by Lisa Luciano
They hadn’t exchanged more than a few casual words, yet he knew exactly what she wanted. His brain resisted, but his body was charting its own course as she inched closer. Her beauty was hard to ignore. Silver blue eyes floating on a serene pond of milky skin. His mind raced as he tried to weigh what he was feeling against what logic told him would be a mistake.
She eased him back until his shoulders absorbed the chill of the cement wall behind him. Her eyes never left his as she guided his hand under her blouse, inch by inch, over her flat abdomen and finally up to her soft, white breast. He wanted to enjoy it, but knew he shouldn’t. The other skaters were practicing only a few yards away. Worse yet. What if Carol stumbled onto them? He was scared. Appalled. And strangely excited by the danger of discovery.
This can’t be real, he thought as he squeezed her warm flesh before withdrawing his hand. I’m just having an incredibly great dream.
She kissed him hard. He held her tighter, so tight, she could barely breath. Her tongue tickled his. A fierce tug-of-war raged inside him. His heart pounded as her nipples flattened against his chest.
Paige leaned back slightly and unzipped his warm up jacket. She skillfully ran her fingers down the small strip of hairs leading to his naval, then slid them under the elastic waistband of his pants. He could almost hear the cheers of a crowd urging them on as her hand found its way between his legs. Satisfied with her efforts, she withdrew her hand and straddled him.
She tilted her head in the opposite direction and sealed her mouth over his once again. He felt like she was sucking the very life from him, yet he had no desire to stop her. They rocked under the motion of her groin against his as if bouncing on the swells of the ocean, when she suddenly backed away. His chest heaved as air rushed in and out of his lungs.
“I’ve got my own place on Pine Street. I’ll be there tonight. All night,” she whispered, sweeping her lips across his cheek.
“Aren’t you coming to see the short program?” he asked.
“I don’t watch skating unless I’m paid to do it. And I do it as little as possible. I like to save my energy for more important things,” she answered before she turned and slowly walked away.
Apparently, Robby thought, still somewhat stunned, some things had changed.
Chapter 4
STOWE, VT Jan.15
A near capacity crowd will pack Jackson Arena tonight to witness the first phase of the battle for the men’s national title—the short program. Miss one of the required technical elements and you can start packing. The winner won’t actually be determined until tomorrow, but each skater knows that to beat former world and Olympic champion, Glenn Chandler, he will need the lead going into the long program to have any chance of still having it when the ice chips finally settle.
The top three finishers earn a place on the Olympic team. A staggering accomplishment for anyone, anyone that is, except those who place second or third, which in this case is as good as finishing last. It’s essential to win here, not for glory, but for positioning.
The only way to have a serious shot at Olympic gold is to go into the Games as the number one American. Anyone lower on the ladder won’t be given serious consideration. There are too many good international contenders and the judges can only juggle so many balls at once. Fair or not, it’s more than likely the next Olympic champion will be decided by what happens this evening.
— Wire Service Report
Each of the skaters wandered backstage, their costumes transformed into garish works of art against the bland walls.
“What’ve you got?” Freeman asked Robby whose only movement was to furiously rub his hands together while the others lunged, jogged, and hopped in place.
It took Robby a moment to respond. The question had broken his concentration.
“Fourth.”
“I’m third. I’ll trade you,” Freeman said, tossing his arms back and forth, trying to expel the demons.
“Why?”
“Because with any luck, there’ll be a power failure and the ice’ll melt.”
“Will you knock it off? You’re making me nervous,” Robby said.
“Give me a break. The only thing that could shake you is a seven on the Richter scale.”
Glenn sat a few yards away on a metal staircase with his head down, his elbows resting on the thighs of his red slacks, and his fingers entwined as if praying. He wasn’t on speaking terms with God. Hadn’t been for a long time. He was running through his program in his mind, occasionally looking up to assure himself that while he was relaxing, the others were foolishly expending energy trying to stay warm. Everyone except Robby.
