Heart of a Champion

by Kelsey MacBride

  Alena’s costume had a fortune of antique, gold-colored crystals that started at her shoulders and ran down her body to blend at midpoint with black crystals, which finished off the rest of the costume to the hem that hung in a slant over her hips and thighs. Her body was perfectly toned without a single ounce of fat. Her long, lean, sinewy muscles were the true testament of the hard work she put in. Vladimir’s costume was exactly the same color scheme but with a daring, V-neck collar that showcased his broad chest. He was also a perfectly sculpted exhibit except his edges were just a bit harder, more masculine, and definitely the result of hours and hours of training.

  As they made their way to the center of the ice, Brenda looked away. So far, she’d only watched the skaters before them make their way to the middle of the rink before she looked elsewhere. Striking their pose, waiting for the music to start, Brenda wished she had a camera to snap that perfect picture. They were beautiful to look at standing still, and they’d be even more amazing once they moved. Brenda just knew it. She wondered what their training sessions were like.

  She wasn’t a fan of The Russians. She wasn’t jealous, but she wanted to stay focused, which required that she look away. Internally, she checked her body for any pains or twinges, but all the way up to her neck she felt tip-top. Scanning her brain, she didn’t have blurry vision or double vision or anything she felt might cause her to have an episode. But she couldn’t bring herself to watch the competition. Instead, she checked the competitors’ scores at the end and made a mental note of how far up the ladder she and Scott were going to climb.

  Scott was right next to her. They’d warmed up together, not saying too many words, but she enjoyed the peaceful way they could communicate. They were nervous. They were excited. But they were focused.

  The Russians had chosen a piece of music by the composer Wagner. It was sad and stern and quite intimidating, all at once. It was so dramatic that Brenda just had to take a peek. She saw Vladimir holding Alena over his head as if she barely weighed an ounce, with Alena perfectly arched backwards. It was like they did this every day. Brenda imagined their neighbors watching Vladimir walking down the street holding Alena arched over his head as they went to the grocery store or to the bus stop or the bank. “Look, Drago, there go the ice skaters. On their way to return a book at the library, I see. See, Ivana, the ice-skaters are going out to get their mail. Don’t they look lovely?”

  Shaking her head, Brenda slipped her hand into Scott’s and held it tightly. Shutting her eyes, she let a prayer pour out from her heart. “Dear Lord, I love you so much. I beg you to guide our steps as we skate, focus our minds, and let us perform to the best of our ability without worry of the outcome, other than it please You. Amen.”

  When she opened her eyes, she saw Alena’s and Vladimir’s routine coming to an end as they struck a final pose in the middle of the rink. The crowd applauded, but when the score popped up on the electric scoreboard over the judges’ table, the audience went wild. A 9.9.

  Alena jumped into Vladimir’s arms, hugging him and smiling. It was the first sign of emotion anyone had seen in the duo. Then, they hugged their coach, who didn’t smile but patted them both enthusiastically on the back and spoke wildly and quickly in Russian something that made the skaters nod their heads.

  “Almost perfect,” Scott said. “Yup. I can see that.”

  “We don’t need to be perfect. We just need to be good enough. Perfect can be saved for the Olympics,” Brenda said, still holding Scott’s hand.

  He smiled down at her and squeezed it. “I think we’re next,” he said, his right eyebrow arching playfully.

  “Well, then, let’s show them what we can do.”

  Brenda’s mother had made Brenda a simple, royal-blue costume. Hanging on a rack, it didn’t look all that special, but once Brenda slipped into it, the gold flecks could be seen for miles, and it seemed to dance and move on its own. Scott, who traditionally wore a black skating shirt with black, Lycra pants, this time had added a blue sash around his waist.

