The club was too posh and pretentious for his taste, and he winced at how much it cost just to walk in. Life was different without Nikolai’s money that was for damn sure. When they toasted Sasha with vodka shots, the nightclub manager recognized them and decided they were famous enough to sit in the VIP balcony.
As they were shown to a table, Daniil had a creeping sense of being watched. No sooner had he sat down than a steroid-pumped dude in a black t-shirt walked over. “Daniil Nikolaevich. Your papa insists you join him for a drink.”
Daniil turned. Nikolai and his entourage sat at a corner table. Well, he’d wanted a response from his father. He should be more careful about what he wished for.
As Daniil approached, Nikolai gestured toward the open chair to his right. Though his father was pushing sixty, his hair was still dark and his face hadn’t aged in the five years since Daniil last saw him. The body guard poured shots from the table bottle of Stoli Elit: Himalayan and Nikolai toasted. “To my son, who would have otherwise ignored me.”
Everyone laughed, then drank, then left. Only Daniil, Nikolai, the body guard, and a beautiful young blonde in diamonds and a fur coat, remained. If her long, bare legs were any sign, she wore nothing else. Nikolai lit a cigarette off hers and exhaled. “You’re in town and don’t even come to see me.”
“I’ve been busy.”
Nikolai moved closer to his pouty squeeze. “Everyone is busy. But Oksana’s a big skating fan and wanted to meet you.”
Oksana seemed more interested in her phone, but Daniil spread his hands and leaned back in his chair. “So here I am. And what are you about these days?”
Nikolai gestured with his cigarette. “Business, always business. Solving problems for those in need. Lately, I’ve been hearing about your problems.”
“I don’t have problems.”
Nikolai snorted and refilled their glasses. “You’re broke and have to beg Yuri Bogdanov for money. Without money to train, your skating career is over. I would call that a problem. Though not an insurmountable one.”
They downed another shot. The vodka was clean with a nice, peppery burn. “Meaning what?”
Nikolai smiled. “Bogdanov is a reasonable man. He just needs the right incentive. The carrot or the stick? It’s hard to know which will motivate someone. I prefer to offer rewards, but if that doesn’t work, the threat of punishment usually does.”
“Punishment.” Daniil turned the word over on his tongue. “You would know something about that.”
His father narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t lay a hand on you, though for all the trouble you put me through, you deserved a good beating. Often, it seemed as though I were the one being punished.”
“I’m sure it did.” Daniil’s mouth twisted. “Left to raise a son you never wanted, who enjoyed making your life hell?”
“Your mother knew I had no interest in raising a child. Neither did she. I’m the first to admit I’m a better businessman than parent. But the past is past, and now, you need my help. Because without it?” Nikolai shrugged, answering his own question.
So much was buried in that insolent gesture. Even if Bogdanov told him no and Daniil had to quit competing and skate as Prince Charming in an ice show, he would never take another ruble from this man. “Because without it, I’ll never amount to anything.”
“Exactly.” He poured more vodka. “So tell me what you need from me.”
Daniil slammed his shot glass down on the table. Nikolai’s very fine vodka slopped over the side. “I don’t need a fucking thing from you.”
He grabbed his coat and walked out of the bar.
~
The next morning, Daniil met his coaches for breakfast. Over a traditional spread of eggs, chopped smoked salmon, country-style bread and strong black tea, Anton said, “Bogdanov wants to meet with you today. You alone. Not me, or Ilya present.”
Daniil rubbed his eyes. Last night, Nikolai, now Bogdanov. If he could endure this, he could endure anything. “Why? So there will be no witnesses to the murder?”
“You don’t have to accept,” Anton said. “I told him I would relay the message, but the decision is yours.”
Ilya poured more tea from the aluminum pot beside his plate. “If he meant to bar you from competition, would he have had you come all the way to Moscow?”
“Why not? He’s hated me ever since my suspension. Before that, even. But I’ll see him. Best to know his decision now before I waste the week practicing programs I’ll never perform again.”