Carol stood leaning against the wall, already exhausted. Robby’s clenched jaw relaxed as their eyes met. She didn’t have to speak. He knew what she would ask: How are you feeling about the changes in the program? Anything you want to ask me? Both of them knew there was nothing left to say.
Carol followed him to the waiting area at rinkside. All she could do now was wait and watch.
After about a dozen others had completed their efforts, it was finally Freeman’s turn. The crowd reaction was polite, but not overwhelming as his name was announced. He took his opening position, brushed down the fringes of his brown suede vest one last time, and slid his blades back and forth to get the feel of the ice under him. His muscles had tightened after the long wait. Two minutes and forty seconds. A heartbeat or a marathon. The momentary hiss dripping from the speakers signaled that his music was about to begin.
Skating to excerpts from Rodéo, he pranced and tipped an imaginary ten gallon hat to the judges as he sped past them. His coach, Tony DiNatale, grabbed at his hair, his chin, his arms, anything that might possibly prevent him from leaping over the rail. It was a clean performance until the very end when Freeman lurched forward and pushed against the ice with his hands to prevent a complete fall out of the final jump.
“Damn. I never miss that,” he whispered with what little breath he had left.
He knew that meant an automatic deduction. In his mind he could only see his parents’ faces. His mother would be disappointed, his father bewildered. Before he could regain his focus, the music had stopped. His eyes found his coach who had a grin as big as the scoreboard. Maybe it wasn’t so tragic. If Mr. D thought it was okay, then it was. Freeman clapped his huge hands together as if swatting a particularly annoying mosquito, unable to contain his own broad smile. Despite the mistake, it was as good as he had ever felt on the ice.
Robby stood just outside the barrier, applauding his effort.
“We’d better stop meeting like this. People are going to start to wonder,” Freeman said as he passed him, his upturned mouth out of sync with his downcast eyes.
DiNatale slapped Freeman on the back.
“You were fantastic!”
The young man nodded.
Freeman’s parents beamed as they joined in the hearty cheers from the stands. They were an attractive couple in their mid forties. Solange Bennett was a statuesque beauty seemingly better suited to modeling than banking. Her husband, Curtis, leaned back comfortably in his seat, exposing a beeper hooked to a snakeskin belt beneath his turtle-necked sweater. They peered anxiously at the electronic scoreboard high in the corner of the arena, smiled at the numbers, then began to make their way down to their son.
Robby circled the ice close to the boards, trying to focus and remember the new layout of the program Carol had given him only a few hours earlier. He liked it the old way. He thought she did too. He hated skating a routine he hadn’t practiced again and again until it was in his bones and she knew it, but he would just have to trust her judgment.
Though he tried to shut it out, it was impossible not to hear the omniscient voice reading Freeman’s marks ranging from 5.6 to 5.8 out of 6. They were higher than he expected, but there was still plenty of room. He hoped the information would pass through him and not settle in his brain.
It doesn’t matter what anyone else does. This is about me. I�
��m here to skate well.
Robby repeated Carol’s words to himself. They’d always sounded good, even noble. But try as he did to beat it back, he could clearly hear that relentless voice shouting, I want to win! He didn’t think he could stand to lose to Glenn again. He was the best. How many times could the judges ignore that? In less than three minutes, he would know.
Carol wondered what Robby was thinking. His face was like the desert sand after a windstorm. No identifying marks to be found. Would he remember the mental preparation she taught him? Would he be focused? Confident? Secure? Could he handle the changes?
Please just let me stand up. Please just let me stand up, Robby chanted silently.
Emerging from the tunnel leading backstage, Freeman locked onto his mother’s stern expression. She looked past him, touched her cheek to his, and kissed the air. He took a whiff of her expensive perfume and stepped back. The heavy floral scent turned his stomach. At least he thought that’s what made him feel sick every time she came near him.