  When they stepped onto the ice, the audience went wild. Brenda and Scott had become somewhat famous—or maybe the word was infamous—because of her severe injury followed by the success of the earlier competition, and, now, the pressure of this Olympic qualifier. Reporters had tried to snag them either alone or together for a word or two. The only thing they ever said was they were feeling marvelous, and they wished all the skaters good luck—much to the disappointment of the journalists, who were looking for a little more of the Nancy Chen/Nika Babikov kind of scandal. Both Brenda and Scott had decided there would never be any of that.

  Holding each other’s hands, they waited for their music to start. It was a bold piece of music from a movie about people who chase tornados for a living. A silly concept and a silly movie, but Brenda had always found the music inspiring. She’d suggested it to Pamela when she first started training, and now, when she was at the very top of her journey and looking back, Brenda felt as if maybe she was chasing that storm.

  Unlike the previous competition, this time Brenda was alive in the moment. She smiled happily. No one would notice she was counting steps or adjusting herself slightly to any of Scott’s subtle signals.

  As they stood, poised like statues, an overwhelming feeling of joy came over Brenda. Standing in the spotlight, she felt God’s glory shining down upon her. She wanted to win, she wanted to go to the Olympics, but she knew that even if she missed a step—or worse—it was all according to God’s plan, and she was blessed.

  The first powerful note of their music boomed, and she and Scott accelerated into their routine. They sped around the rink, Scott hoisting Brenda into graceful lifts, and then they mirrored one another as they glided side by side. Brenda felt total mastery and total freedom at the same time under Scott’s powerful guidance. She knew she was as good as she’d ever been—no, she was better. She knew without a doubt that she was better as a pairs skater than she’d been as a single performer. With this thought, she burst into a trill of laughter.

  Everything was proceeding as if in a dream as they neared the end of the routine. The final flourish was Scott flinging Brenda out across the ice, where she was to perform a difficult set of moves as he skated on the periphery. This was the trickiest part of their performance because Scott was far away and the moves were quick and in rapid succession, followed by a backwards glide culminating in a layback spin.

  Brenda did a fancy quickstep and swung into the glide. She’d practiced gauging the distance to the edge of the rink countless times, but it always made her nervous to be moving backwards on her own. Scott was to swoop in and dance her away once she completed the spin.

  She began to spin, and something went awry in her vision. Spinning was dizzying enough, but she could distinguish the usual vertigo of the spin from what was happening now. She immediately pulled out of the move, hoping Scott would notice the change in the routine and come to her assistance. She was wobbly, and dark spots danced before her eyes. It felt like an eternity of uncertainty as she tried to orient herself, but it was less than five seconds between the time she’d come out of the spin and when Scott arrived at her side. He grabbed her firmly around the waist and by the hand, and they moved into the easy stroll that had been built into the routine to follow her difficult solo performance.

  “Are you OK?” Scott murmured, a broad smile for the crowd plastered on his face.

  “A little dizzy, but OK now,” she panted, also smiling. “Thank you, Scott.”

  The spots disappeared, the dizziness vanished, and they completed their performance perfectly.

  As they stood in the center of the ice taking bows, Brenda felt electric. She remembered everything this time. Looking up at Scott, she laughed just a little. Even with the stumble during the spin, Brenda still knew they’d nailed it, and she felt Scott knew it as certainly as she did. The scoreboard reflected it in a 9.8 score.

  Brenda shouted and did a little skip as she and Scott skated back to t
he corral to hug Pamela, who had tears in her eyes. The crowd broke loose and kept clapping until Brenda and Scott made a second appearance to take a bow. Then Scott sent Brenda out alone. It was her they wanted to see. She was the one with the story, the fierce obstacle that maybe none of them thought she could overcome. None but her family that is. And Scott. He watched her as tears fell down her face. Modestly, she waved and then skated back to the corral to finally walk out of view.

  Taking a seat out of the way of the other skaters and next to Scott, Brenda wrapped a towel around her shoulders and grabbed her bottle of water. Scott began to untie his laces and slip into his Nike walking shoes to make his way to the locker room. They didn’t speak, but Brenda nudged him with her elbow. He pushed her back, making her laugh. She did it one more time to him, and he really pushed her, making her almost spill her water on herself. They both laughed out loud.

