would probably only make you more confused about why I got this assignment.”

  “I’m not confused at all. You and your editor have your expertise, and I’ve got mine.” Brendan shrugged. “Anyway, you got everything? I don’t want to keep Marie up later than we have to.”

  Zack shouldered his backpack and his camera bag and trotted to catch up with Brendan who was already headed towards the parking lot. “Who’s Marie?”

  MARIE TURNED OUT TO be an ex-nun who lived in Diamond Lake in a house with an in-law apartment. Usually, Brendan informed him as they drove, she rented it out to various elite skaters who came through the Twin Cities for choreography or a
tryout for Katie and Brendan’s team.

  “Figured this made more sense than dumping you in a hotel,” Brendan said as he leaned against the doorbell at the little bungalow. The neighborhood was quiet, the windows of the other houses dark. They were evidently the only ones awake at this hour. “If you want to get a handle on the skating life, staying at Marie’s is practically a rite of passage around here.”

  Marie, bless her heart, answered the door with a plate of kolaczki and the offer of coffee, which struck Zack as a little odd, until Brendan explained.

  “Sometimes we start training days at the rink at five. Sometimes I’m on an overnight shift at the farm. If someone’s still awake at...” he paused and checked his watch, “One a.m. around here, there’s a better than even chance they’re starting their day, not ending it.”

  “Let’s get you inside,” Marie said. “I have to leave for the soup kitchen at four thirty, but there’s plenty of time to get you fed and caught up on some of the gossip.”

  Zack followed her through the door, then held it for Brendan once he was inside.

  “Oh no,” Brendan said. “I’m headed home and am gonna crash. But I’ll see you tomorrow at the rink, yeah?”

  “Definitely.” Truth be told, other than making a call to Sauer’s coaches to try to set up an interview, Zack had nothing else to do than get up to speed quick.

  “Take some for everyone, all right?” Marie pressed a tinfoil-wrapped plate into Brendan’s hands. “Tell them I say hi.”

  “Thanks! You’re the best.” Brendan gave Marie a hug and then, to Zack’s great surprise, hugged him as well. “You’re in good hands here, but call us if you need anything, okay?”

  “Uh. Sure.” Zack hugged him back awkwardly. He felt both relieved and a little guilty when Brendan had closed the door behind himself and he was alone with his new landlady for the next several weeks.

  “Is he always like that?” Zack asked before he could stop himself.

  “Brendan? Oh no. Sometimes he’s worse. Midwestern meets figure skater sensibilities is a potent combination. Especially if you’re not used to it. Which something tells me you’re not,” she said keenly.

  “Not so much, no.”

  “Regretting whatever it was in your life that brought you here?” Marie asked, the short, grey curls of her hair looking far more alert than Zack felt.

  “At this very moment, yes, I am,” Zack admitted. Something in Marie invited confidences. And the briskness of her manner indicated she was practical and unlikely to judge him for whatever those confidences might be.

  “Congratulations. You’re not the first to stay here feeling that way, and you won’t be the last. Now come on, I’ll show you your room and you can get settled.”

  Zack followed Marie down the hallway, past a small living room and dining room and into a kitchen. Clean dishes were piled up on a dish rack and spread across several dish towels on the counter.

  “You’re down here,” Marie said, opening a door that led to a flight of basement steps. They were somewhat steep and narrow, which made them difficult to navigate with his luggage. At the bottom of the steps Marie flipped on the lights to reveal the place he’d be calling home.

  There was an open plan kitchen at one end of the living room, both painted a shade of green that had gone out of fashion at least a decade ago. The couch and armchairs, table and stove, were all clean and well-kept but also showed signs of much wear. There were framed photos on the walls—some of them were signed portraits of people Zack vaguely remembered from watching the Olympics as a kid, and some were larger ones of various landmarks in the Twin Cities. Shelves along the walls held books, board games, and more ceramic figure skating figurines than Zack had known existed. Also not a few pairs of figure skates, covered in sharpied signatures. Through one door off the living room Zack could see the edge of a bed, and through another a bathroom, tiled in remarkably vintage pink.

  “That’s your entrance,” Marie said, pointing at another door. “Leads you out into the back yard, there’s a path that’ll bring you around to the front. Will you have a car?”

  “Yeah, I have to pick up a rental at some point.”

  “That’s fine, there’s room in the driveway for you. I really don’t care what hours you keep, just don’t make a racket coming home. Whatever you’re doing, you won’t be the strangest one who’s ever stayed here. Your keys and the Wi-Fi info are on the table.”

  “Okay.” Zack strongly suspected he was going to like Marie. “Does the offer of gossip cover some of those people who are probably stranger than me?”

  “Oh, possibly,” Marie said. There was no protest in it at all.