“Freeman, where did that music come from?” she asked.
“CD World.”
“Don’t get smart with me. When did you change the music?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“And why weren’t we told?” she said, barely letting the words escape before pressing her glossy maroon lips together.
“You were away on business.”
“We were gone for exactly three days. You’ve had plenty of time since then to—”
She stopped, reluctantly acknowledging his coach’s presence for the first time. She knew he was simply watching the action, waiting for the right time to intervene.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bennett! Wasn’t Freeman great tonight? I think it was his best short ever,” DiNatale said, shoving his sport jacket aside to place his hands on his hips.
They looked impatiently at the wiry, thirty seven-year-old man. A roll of Freeman’s eyes told the story. DiNatale’s grin melted.
“Did I interrupt something?” DiNatale asked.
“Freeman, go and change,” his mother said sharply.
He knew that look and was amazed anyone would even consider defaulting on a loan knowing they’d have to deal with her.
“Ma, please don’t start anything.”
“Go inside.”
He took several large strides, slapped his palm against the locker room door, and disappeared.
“You changed his music,” she said to DiNatale, arching her perfectly shaped eyebrows.
This was a well-traveled road. He sighed and looked down at the puddles on the floor left from melted ice shavings.
“Is that a problem?”
“We didn’t give our approval.”
He stared directly into her nutmeg eyes.
“This isn’t the place to discuss it,” he said.
“I don’t care. We are going to settle this now.”
“What exactly are your objections?”
“A western hoe down is totally inappropriate,” she said, over-enunciating each syllable. Our son is not a cowboy and that’s hardly the image he should be projecting.”
“He’s twenty years old. He doesn’t have an image, unless you bought him one of those too,” DiNatale said with a thrust of his hand.
A set of tapered, polished nails dug into the supple leather of her purse.
“How we raise our son is not your decision to make.”
“And picking music’s not yours,” he countered.
Waves of thick black hair spilled over DiNatale’s collar, swaying to the rhythm of his quick movements that reflected his razor-sharp mind.
“You hired me. That implies a certain amount of trust, but I can’t accomplish anything if you question everything I do.”
“Well, maybe if we saw better results, we wouldn’t have to be looking over your shoulder.”
“Are we talking about your son or one of your financial reports?” DiNatale asked, turning to her husband for support.
“Solange, let’s not create a scene,” Mr. Bennett interjected.
“I am not—”
“Mr. DiNatale is right. We hired him. Now let’s give him a chance. Don’t we all want the same thing?”
The two men’s eyes met. Neither was certain about the answer to that question.
Consistency. Consistency is the key to winning.
Robby repeated that to himself as Carol had countless times before.
Take one move at a time.
He would blot out thoughts of anything else, knowing that in one hundred and sixty seconds it would be over. No matter how it turned out, life would go on. At least that’s what Carol said, and she would never lie.
He took a deep breath. His pallid hands looked even more ghostly against his navy blue shirt and matching pants. Unforgiving fluorescent beams pounded down on him as his thumbs slid along the inside of his waistband. He fought back a small smile at the thought of Paige’s hands being there only hours before.
Focus, damn it!
Usually Carol would hang over the rail and talk, hoping to catapult him through those few interminable moments, but not today. This time he would do it in his own way. What else was there to say? He had to skate perfectly to even have a chance of beating Glenn. The judges would accept nothing less from the man who had built his reputation on mind-blowingly consistent technical wizardry. But it had been four long years since he had faced these people; people he knew had fought desperately to keep him and his kind out and would do anything in their power to make sure he didn’t spoil their plans.
“The next skater, representing the Long Island Skating Club, Robby Donovan,” boomed the announcer’s voice.
A rush of adrenalin ignited every nerve ending. He glanced at Carol one last time, then took four hard strokes, propelling himself to center ice. The rink that moments before had appeared as vast as an Alaskan glacier lake now seemed small enough to slip in his back pocket. Was that the hot breath of a vulture-eyed judge he felt burning on his cheeks?
