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The Chosen Ones

Page 13

by Lisa Luciano


  “Tell me another one.”

  “Instead of wasting so much energy on me, why don’t you try focusing it on yourself?” Glenn suggested.

  “Same to you, good buddy. Or do you always shower fully dressed?”

  “Okay,” Glenn said, hoping Robby couldn’t detect the embarrassment stinging his cheeks. “Let’s get it out in the open. You’re good. But like it or not, I’m still better.”

  “So your agent keeps telling everybody.”

  “Grow up. That’s part of the game. You act like you think it’s about who’s the best. It never has been in this sport, and it never will be. The guy who wins is the one who knows how to play the system. You can hate my guts all you want, but if it wasn’t me, it would be somebody else.” He paused. “There’s always somebody else.”

  Glenn tugged at a particularly stubborn boot lace.

  “Does every damn thing in my life have to be a struggle?”

  When it finally relented, he removed his skates, wiped them clean, and pulled the terry cloth covers over the blades. The bunions covering his bare feet bore silent witness to his countless on-ice battles.

  “You’re wrong. It wasn’t that way when we were coming up. It used to be simple. You go out, you skate, you win,” Robby said.

  “Yeah,” Glenn remembered with a wistful smile. “At the beginning, all I wanted was to see how fast I could get from one end of the rink to the other. Then I started jumping. I still get the same rush. That’s one thing they haven’t taken from me.”

  They? Who? Robby wondered. The judges? The media? The fans? It was a den of thieves.

  “And I realized there was another bonus to being good,” Glenn continued. “I was always the smallest kid in my class. Winning shut a lot of people up. But after a while, that wasn’t enough. The first time I won a major competition I thought I’d never lose again.”

  “And you didn’t.”

  Glenn laughed wearily.

  “Check the stats. I’ve lost as many times as I’ve won. I was just lucky enough to do all the winning in the years leading to the Olympics. That’s when the press decided to dub me the king of skating, so I seemed invincible. It sold newspapers. But believe me, I don’t have any delusions about myself. The minute you think you’re as good as you can get, it’s time to call it a career.”

  “You think you can get better?”

  “I think I can still win.”

  Glenn unzipped his costume. As he bent over, the hollow of his chest grew deeper. Somehow he projected bigger on the ice.

  “You know, I have this sick fantasy. Just once I’d like to go out there and totally blow apart. I mean, completely lose it. Miss every jump, every spin. Then I’d know for sure if they—”

  “What?”

  Glenn shook his head. He’d never tell Robby what he was thinking.

  Then I’d know for sure if they really loved me.

  “You want to crash and burn? Go for it. What’s stopping you?” Robby asked. “When you’re on the ice, nobody can tell you what to do.”

  “Yeah. But eventually you have to come off.”

  Glenn ran his hands along his scalp revealing a receding hairline.

  “You didn’t have to come back,” Robby said.

  “Didn’t I?”

  “What have you got to prove? Do you still need to win that badly?”

  “Do you?” Glenn countered. “With all my titles, they’re still calling you the best jumper ever. Don’t pretend you’re above it all. You need it as much as I do.”

  Robby let the words sink in.

  “I didn’t come back because I want to win,” Glenn said. “I just don’t want to lose.”

  A wall had come down and Robby wondered if Glenn was allowing his vulnerability to show by accident or if it was something he had been wanting to do for a very long time.

  “The worst thing you can do is think. You have to just go out there and do it because thinking makes you realize how ridiculous it all is.”

  “I’m happy with what I’m doing,” Robby insisted.

  “Really? Then why were you ready to push my head through a wall a few minutes ago?”

  Robby pulled a fresh t-shirt from his bag, yanked it down over his head, then combed his hair back with his fingers.

  “Look,” Glenn said. “There are a lot of ways to win. The one unavoidable fact is that the only person you have to beat is yourself. Corny, but true.”

  “It must be nice to have all the answers.”

  “After twenty years, there’s only one thing I can say for sure. It doesn’t get any easier, but it does get better. I know that doesn’t make sense now, but if you stick around long enough, you’ll figure it out.”

  “Why didn’t we have this conversation four years ago?” Robby asked.

  “Because four years ago I had something to prove.”

  “You still do. You have to win the Olympics. They’re not just going to hand you the gold medal… ”

  Robby’s voice trailed off.

  “Again,” Glenn said. “That’s what you wanted to say, isn’t it? You never know. They say lightning can’t strike twice, but I wouldn’t bet against it.”

  “Is that the way you want to win?”

  “Once that gold medal is hanging around your neck, nobody cares how it got there.”

  Robby wanted to hate him, but he couldn’t. Glenn wasn’t the enemy, just a casualty of the same war. He always thought he called all the shots, but now he wondered if Glenn had any say at all.

  “There are a lot of people outside waiting for you,” Robby said.

  Glenn chuckled as he looked down at his skates lying casually on the bench. He licked his thumb, then rubbed it across the smooth leather of the toe.

  “Yeah, like sharks at feeding time. But as soon as the food runs out, they’ll move on to the next victim.”

  He slowly raised his eyes to meet Robby’s for a moment, then turned away.