The federation office was in a non-descript building in the Taganka district, a short Metro ride from the hotel. Bogdanov’s office was small and windowless, an odd place to wield so much power. Daniil took out his phone and opened the recording app he’d downloaded for the occasion. “So I miss nothing, Yuri Viktorovich.”
Bogdanov steepled his fingers and stared at him through his dark rimmed glasses. “Your drug test came back clean.”
“As it should have. So nothing bars me from skating in Nationals, and if I’m successful here, Grenoble.”
Bogdanov looked older and even more austere than he had when he’d been Daniil’s coach. “And after years of flagrant bad behavior, now you need our money so you can continue to train.”
“As well as I’ve skated, it’s not in the federation’s interest to deny me the chance.”
“Don’t presume to tell me about the federation’s interests. If it were my choice, I would send you back to the hole from which you crawled. But others feel you deserve a chance, so unfortunately, I must give you one. Here it is. If you are the men’s national champion, you will win the privilege of representing Russia in the Winter Games, and receive funds through the rest of the season.
“And if I don’t?”
“That’s your problem, not mine.”
Daniil’s anger surged. No other skater was being held to such standards. It wasn’t fair, but it was what he’d reaped from years of doing as he pleased, damn the consequences. If he wanted a chance, he not only had to say he was worth one, he had to prove it.
Bogdanov’s hard expression reminded him of Nikolai. Both had said he’d never amount to anything. Long ago, he’d sworn he’d prove his father wrong. He added Bogdanov to the list. Daniil picked up his phone. “When I make good on my end of the deal, this proves you must hold up yours.”
Daniil’s coaches were furious when they heard what Bogdanov had said. “Legally, he can’t do that,” Anton said, fuming. “Every judge could be pressured to score you lower than you deserve.”
“Then I have to skate so well there’s no question I deserve to win,” Daniil said. “Nikolai’s money meant I could ignore the federation, but that time is over. Either I deserve to stay in on my own merit, or I don’t.”
But Monday morning’s brave talk felt far away Wednesday evening. His future, everything he’d worked for came down to how he skated in the short program tonight and the free skate tomorrow.
In the backstage corridor, Daniil paced through his program. Inside his shirt, he felt the weight of a coin-sized medallion Ilya had given him earlier in the day.
“That’s St. John the Warrior,” Ilya explained. “He’s the intercessor for difficult circumstances. He’s on your side, and so are we.”
A saint known as “the Warrior” was a good fit, as Daniil had been called a warrior, too. Though he wasn’t religious like Ilya, he appreciated the thought. Just as he appreciated Anton and Carrie working their contacts for endorsements and teaching gigs, so Daniil could continue in competitive skating, even if he didn’t qualify for Grenoble.
Daniil didn’t want to let them down. He didn’t know if he had it in himself to be perfect, he only knew he had to try.
He put on his headphones to pace through “Moonlight Sonata” once more. A memory popped into his mind. He saw Tabitha, sitting across the table in the diner in Chicago, a plate of French toast in front of her. Even with the music playing he could hear her voice. “You’re dynamic, exciting. The technique
is perfect too, but there’s more to it. Your love for skating shines through.”
When she’d told him that she wanted the same, he’d told her, “your body knows the moves. You just need to get your head out of the way, so you can shine through.”
He’d really just wanted to convince her to come to Vancouver. But the essence of why he loved figure skating was right there in that little conversation.
The moves were important, and he’d spent fifteen years training his body to do them exactly right. Sure, things could go wrong. But didn’t that usually happen when he was trapped in his head, and not one with the ice?
Skating was motion and emotion. It was prowess and passion. Honesty and fearlessness. It was the most fun a person could have with their clothes on. Those were the qualities Tabitha had responded to and wanted for herself. He’d helped her see that because of what she’d overcome, she already had them. He’d helped her see how she could use her skating to turn something bad into something beautiful.
