The Chosen Ones

by Lisa Luciano

  “They’ve been together since he was ten,” another slightly younger, bespectacled woman said.

  “She’s his coach. Why does she act like his mother?”

  “She might as well be. He spends more time with her than his own family.”

  “Man, I’d like to help him cut those apron strings,” she said, taking in every inch of his body.

  “Too late.”

  “You believe those stories about him and that bitch?”

  “You mean zee great Bri-gi-tta Besch?” she said, thrusting her nose in the air.

  “Don’t you just want to just slap that conceited expression off her face?”

  “For a start.”

  “Those aren’t rumors. I know.”

  “Are you kidding? Spill it!”

  “It was after that charity event three years ago. I followed their limo back to the hotel.”

  “And?” asked yet another woman who had joined the pack and was now hanging on every word.

  “They went into her room.”

  “So?”

  “So, I had to find out.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. At least nothing anyone can prove. I was just in the right place at the right time which happened to be sitting in the parking lot with a pair of binoculars at 2 a.m.”

  “How could you see anything?”

  “They turned on the light.”

  “And?”

  “Let’s put it this way. If the way they were dressed was any indication, they weren’t playing cards, unless it was strip poker.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out. Details, girl. Details.”

  “Well, she was wearing—”

  “Who gives a hoot about her! What did he have on?”

  “Nothing but what the Almighty gave him. And let me tell you, if there’s anything to genetics, his Daddy must have put a permanent smile on his mama’s face the day their little boy was conceived.”

  “No way.”

  “Hung like a horse.”

  “I knew that wasn’t padding inside those tights.”

  “But I thought he was gay,” someone chimed in.

  “Give me a break. Would a woman who can have any man—”

  “And probably has.”

  “Slut.”

  “I don’t care if she bangs farm animals. Would she waste her time with a gay guy?”

  “What difference does it make? They’re history.”

  “Yeah. God is good.”

  Brody made a mental note to follow up on this Brigitta something and see where she fit in.

  Like a good traffic cop, Carol did her best to manage the hoard of autograph seekers, most of whom were female, who had swarmed Robby before she could escort him safely across the lobby. One who was bold enough handed her camera to a friend, begged for just one picture, and melted as Robby gently slung his arm around her shoulder.

  Mmm, let me die now, she thought, leaning close enough to sniff his cologne and notice that he hadn’t shaved yet that day.

  He smiled, but said nothing, gazing steadily at the succession of papers and photos thrust into his hands as Carol looked on. As many times as she had been through this, Carol always felt a charge of electricity crackling in the air around her when she walked through the hotel on the first day of Nationals.

  The energy of these driven young people lifted her. Her spine straightened. Her strides took on more purpose. Fragmented moments rushed through her mind along with the unquenchable pride of a former athlete; a gift left over from her own competitive days.

  With everyone finally satisfied, she and Robby continued through the lobby. They passed an easel displaying a piece of fluorescent green poster board that indicated the room beyond was restricted to skaters and coaches only. It was a room like any other, filled with tables, chairs, nervous teenagers and humorless adults. She grinned at the expression on Robby’s face that she knew so well.

  No matter what the other fifty odd weeks of his life offered, here, at least for a few days, he was officially a very special person in an otherwise ordinary world. That was more than most people got and she was grateful. She hoped it was the real reason he had dragged them both back into the belly of the beast one more time.

  “I’ll meet you upstairs. Go relax. I’ll submit your music and handle whatever other nonsense they have waiting,” Carol said, the tilt of her head urging him to keep moving.

  She disappeared into the meeting room. Brody continued to follow Robby, then stopped beside a group of well-scrubbed young men who were watching him wait for the elevator.

  “Man, don’t those bastards have enough? They’ve got their medals. They made a fortune as pros. Why can’t they stay where they are and let us have our turn?” moaned one.

  “Guess they just can’t let go,” suggested another.

  “They may have to. The judges aren’t exactly thrilled with them coming back and stirring things up.”

  “Are you kidding? Chandler’s the king of the suck ups. He’ll blow the head referee if it’ll get him a few more tenths. They love him.”

  “Maybe. But they don’t love Donovan. He’s the one who started all the trouble by reinstating. If it wasn’t for him, Chandler wouldn’t have bothered. The Federation officials don’t want all this attention. Makes it harder to cheat.”

  “I don’t care how good Donovan is. No way I’d want to be him. He gives them the slightest opening and they’ll fry his ass.”

  “You know he does a triple axel?”

  “Whoop-tee-do. Everybody does.”

  “Twice in the same program? In combination?”

  “And he never misses.”

  “Damn.”

  “I’m telling you, he’ll out jump everybody.”

  “Even Chandler?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Too bad it won’t matter. Chandler’s a lock to win.”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s still the third spot.”

  “Kiss it goodbye. Bennett’s back.”

  “No way.”

  “I saw him check in.”

  “Crap.”

  Robby entered the elevator. Brody sprinted after him, squeezing between the doors just before they closed. Frowning at his success, Robby pushed the button for the twelfth floor. He waited for Brody to make a different selection. When he didn’t, Robby’s face tightened. He cast his eyes to the floor.

