by Lisa Luciano
“Is that what you were trying to do this afternoon?” he asked. “Become Brigitta? Or what you think she is?”
“Apparently, that’s what you like.”
“I like broccoli. Does that mean I can’t like spinach?”
“Great. Now I’m a side dish.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“No. I really don’t,” she admitted, throwing up her hands and then slapping them on her thighs in frustration.
“Well, can I at least come in so the whole world doesn’t hear us fight?”
“Were we fighting?” she said, turning away so she wouldn’t be reminded of how good his ass looked in those jeans.
The place was just as he expected. Uncluttered, but with enough personal touches to make it uniquely her own. Cool pastels mingling with pictures of moments stolen from classic ballets decorated the walls.
They stood looking for something to stare at besides each other.
“Can you stay a few minutes or do you have to get back before Carol does a bed check?”
“Believe it or not, some things change,” he said, easing into a recliner.
She sank to the polished wooden floor. She liked the feel of it against her bare legs.
“How’s your family?” he asked, feeling terrible that he was not actually the least bit interested.
“I have no idea.”
“How long since you’ve heard from them?”
“Six months. It’s my fault, I suppose. I told them to leave me alone and…they did. The one time they actually listened to me.”
“I think the only time people really listen is when it’s something they want to hear,” he said, mindlessly playing with the zipper on his brown leather jacket.
“My parents stopped listening to me the day my sister was born, although they’d never admit it. They’d say they divided everything equally. In a way, I guess that’s true. She got the talent and I got the desire.”
“Have you seen her lately?”
“She calls when she needs a favor. Actually, we get along great. She’s so wrapped up in her life she has no idea I hate her guts.”
“Well, at least professionally things have worked out.”
“Oh God. I’m so glad I got out when I did,” she said forming a V with her legs and touching her nose to the floor in front of her.
Robby sat up, hoping she didn’t realize that every movement of her supple body was arousing him.
“Skating’s not the worst life,” he said.
“Yeah. Look what it’s done for you.”
“You’re not exactly a bundle of laughs either.”
“At least I finally have a life. I have friends who can carry on a conversation without once mentioning the word ice. Believe it or not, I can actually go for an entire hour without even thinking about it.”
“Maybe that’s why you never won.”
“Depends on your definition of victory,” she countered.
“Why did you start skating?”
“Didn’t you hear a word I just said?”
“Just answer the question and then I’ll drop the subject,” he promised.
“How did I get into it?” she shot back. “Like a lot of people. An ice show came to town. There was a woman. She had the most incredible costume. Beads and feathers everywhere. I don’t remember who she was or what music she skated to. The thing that impressed me was her face. From the minute she stepped on the ice, she had this huge smile. Maybe it was an act, but to a six year old… So I figured all it took to be happy was a pair of skates. God, kids are so dumb.”
“There’s nothing dumb about wanting to be happy.”
A car alarm went off down the street.
“So are you? Happy?” he asked.
“Completely. Call me crazy, but I kind of like not having my mistakes flashed on a scoreboard.”
“Is that all it meant to you?” he asked.
“It’s not real!” she shouted, jumping to her feet. “Kids acting like adults. Expectations nobody could live up to. Constantly being criticized by coaches and judges, and at the same time getting adulation from an audience that doesn’t know its ass from an Ena Bauer. It’s a miracle we all don’t need shrinks. You can look in a mirror and think you’re the ugliest person alive, but the minute you step on that ice with the costumes and lights… it’s a drug. We’re selling a fantasy, and what’s worse, we buy into it ourselves.”
“What’s wrong with that?
“Nothing for the people who make it to the top. What about the rest of us? What have we got to show for it?”
She sank into a wicker chair and slung a well-tanned leg over one armrest. He noticed her red toe-nail polish.
“You want to know the difference between us? I’d guess you got a haircut about a week ago,” she said, scanning his face.
“Yeah.”
“Me too. You know why? Because I wanted to.”
“So did I.”
“Baloney. You did it because you’re afraid. You did it because you’re worried about what a judge might think.”
He didn’t answer.
“Tenths, baby,” she said, clenching her fist. “Tenths. Don’t want to lose those precious tenths.”
“Does that make me a wimp?”
She glared back at him.
“You can stop acting tough. I don’t believe it for a minute,” he said.
“I’ve changed. Does that scare you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, when you have a different answer, well talk.”
She strolled over to the window and watched smoke rise from the chimney of a nearby building.
“I’m not the frightened little mouse that used to shake when Carol walked into a room. How about you?”
“I have to go.”
He headed for the door.
“So is it true what they say about European women?”
“What?”
“That they don’t shave their legs.”
He took a quick look at hers. They were smooth and shiny. He wanted to reach for her, instead his hand found the doorknob.
“I’ve never gotten anything I really wanted,” Paige said so sadly that Robby could almost feel her heart tearing in two.
He turned and slowly walked over to her, then tenderly placed his arms around her waist.