  “You mentioned coffee,” Zack said, eyeing a coffee maker on the counter. “Are you interested in partaking with me?”

  “Depends. Are you any good at making it?”

  “Well,” Zack said, starting to open cupboards in search of supplies. He’d have to go shopping soon, but there were beans and a grinder in the cupboard. “Of the many reasons my ex-husband and I got divorced, my skill at coffee making was not one of them.”

  Marie pulled herself out a chair. “That sounds promising.”

  “Because coffee?”

  Marie gave him a slow smile, and Zack loved it. “No. Because you seem to appreciate the rules when it comes to an exchange of gossip.”

  Chapter 3

  TWO DAYS AFTER MEMORIAL Day

  Twin Cities Ice Arena

  TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AFTER he’d left Whisker Island in its gray morning gloom, Aaron walked toward the doors of the Twin Cities Ice Arena. The scrape of his skate bag’s wheels across the parking lot asphalt and the feel of its duct-taped handle were comfortingly familiar. As was the presence of Charlotte Beaulieu, his roommate and the on-again off-again ladies French national champion, at his side.

  Once he pushed through the glass double doors Aaron inhaled deeply. The scent of the rink - rubber floor mats, disinfectant, the indefinable smell of ice—surrounded him. He felt a weight he hadn’t known he carried lift off his shoulders. He might have left his family, but still, here, he was also home.

  Charlotte ran off to find Brendan to ask him something, and Aaron made for the men’s locker room. He unpacked most of the contents of his skate bag into his locker—snacks, spare laces, a change of clothes, extra soakers, yet more snacks, a backup phone charger—and sat down on one of the benches to put his skates on.

  He was the only one in there this early, which would have been unusual during the season and felt like a blessing now. Skating involved a tremendous amount of being watched—by judges, by coaches, by competitors. A respite from that was welcome.

  Aaron tugged the laces on each of his skates tight and tied them off into double knots before tucking the ends into his boots. Keep your eyes on your own paper. It was a favorite saying of Katie’s: Work on what you can control. Let go of the rest. There was plenty about skating no one could predict, but the biggest thing was the performance of others. As much as he was competing against the entire men’s field, he had to train as if he was only competing against himself.

  Still, it was hard. Aaron’s first step onto the ice—that familiar shift from walking to gliding, the smooth slick of the ice beneath his blades and the rush of building speed—was marred by thoughts of his competition in the upcoming season.

  Jack Palumbo would claim any top spot there was to claim nationally, plus a lot of the international top spots, that was for sure. Aaron wasn’t sure which he envied more—Jack’s stable of seemingly effortless quad jumps, or his consistency. And he had artistry, at least when his coaches let him pick his own music. But Aaron wasn’t particularly preoccupied with him.

  Cayden Sauer, on the other hand, was definitely living rent-free in Aaron’s head. Not only did Aaron find him consistently unpleasant whenever they ran into each other at competitions and training camps, he edged out Aaron’s scores more often than not. With Luke out of the running, if Aaron didn’t get to the Olympics, it w
ould be because Cayden had.

  Aaron warmed up—edges and crossovers to get the feel of the ice, single jumps to get the feeling of his body and then doubles to find the physics of it all again after so many weeks off. As he went, Aaron tried, but failed, to shake off his worries about the season ahead.

  What makes you different from all the other skaters? Katie was going to ask him, the same way she did every year when they started building programs. And as always, he didn’t know. Which was a problem. With the stakes this season, nothing half-assed would serve.

  His worries distracted him, and he popped what he’d meant to be a triple toe loop. Frustrated, he set up the entrance to the jump again. He got the full number of rotations in, but fell on the landing. Next try, he caught an edge going into it and went sprawling before he could take off.

  Thank God for crash shorts.

  Aaron knew he should give it a rest; there was no need to nail anything before he’d been on the ice an hour and for the first time in weeks. But that jump wasn’t hard for him. He’d been landing it since he was a kid, and if he couldn’t land such a reliable jump....

  He gave it another go. In midair, half a meter off the ground, he already knew the jump was bad, and he yelled in frustration before he hit the ice. Again.

  “Sheftall!” Katie’s voice cut through the brisk air.

  Aaron picked himself up off and readied himself for another attempt.

  “Don’t you dare!” Katie yelled again, like she might march right onto the sheet and drag him off of it if he didn’t comply.

  Aaron sighed and skated over to the boards where Katie waited, her brow furrowed. She was dressed as she usually was for a day of coaching, with no sign that Aaron had interrupted her summer vacation by returning early, except that she was wearing sneakers, not skates.

  Silently, she handed Aaron his skate guards, a clear commentary that he was done for now. He slipped them on reluctantly as he stepped off the ice.