Couldn’t the same be said for his struggles?
Years ago, he’d transformed a punishment into a way to shine, and in doing so, he’d won. He’d fought to make a fresh start when everyone had written him off. He’d fallen in love when he’d never believed it was possible.
Now he faced a new hill to climb, but what he’d said to his father in the nightclub was true. Daniil had everything he needed.
He closed his eyes and let the somber notes of “Moonlight Sonata” envelop him. He pictured himself on the ice performing the program. Though he stood still, each movement in the program was so familiar, he could sense how they stretched and pushed his muscles.
The first time he’d heard the piece, he’d connected with its solitude. He’d once seen it as painful, but not anymore. There was peace and strength too.
Someone tapped his shoulder. His eyes snapped open, and there was a moment’s sadness when it didn’t turn out to be the woman he longed for. But it was one of the many people who cared about him, so he’d be grateful for that.
“Are you ready?” Anton asked.
Daniil nodded with certainty. “Yes. I am.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“YES!” HUNCHED OVER HER LAPTOP, Tabitha watched the video of Daniil’s riveting free skate at Russian Nationals. He’d nailed all four quads in his program, even the Lutz/toe combination, landing with confidence each time. Even more impressive was the emotional power of his skating, which brought the Moscow audience to its feet.
When his scores were posted, she felt like weeping. Combined with the stellar marks he’d earned for last night’s short program, it meant that Daniil had won gold. He would represent Russia in Grenoble.
Hands clasped to her face, Tabitha brushed away the moisture that brimmed in her eyes. Should she send her congratulations? He’d ignored her message when she’d called to say she missed him and was happy he’d done well at the International Series Championship. He’d ignored the one she sent yesterday after the short program.
But wasn’t three times the charm? She grabbed her phone.
Samara came out of the bedroom, to see her weeping and texting. “So my film moved you to tears and now you’re raving about it on Twitter!” She grinned. “Gosh, Sis. I don’t know what to say.”
Tabitha closed her laptop and set her phone aside. “I loved your movie too. Congratulations.” Samara’s project for her documentary class had taken a top prize in the fall student film festival. “I had no idea you were interested in documentary.”
“Me, either.” She sat down cross legged on the living room floor and unrolled a spool of candy cane wrapping paper. She positioned the box containing Fiona’s Christmas gift in the middle. “So the tears. Is it good news or bad?”
“Good. He took gold.”
“Sweet. That means you’ll see him in Grenoble.”
“I doubt it. The Games are a big place. It’s not like the US team hangs out with the Russians.” Never mind that there was no guarantee she’d even be one of the three skaters who got to go.
The front door swung open and Fiona came in, her arms loaded with paper grocery bags. A blast of rain followed. “Ho! Ho! Ho! Would one of you get the door, before this place floods?”
Tabitha hurried to the front while Samara put Fiona’s wrapped gift aside and rushed to take one bag. “What is all this?”
“A little Christmas cheer! I thought we could use it.” She shot a pointed look at Tabitha who hadn’t been particularly cheerful these past weeks.
Tabitha unloaded the bag which held a cornucopia of fresh produce. Broccoli, onions, garlic, cauliflower, sweet potatoes. Leafy green herbs to supplement the spindly parsley and basil growing in pots in the living room. “Do you need any help?”
“Nope. All I need is for you two to get your butts out of here for a few hours. Go out to a movie, or a bar or something. Isn’t Danté’s band playing tonight?”
Samara rolled her eyes. “It’s Christmas Eve. And I’m not seeing Danté anymore, remember?”
“Oh right. We’re onto the movie guy with Rasta braids. What’s his name again?’
“Kieran. And he’s back in Denver, visiting his family.”
Tabitha took out a pound of unsalted butter, and set it beside the toasted pecans and dark syrup. Fiona was making pecan pie. Even a tiny sliver would be worth all the exercise to burn off the calories.