He rested the steel toe pick of his right blade behind his left foot. The first ten seconds were window dressing. Carol had given him a few useless arm movements to settle his thoughts and get his blood flowing. That wasn’t a problem. Adrenalin raced through his body like a missile seeking its target. The music blared, but he could barely hear it above the sound of his own breathing.
Carol always worried for the first minute.
Don’t go over the top. Take your time.
For his first element, Robby exploded into a huge flying sit spin.
Oh God. It’s too big, she thought as he began to drop back to Earth.
Robby knew it too. He prayed a solid edge of his blade would find the ice. Somehow, it did. The strength in his legs built from the years of repetition of each move in practice had saved him. With that worry past, two minds shared a single thought. He had to hit the triple axel-triple toe combination. Every other top skater would be attempting it. Freeman had done it.
As he glided into the new approach to the jump, he felt a momentary sense of panic as the barrier came up on him sooner than he expected.
You’re out of room. Tight. Pull it in.
The preparation was solid, he looked fine in the air, but there was just the slightest two-footed landing. Barely visible. But had the judges noticed? Would the replay show it?
Just give me another chance, he thought. I can do that better. Let me try it again.
“Good enough,” Carol murmured, quickly scanning the judging panel.
Okay. Relax. Walk through one door at a time. Shut it, and then look for the next one, Robby thought, bringing himself back to the here and now.
Powerful bass drums drove him toward his last required jump. Carol struggled to project her usual impassive exterior.
Deep in the knee. Use your arms, she begged him silently.
A group of skaters who were huddled behind the boards watched along with the thousands of spectators holding their breaths in the stands.
L
and it! Land it! Just land it! Robby’s brain screamed.
Cheers filled the room as he completed the triple Lutz with incredible height and speed. Robby had only one thought.
Thank you, God.
“Geez, can’t he at least sweat?” said a young man hoping to hold onto tenth place.
Robby had executed the mandatory moves without a major mistake, just as everyone feared and expected. They were home free, so Carol allowed herself the luxury of watching his face. He was still thinking about that bobble.
Twisting high into a final Arabian, he froze in a concluding pose, then lingered just long enough to take the obligatory bows to each side of the arena.
Carol pointed to a blonde pixie dangling a handful of daisies over the railing. Robby stroked over to her, but hesitated before grasping the plastic wrapper. He turned quickly to see if a more famous face was standing behind him. Happy that they were indeed for him, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She immediately spun around and fled up the steps.
Rushing toward the skater’s entrance, Robby’s arms were outstretched, reaching, reaching for his coach. He squeezed Carol so hard it hurt, but he didn’t care.
“I sucked,” he whispered in Carol’s ear.
They unclenched
“Will you give yourself a break?” she said, making sure no microphones could catch their exchange.
Robby smiled. He wanted to feel good, but couldn’t. He gave Glenn and the judges the opening they needed. Carol wrapped her arm around his waist, matching him step for step as they headed for the ‘kiss ‘n cry’ area. She sat beside him, rubbing his back.
The marks were fairly consistent. Mostly 5.7’s, a 5.8 and two 5.6’s. Robby’s mistake wasn’t as bad as Freeman’s, yet they placed him lower.
You bastards, Carol thought. I did what you asked and you screwed us anyway.
She felt like a fool, and worse, a traitor. Robby trusted her and she’d failed him. She blamed herself for not being smart enough to realize it was a set up. He could have turned handsprings and they still would have held down his marks. She had taken him by the hand and walked him into their trap. There wasn’t enough time for his muscle memory to absorb the changes she had forced on him, and the ohso-helpful judge who urged her to incorporate them knew that. But she wouldn’t let it spoil the moment. Their moment. She slapped him on the thigh and pulled his cheek close to hers. It was soft, but cold.