So strong, she thought.
Clasping her hands behind his neck, she looked into his eyes. He kissed her just below the ear and slowly dragged his lips down her neck.
So soft, he thought.
Suddenly, she released him and stepped back.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I was saving myself for you. I wanted you to be the first one.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she let out a bitter chuckle.
“Another thing I can’t have.”
Robby suddenly felt enraged at the thought of Paige making love to another man. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “I’m a bitch. Why? Because I grew up while you were busy chasing medals?”
“I thought we had… an understanding.”
“Did you happen to mention that to good old Brigitta when you were humping her?”
“Leave her out of this. You don’t know--”
“Great. Now I have to stand here in my own living room and listen to you defend her. Well, don’t bother. Her reputation precedes her… and precedes her… and—”
Paige clenched her teeth. She was furious with herself. The last thing she wanted was to turn Brigitta into a martyr, leaving herself to play the role of the desperately insecure rival for Robby’s affections. But the look on his face left no doubt that with a single comment that was exactly what had happened. Now she was sure she had nothing left to lose.
“I’ve always made everything about us easy for you,” she said, shaking her head, still privately admonishing herself. “Well, I’m not a game you can pick up and play with any time the mood strikes you.”
“You came looking for me, remem
ber?”
“Because I need to know what you want from me. I won’t be a runner up again. Not with you.”
“You had your chance.”
“When?” she asked.
“That night on the beach.”
“Is that how you see me? Someone to romp in the sand with?”
“What the hell do you want from me?” he asked, extending his arms, hoping a solution would drop into them.
“Some good old honest emotion. Love, hate, or anything in between. As long as you really mean it.”
“I feel the same way about you now as I did then.”
“That’s the problem,” she said.
Her despair mutated into anger.
“You want everything ordered and structured and under control. Well, that’s not the way it works. You didn’t make a choice, so the choice was made for you.”
“You blame me for all this, don’t you?”
“You bet,” she said, spitting out the words.
Robby felt an emptiness inside that he had never known. It was as if he’d traveled to another universe. Everyone looked the same, but he didn’t know or understand anyone anymore. He gazed at Paige. She was beautiful. He wanted her. But like so many other dreams, she was out of reach.
“If it makes you feel any better… so do I,” Robby said as he turned and left.
“Well?” Jake said, his voice sounding even more unforgiving over the phone.
“Man, this is nothin’ like I thought it’d be,” Brody explained as he lay sprawled across the bed in his hotel room. I came expectin’ Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. It’s freakin’ Peyton Place.”
“Any leads?”
“A skinhead jumped one of the skaters. Threatened to kill him.”
“That’s it then.”
“I’m not so sure. There’s this crazy chick who wants to kill her boyfriend who happens to be the Olympic champion. Then there’s another skater, helluva nice guy, who everybody hates and wishes would just disappear cause he’s so good.”
Brody turned off the lamp on the nightstand. His head was pounding. Aspirin hadn’t helped. Maybe the darkness would ease away the tension so that he could get at least an hour or two of sleep.
“Can you pin it down?” Jake asked impatiently.
“There’s a guy named Wasser. The team doctor. Seems to know everything and a hell of a lot more than he’s sayin’.”
“Think you can get something out of him?”
“I’ll find a way or die tryin’.”
“Is he a reliable source?”
“The guys older’n dirt, but he’s sharp. He’s got no reason to lie.”
“Bull. Everybody’s got a reason to lie.” Jake paused to let his words sink in. “Get back to me when you have something locked down. I mean like Alcatraz.”
“I hear ya.”
“I hope so.”
Chapter 6
Eighteen thousand people had gathered to witness the end of an era. Glenn hadn’t lost a competition in seven years. For him, this was merely a warm up for the Olympics. That’s what the media would focus on, ignoring the mad scramble of young men who as if responding to some irresistible call of nature were about to hurl themselves against the raging current, hoping to be one of the lucky few, not to win, but to survive to fight another day. In the stands, hundreds of parents anxiously waited to see just what it was that had drained their bank accounts and taken possession of their sons.
Freeman could feel the crowd leaning closer to the edge of their seats as his coach, his parents, and worried looks surrounded him.
“You were fine ten minutes ago,” his mother complained, growing more and more agitated with each excuse me that forced her to make way for event workers running back and forth.
“Try to walk it off. Maybe it’s just a cramp,” said DiNatale as he held Freeman’s upper arm to help him balance.
The lanky young man tested his right leg again, but seemed unable to support his weight.
“What do you want to do?” his coach asked.
“I don’t know. I guess I can give it a try.”
“If the hamstring is injured, you could make it worse by performing.”
“But you don’t know if there’s damage,” Mrs. Bennett chimed in.
“No, but I—”
“And you’re not a doctor.”
“That’s true, but I do know quite a bit about physiology and it doesn’t look that bad to me,” said DiNatale defensively.
“You just said skating could make it worse,” Mrs. Bennett said, her eyes growing wide in anger.