  “You’re Robby Donovan, aren’t you?” Brody asked.

  “Yup.”

  Real friendly type. I’m gonna need a crowbar to get anything outta him.

  “Brody Yates,” he said, extending his hand. “New team trainer.”

  The rocks dropped from Robby’s shoulders. He offered a relaxed smile as they shook hands.

  “I thought for sure you were a reporter.”

  “Why?” Brody asked nervously.

  “Because you look like you’re trying to fit in.”

  Great, Brody thought. James Bond can relax.

  “Man, those bastards are everywhere waiting to catch you with your fly open,” Robby said, squeezing the jacket hanging over his wrist a little tighter.

  “Figuratively or literally?”

  “Whatever. First, they grab you by the balls, then they hang you by them.”

  Brody wanted to defend his profession, but realized not only would protesting a bit too much risk exposing himself, it wouldn’t be true. He’d gone in for the kill more times than he cared to remember and not once did he feel the slightest remorse for the victim. If it was the truth, then he had to write it. The hell with the consequences. Had his article been printed all those years ago, countless careers would have been ruined, not to mention casting a black cloud over professional football like none the sports world had ever seen before. He shook his head for the thousandth time, thinking about how close he came.

  He sensed Robby was a nice guy, if a bit paranoid. He hoped before all was said and done that there were no damaging truths to be uneart
hed in his background since he’d already decided that if the phone message turned out to be phony, he’d find out what he could and write an expose on the skaters. It wasn’t something he would be proud of, but pieces for tabloids had paid his rent more than a few times before.

  “I’m available whenever you need me. Anything in particular I should know?” Brody asked, scanning Robby’s frame that looked healthy, but slighter in person than on TV.

  “Yeah. Don’t trust anybody.”

  The doors opened and Robby was gone.

  Brody waited long enough to dispel any fear Robby might have that he was being trailed, then slowly walked down the hall, looking and listening like a human metal detector. All the skaters had been placed on the same floor for security reasons. If anything was going to happen, chances are it would be here.

  Whispers coming from around the corner stopped Brody in his tracks. For all he knew, it was nothing more sinister than two maids folding bed sheets, but he’d learned never to ignore even the most seemingly inconsequential occurrence. Like his daddy always said, ‘It ain’t the tornado that kills ya. It’s the paper clip comin’ at your head at a hundred miles an hour.’

  A young woman giggled. Her male companion shushed her. Brody decided whatever they were doing that required silence and privacy might be worth a moment or two of his time. He would’ve given his best pair of brown leather Durangos to be able to walk around that corner, but it was a dead end leading to a fire exit.

  If there had been a way to do it without arousing suspicion, he would have seen Leslie Walker, the defending U.S. Ladies National Champion, in the arms of Freeman Bennett, one of the top contenders in the men’s division.

  The stark contrast was undeniable. She was petite with sparkling blue eyes set off by thick brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, held in place by a pink scrunchee. He was nearly six feet tall, almost too big for a skater, with high, carved cheekbones and skin several shades darker than Brody’s mahogany coffee table.

  “I’ve got to see you, she begged, gripping the front of his sea mist green Umbro shirt.”

  “Where?” he asked. “We’re always being watched.”

  “I can’t take this sneaking around.”

  “You know what they’ll do if they find out.”

  “I don’t care,” she insisted.

  “I do. I won’t be responsible for you sacrificing everything you’ve worked for. You’re not just anybody. You’re a national champion.”

  “That makes me powerful.”

  “Wrong,” he scowled at her like an unforgiving schoolmaster. “It makes you weak. You belong to them. At least they think so. And the bottom line is, they aren’t going to sit still while one of their ice princesses cavorts with the black sheep of the skating world.”

  “I’m sorry I ever won. It’s because of that everyone has their nose in my business. If I was a waitress, nobody would care who I’m sleeping with.”

  “Except maybe your parents.”

  “And yours.”

  “Amen,” he said, casting his eyes upward.

  She snuggled closer and laid her head on his chest. Time froze as they each felt the rhythm of the other’s heart.

  “Do you remember when you said you’d do anything to make me happy?” she asked.

  “I was drunk, right?”

  She yanked her head back and punched him in the arm.

  “Okay. Okay,” he said, throwing up his hands in mock surrender before embracing her tenderly once more. “You know I would.”

  “Then find a way for us to be together.”

  He exhaled.

  “Okay. I know a place. Tomorrow night. After the short program. I’ll meet you down the street. Make sure you’re out of sight of the hotel.”

  He took in the scent of her perfume. She used to wear a different brand, sickeningly sweet, but now wore only the spicy fragrance he gave her on their first date a year earlier. It suited her, the real her. To the world, she was the perfect little wind up doll. To him, she was a woman; demanding, vain, insecure, yet totally devoted to bringing him pleasure, and with it, her own.

  “I have to go,” he said, as if turning away a second helping of his favorite slice of pie. “I can’t miss practice.”

  “Are you sure?” she purred.