  Pamela had made her way to the row of reporters, who weren’t allowed in the skaters’ corral or anywhere near the locker rooms. Without waiting for questions, Pamela said, “Brenda and Scott worked harder than any skater out there. They had more to overcome. And I believe it was their faith in each other and their faith in God that got them this far. Without either one of those things, they never would have succeeded. But then again, none of us can succeed without those two things.” She watched as the reporters wrote down her words.

  “Do you think the pressure of the Olympics might be dangerous for Brenda?” a reporter with square black glasses and hair that stood out in every direction asked, pushing those glasses up with his index finger as he spoke.

  “Is there any kind of romance happening between the skaters?” asked a woman with frosted blonde hair wearing a thick, gray turtleneck.

  “What will your training schedule be like, and will you take it easy on Brenda because of her delicate condition?” asked a very young man with a bald head and a black scarf around his neck.

  Pamela looked at him sternly. “I’ll answer that question. Brenda is anything but delicate. In my years of being her coach, delicate is never a word I’d use to describe her. If you’d been paying attention to her career, you’d know that. Brenda is a great skater. Scott is a great skater. And together they’ll become Olympians.”

  Pamela waved off the rest of the reporters’ questions and walked away to speak with some of the other coaches she’d known and seen at events throughout the years.

  Skaters came up to Brenda and Scott as they wiped their foreheads and drank more water, giving them hugs and pats on the back. Everyone was so nice; it made Brenda feel even more humble.

  Once they were alone again, she said, “I don’t know what to say, Scott.”

  “Me neither.” He grinned. “Let’s not say anything and just ... enjoy.”

  Brenda nodded and looked deeply into Scott’s eyes, noticing the tiny variants of color and how sparkly they were. She nodded some more as she took off her skates and slipped into a pair of fuzzy pink slippers her mother had given her. She hadn’t taken three steps in them when her mother came bounding up the second hallway that cut over to the locker rooms, waving her arms and laughing loudly.

  Mrs. Wagner just held Brenda, hugging her tightly and rocking her back and forth. When she finally let go, she pulled Scott to her for more hugs and rocking. Peter gave his sister a bouquet of a dozen roses, then shook Scott’s hand and patted him on the back. But Brenda’s father stood back a little, giving her and Scott a shy wave as he wiped his eyes.

  At the end of the hallway, there were half a dozen reporters milling around. As soon as they saw Brenda and Scott, they began waving and calling their names, marching up to them as if they were heading into war. They all talked at once and held up their mobile phones for quick pictures and then to record themselves asking questions.

  “Miss Wagner, were you nervous?”

  “Uh, yeah. Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Miss Wagner, did you experience anything that made you think maybe this wasn’t such a good idea?”

  “Nope.”

  “Miss Wagner, do you think training for the Olympics will be even harder?”

  “There’s a good chance it will be.”

  “Miss Wagner, what do you have to say to anyone who didn’t think you’d make it?”

  Brenda took a big breath and calmed herself. She smiled nicely at the reporters and blinked with every camera flash. “I’d just like to say that I respect everyone who puts on a pair of skates, whether they’re competing or just having fun. It isn’t easy out on the ice.” She looked around at her mom and dad and smiled at them.

  “Those are my parents. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to go to the Olympics. Now I’m going. And I wouldn’t be if I didn’t pray to God for the strength. God gave me someone even stronger than me, and that’s my partner, Scott, who ...” Brenda looked around and then at her mother, who shrugged her shoulders. “Well, now, he was here just a second ago. Thanks, guys, but I need to find him. We can talk later.”

  Brenda looked at her mother again, pointed to the locker room, and headed off to change her clothes and get washed up, wondering where Scott had gone. He’d probably gotten stuck with his own swarm of reporters as he’d tried to make a getaway and was somewhere answering stupid questions. Were you nervous? What kind of question is that?