“If the muscle is damaged.”
“Are you saying I’m faking?” Freeman asked.
DiNatale was startled by the young man’s indignant tone.
“No, I can see you’re in pain.”
“This is getting us nowhere. It’s obviously beyond your capabilities to make an intelligent decision,” Mrs. Bennett said, staring at DiNatale.
“Fine. You want to pull the strings? Be my guest. You tell him what to do. Just remember, the wrong choice could end his career.”
Ignoring his warning, she turned to her son.
“Freeman, how do you feel?”
He hesitated, frozen by her glare like a deer about to be crushed under the wheels of an oncoming tractor trailer.
“It’s not too bad.”
“You know we would never force you to do anything you’re not capable of, but the Olympics is only a few weeks away. If you withdraw, you’ll have spent all those years working for nothing.”
“Doing something you love isn’t a waste of time whether you win or not,” DiNatale mumbled as he folded his arms and leaned against the wall.
“Sometimes you just have to get tough, boy,” barked his father. “For Christ’s sake. I played an entire football game with my arm practically ripped off my shoulder.”
DiNatale helplessly watched Freeman caving in.
“Okay, I’ll try, but don’t expect too much.”
“Just do your best,” his mother said sweetly.
“Gee, I wish I had thought of that,” said DiNatale as he trailed behind Freeman through the tunnel leading to the ice.
The groans of the Zamboni faded after it left a shimmering coat of water atop the ice. Five men came on to begin one last warm up.
Glenn tentatively circled the rink rubbing his chapped hands against the thighs of a simple, red, one-piece outfit. He liked the color because it made him look like a tiny comet that had momentarily dipped into the atmosphere before continuing its journey. And it played to his strength. The taller guys had the long classic lines and big jumps, but he had speed. He insisted on the jumpsuit style because he thought the ornate costumes some of the others opted for resembled over-decorated Christmas trees.
Though every inch of his body shook, the affable young man threw a smile or a comment to old friends in the first few rows as he passed by. He enjoyed working the crowd during warm up. He wanted everyone to be happy. His coach, Alex Forsythe, watched from the shadows beyond the rail as usual with chin on hand, wearing down his beard.
Robby rocketed past Glenn, trying not to look awed. His mind quickly refocused.
I’m a better jumper. I can win. This is an athletic contest. Not a beauty pageant.
Except for the low buzz of the crowd, the room was unusually quiet. Robby hated this part. It was the only time he was acutely aware of being watched. Fortunately, it didn’t last long. One corner of the rink suddenly came to life with small splashes of light. A photographer who was leaning over the edge of the railing was quickly escorted several yards back by two security guards.
Looking on was an attractive African-American woman of about thirty and Freeman’s parents. Their guest neither knew nor cared about skating, but she did know an opportunity when she saw one and had jumped at the assignment. She lifted a piece of lint off the sleeve of her tailored, olive suit she hoped Mrs. Bennett was admiring.
“Cal, did you get the cover shot?” she said to the
young man who was reloading his camera and wondering why he was stuck with this instead of the NBA playoffs.
“Yeah. Calm me down. I don’t know if I can take the excitement.”
“Get a few action fillers and that should be enough.”
She lightly touched Mrs. Bennett’s shoulder.
“This article will be a big boost to Freeman’s career.”
“And to all the African-American children who are desperate for role models.”
They both stood a little straighter and glanced around, unable to ignore the fact that there were very few other dark-skinned people in attendance.
“That’s why we decided to make it the cover story. If we generate enough interest, maybe the mainstream sports magazines will pick up on him,” the woman said, checking once again to see if a strand of hair had wandered out of place.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Bennett asked, eyeing Freeman’s burnt orange outfit. “Does it enhance his underlying skin tones properly?”
That’s it, DiNatale thought. Get me a hammer and a stake. The creature must die.
It was useless. She was probably a demon seed. He could kill her, but her spawn would carry on until it had accessorized the entire planet. He turned his attention back to the ice. The warm up was nearly over and Freeman was starting to look tired as he yielded to the photographer’s request to continue jumping.
“Jesus Christ! This isn’t going to the Smithsonian. Snap the damn picture already,” DiNatale shouted, not caring if anyone overheard.
Robby stopped at the far end to readjust the Velcro stirrups that held the cuffs of his pants in place. He slipped his fingers between his blade and the sole of his boot and made sure they were secure. Normally, he tried to block out the crowd, but he couldn’t help hearing the two young men sitting in the first row who were staring at Freeman’s entourage.
“Look at those poor members of the oppressed minority.”
“Hey, them black folks don’t be picking cotton no mo. They be ownin’ da plantation.”
He stroked away to escape their laughter. Robby couldn’t allow his mind to linger on this. He had to direct his thoughts to his long program and nothing else.
The shutter clicked like a repeating rifle until finally the photographer seemed satisfied.
“Okay?” Freeman said, curtly addressing his parents.