  Their breath intermingled as their faces drew closer. She slipped her gum under her tongue. He swallowed his Life Saver in one gulp. His mouth was larger than hers, but as they pressed their lips together, they fit perfectly. She tasted like strawberries; he, like mint leaves. The elevator chime told them it was time to go.

  He pulled away slowly, then darted back, covering her body with his as he pushed her against the wall. He pressed his index finger to his lips and waited. The voices soon faded. He gazed down at her, amused that he had accidentally assumed a spread eagle position.

  “Relax,” Leslie said, easing his arms down to his sides. So what if someone sees us? They’re not going to lynch you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Brody began to back away. He didn’t want to be seen by Freeman or anyone else.

  “Hey!” called a gruff voice from behind.

  He spun around to see a tall, silver-haired man peering at him like a vulture spying its next meal.

  “You de new guy?” he said with an accent Brody couldn’t immediately place. “Of course. I’m never wrong.” He stuck out his hand. “Villie Vasser. Team doctor.”

  He had a strong grip for a man who looked to be well into his seventies.

  “Tomorrow. You be at the arena early. I show you around.”

  He turned and headed down the hall.

  “Hey,” Brody called to him. “How’d you know I was new?”

  The old man shrugged, casting a quick smile at Brody’s outfit.

  “You trying too hard to fit in. Who else could you be?”

  Chapter 3

  Brody dragged his body out of bed at a time he hadn’t been acquainted with since his days on the farm. Still, he was glad to be up. The mattress was too soft. That had to be the reason his back ached. It wasn’t age or stress. He was Brody Yates. Fearless. Relentless. The guy who never gave up on a story or anything else.

  What the hell am I doin’ here? he thought as he yanked on his sweat suit, then reconsidered, slipping into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt instead. His one compromise was a pair of sneakers.

  That’s it. That’s as far as I go. Anybody comes near me with that spandex crap, and I’ll deck ‘em.

  He slurped down a cup of black coffee, then hopped onto the shuttle that ran hourly between the hotel and the rink which was nestled inside a brown and white basket of hills on the edge of town.

  Jarring its passengers once last time, the bus wheezed to a halt. The tidal wave of energy, ambition and talent surging through the arena entrance wore many faces, but still there was a shared look. Perhaps it was the manicured appearance. Hair styled to suggest motion even during moments of stillness. A congregation of adrenalin-charged Pierrots each painting his or her own variation on the same theme; slaves to the schizophrenic nature of the sport. Conform to the set standards, but find a way to shine. Was that a judge? Smile. Glow.

  In the changing area, observers and competitors circled a maze of benches dipped in the smell of coffee and hot dogs drifting from the concession stand. Next to the equipment shop where skates could be rented or sharpened was a display of well-known faces. One by one, younger skaters not yet touched by years of high-powered competition paid homage to the autographed photos sealed behind glass before moving on, secretly hoping that one day their own image would hang alongside their predecessors.

  A final set of see-through doors led to the ice. Delighted to shed the confines of reality, Robby, who was always early, stepped through this looking glass into a frozen cocoon.

  “Anyone not wearing a competitor or coach’s badge, please stand back from the railing,” growled a voice through the scratchy public address system.

  The ice was rimmed by a be
ehive of activity. Warm up outfits being peeled off. Laces tightened. Skaters of various sizes and shapes waddling in and out of doors to face encouragement, berating, or handholding.

  Robby stared at the empty judges’ desk glaring back at him from across the rink. His mind said he could do it. He could win. Then a smaller voice that had waited for its turn, but would be silent no longer, asked a simple question.

  Why? He already had an Olympic silver medal. He’d enjoyed a successful professional career that he could return to whenever he desired. That was more than most would ever achieve. What was he there to prove?

  Shrieks of delight gurgled from a small spectator who had escaped a distracted huddle nearby, but her freedom was short-lived. She was quickly snatched up by parents offering last minute moral support to their twitchy teen who in any other setting would be a normal, happy human being. Not today. Today, he was a competitor.

  Carol made the rounds greeting old friends, but her gaze never once singled out a particular person other than Robby whose every move she noted and logged. Instead, her eyes jumped from one corner of the room to the other absorbing, analyzing, and filing information. They would need every possible edge.

  Go in and change, she thought, sending Robby a message through that special form of communication she wanted to believe they shared.

  She grinned as he disappeared into the locker room.

  Brody wandered backstage looking for the medical area. Though every fiber in his being raged against it, he broke down and asked a passerby to direct him. Realizing it was only yards away, he convinced himself he would have found it eventually.

  The room reeked of alcohol. While the scent used to cause many of his college classmates to gag on a regular basis during their lab work, Brody soaked it up like the fragrance of a bouquet of roses. He always took that as a sign he was where he belonged. So much for omens.

  A black leather examination table was surrounded by a white Formica counter covered with glass jars and metal containers. Willie Wasser stood there in his official team sweat suit, staring at Brody’s clothes. He said nothing. His look was enough. Brody would wear the proper outfit tomorrow.

  “Okay,” Wasser barked. “You do nothing without telling me first. I know dees boys like I raised dem myself. Dey lie to everybody but me. Don’t want nobody getting a leg up. But I know. And you will too. You keep your mouth shut about what you see in here. Got it?”