  Chapter 12

  When Scott exited the building, he was surprised to see it was already dark outside. He knew the day had seemed long, but he didn’t think it was so late. Heading out to his car, which was parked by itself at the far end of the skating rink parking lot, Scott swung his duffle bag over his shoulder and pulled out his keys. His mind could barely wrap around what had just happened. But he felt it. Deep inside his chest, he felt that flame keeping him warm in the cold temperature, and, tomorrow, after it had sunk in, he’d probably be giggling like a crazy person with happiness. But for now, he felt a satisfied kind of exhaustion. He hoped Brenda was enjoying herself. Those reporters had come to see her, and he knew it. There was drama around Brenda they wanted to be part of, and he was happy for her. If he knew Brenda—and he was pretty confident he did—she’d put them in their place right quick. They wouldn’t waste too much time asking her dumb questions. Not if they wanted a reply.

  His mind replayed every step of their routine. How exciting it all was! So many things could have gone wrong, yet none of them did. Not a single glitch. Everything fell in line perfectly. He almost enjoyed the feeling of tightness in his chest, imagining Brenda in the air and then coming down in a textbook example of a perfect landing. For those split seconds, he felt his breath lock in his chest. But when her feet came down, she was smiling. He thought for sure she was going just to scream out loud. The way she squeezed his hand made the smile spread across his own face.

  Listening to his footsteps, he heard them echo against the buildings. But they weren’t really echoing. In fact, his shoes were soft-soled, so there wouldn’t be an echo. There was another set of feet following him.

  Suddenly, his heart was pounding with fear. He kept moving as a cold sweat tingled the skin of his back. This couldn’t be happening. After a perfect day, a perfect night, now, after all this time, the men who were out to get his father had found him. They’d found Walter’s Achilles Heel. It was Scott. And they were going to strike. Thinking quickly, Scott scanned his surroundings and, with a split-second to make the decision, he changed his direction and ducked behind the bushes that lined the lot. Holding his breath, he listened. And listened some more.

  What am I going to do if I actually corner the guy? Scott thought. The last time he’d gotten into a fight, he was sixteen years old. Matt Grody was a classmate of his. They rode the same bus. Grody—his name a perfect description of the boy’s face, which was covered with freckles and, where there wasn’t a freckle, there was a pimple—was a bully. And he liked to pick on underclassmen and girls. This time, he was hassling a girl by the name of Sandy Kristman. Her hair was so blonde it was practically white and, because she was a l
ittle on the heavy side, she was a prime target for Grody.

  Scott had heard what he was saying to her. Asking her personal, inappropriate questions and taking her silence as permission for him to continue. When she began to cry, Grody just doubled his efforts.

  “You’re going to cry. I guess that means I guessed right about you,” Grody said loudly, chuckling. Scott remembered his eyes twinkling with a sadistic kind of pleasure.

  It was a sad thing to witness, really. Somewhere in that boy’s life, he was the one being bullied by someone bigger and badder than himself. So, of course, he continued the tradition by finding weaker opponents to do battle with. Most people in their school just ignored Grody. His wit was dull. His thoughts were slow to come. But, he did a good job on the football team as a first stringer. He was actually light on his feet and managed a touchdown or two every game. For a guy with such a skinny frame, he was a bit of an anomaly. He also had the football team to watch his back everywhere he went, at least at school. But on the bus, he was on his own. There were no other football players, no coaches. No one who’d keep him in line or urge him on. But that day, Scott stepped in.

  “Grody, leave her alone,” Scott said, rolling his eyes at the boy as if he were tired of repeating himself.

  “Why don’t you butt out, Porter?”

  Sandy looked at Scott, her eyes hopeful.

  “Come on, Sandy. Cry a little bit. Just a little bit,” Grody goaded, turning his attention back to Sandy as if Scott hadn’t said a word.