As Fiona and Samara continued to unpack the bags, Tabitha snuck a peak at her messages. There was no reply from Daniil. She set it down and realized that Samara was watching. Her sister gave a knowing look. “Checking movie times?”
“Nothing good is showing. But I know where we can go.”
They drove to the Beverly Ice Arena, through traffic clogged streets shiny with rain.
“Are you sure it’s even open?” asked Samara. She fiddled with the settings on her ancient video camera. She’d bought it at a flea market when she was fourteen, and was rediscovering it’s stripped down, low-tech quality, having used it for her documentary on homeless senior citizens. One judge had even praised the “insightful irony” of her equipment choice.
“Not to the public. But with Nationals three weeks away, people will pop into practice at odd hours. If you record me skating, Peter will know I practiced while he was away.”
Her coach was off spending the holiday at some destination he’d been rather vague about.
The arena was quiet tonight, other than an ice dance team practicing on the north rink. In the South rink, she sat down to lace her boots. Samara sat at the other end of the bench. “They don’t have rental skates at this place, do they?”
“No, but I’m sure I can find a pair around here someplace if you want to skate.”
“Nah. That’s your thing.”
“Yep, it’s my thing.” How many hours had Samara spent sitting in rinks, bored out her mind, while Tabitha competed? It didn’t seem fair. When her boots were laced, she checked her phone again. Nothing.
“Are you working on your free skate?” She aimed the camera at Tabitha as she warmed up with some simple stretches, and then at the ice.
“I should,” she said, though she wasn’t in the mood. Since returning from St. Petersburg she’d skated nothing but her competition programs. Peter had insisted. But Peter wasn’t here and a little playtime might be exactly what she needed.
“Why don’t you film me skating my competition programs, and then I’ll just skate something I want, and work off Christmas dinner in advance.”
The cold air and exhilaration of flying across the ice lifted some of her doldrums. The work they’d put in after St. Petersburg had paid off. The axel was consistent again; Antigone had a new choreo sequence she liked better. But when the program music ended, the first song that came up on her playlist was “I Put a Spell on You.” Quickly, she skated to the sound booth and shut it off. Samara called across the ice. “All done?”
“Not yet.”
She flipped through her playlist until she found something
that fit her mood better. Adele’s “Hello.”
The somber piano and heart-wrenching lyrics about a woman reaching out to a man she’d hurt, only to be ignored, captured exactly what she was feeling. Caught up in the music, her skating was powerful and fearless, driven by the emotions she couldn’t express any place as well as she could express them here.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and sobs burst forth in a wrenching catharsis. She’d loved Daniil. She still loved Daniil. But what they’d had was over, she’d lost him, and there was nothing she could do.
Her sister looked solemn as Tabitha came off the ice. “Better?” Samara asked.
Tabitha laughed sadly. “I don’t know. Maybe a little. I’m surviving.”
“That’s something. I gather he hasn’t called?”
Tabitha shook her head.
“Jerk.”
“He was hurt when I ended it. It’s no surprise that he doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“Then why do you keep calling?”
“Because I wish I could take it all back. But I can’t,” Tabitha said, defeated.
“Heartache sucks.” Samara put her arm around Tabitha while Tabitha dropped her head on her sister’s shoulder. She had more in common with Samara than she’d realized.
“Sure does.”
“Come on, Sis. Let’s go home.”
Fiona was still in the kitchen, and the apartment was filled with the warm, sweet smell of just-baked pecan pie. She’d chopped the vegetables, cleaned the small turkey, and mixed the stuffing. “Everything is ready for tomorrow. I thought it was about time we had an honest-to-God Christmas dinner. And stay out of that! It’s not Christmas yet,” she scolded Samara, who was about to cut into the pie. “You girls want to set up the tree?”
Samara gaped and set down the pie knife. “We still have it?
“Down in the storage room. The ornaments and lights should be there too.”
Shining Through Page 20