  Chapter 8

  Two days later, Freeman watched Leslie successfully defend her title—from a distance—like everyone else—and died a little when she did. Another step farther away. More than ever, he knew he was no part of her world and never would be. But he couldn’t deny what he felt when they were together, alone, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues. He wanted her in his arms forever, just as she was lodged deep inside his soul. The only way to do it was to go public with their relationship. But he couldn’t risk it. His hopes of becoming the Olympic champion might never be realized, but he’d be damned if he was going to let those bastards drag her down for loving him.

  Jake looked up from the pile of papers on his desk as his secretary entered the office. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  “I was going to throw this away. It’s obviously some nutbag’s idea of a joke, but then I thought you might get a laugh out of it. You look like you could use one,” Connie said, handing him the fax.

  Oh Great and Powerful Oz:

  Following up on a lead. Think I’ve got the scent. Send money. Ramada Inn. Calgary, Canada.

  Toto

  Jake smiled. He’d squeeze the money out of some part of his shrinking budget. “Just some sicko, right?” she asked, forcing her bra strap back under the collar of her white silk blouse.

  He stared at the paper once more, then kissed it.

  “Mmmmmmwaaaa! Ride ‘em, cowboy!”

  “What are you into some weird pen pal thing? Or are you working for the CIA?”

  “What makes you say that?” Jake said, folding the paper and safely tucking it in his shirt pocket.

  “The message is some kind of code, right?”

  “Oh, come on, Connie. You’ve been reading too many spy novels. Do I look like the type of guy that would be involved in covert activities?”

  She cracked her gum twice.

  “I think you’d sell you mother’s false teeth if it would get you a good story.”

  There was little activity on the fourth floor of the Ramada Inn. Inside one of the rooms, a y
oung man of twenty five leaned his elbows into the polyester spread that was neatly folded at the foot of the bed as he stretched out to read. Like most skaters, Dale Fisher was thin-framed and shorter than the average man his age. His melancholy expression made him appear as if he had slipped from the pages of one of his favorite Victorian novels.

  He seemed born to walk among the ivy-covered structures of a New England university, but was forced instead to attend a local college in Halifax, Nova Scotia, close to where his coach and surrogate father until about a year ago, Donald Conway, resided.

  His room was like the hundreds of others he’d been in over the course of his career. A bed, a nightstand, a lamp, a writing desk, and a television. He didn’t note their size or shape or color. He was in another world, a world of his choosing.

  He’d tried several times before to get through The Fountainhead, just as he had spent nearly six years attempting to finish college while training full time, but something always seemed to get in the way. His assigned roommate, TJ McNally, who whenever they ended up together delighted in torturing him at all hours of the night, was elsewhere. This time he would succeed.

  He was so engrossed in the text, he didn’t notice that someone was using a pass key to open the door. Andre stuck in his head.

  “Is it here?” he asked, scanning the room as if expecting to be attacked.

  “No, I’m alone,” Dale answered, reluctantly tossing the book aside.

  “You didn’t have to be. We could’ve roomed together.”

  He entered quickly, knowing he probably wouldn’t be invited in. Andre Chasen’s strides were purposefully smooth and self-consciously precise to achieve maximum effect and attention. He was thin and balding, a source of unending frustration as it added at least ten more years to the thirty he had actually logged.

  “I’ve got enough to deal with,” Dale said. “I don’t intend to take on the press about my private life.”

  “After you win, it won’t be private anymore,” Andre said cheerfully, unconcerned that Dale didn’t share his sentiments.

  He sat beside Dale, checking that his pressed cotton shirt was still neatly tucked into his gabardine slacks and that neither had wrinkled or bunched up.

  “I told you I still haven’t decided about that,” Dale said, hoping to end the discussion.

  “I can’t believe you’re being so selfish. This isn’t about you. It’s about all of us. Do you know how much it would mean for a champion skater to go public as a gay man?”

  “In case you haven’t been paying attention, an American beat us to it.”

  “Americans don’t care about skating the way we do up here. This would be big news.”

  “Yeah, like the Hindenburg.”

  “Must you always be so negative?” Andre asked.

  “You know what would happen. I’d be a curiosity at first, but when the headlines died down, I’d be stuck with the consequences.”

  “I wouldn’t mind suffering that way. With the movement behind you, you’ll be a hero.”

  “To whom? Not the skating community.”

  “Who gives a crap about them?” Andre declared, waving his hands, then planting them into the mattress as he leaned back.

  “I do.”

  “Oh, please. They’re the biggest bunch of wussies God ever put on this planet. They wouldn’t dare ostracize you and risk appearing politically incorrect.”

  “Don’t you understand?” Dale said, rolling onto his back and sliding one arm under his head. “If I talk about it, then everybody else has to.”

  “So? Don’t you think it’s about time for a little honesty?”

  “Nobody has a right to make choices for someone else.”

  “Sounds like one of good old Donny’s standard speeches. Thank God I rescued you from his clutches.”

  Dale stared at the ceiling.

  “When I told him I was leaving, it broke his heart.”

  “I’ll bet. He’s wanted a piece of your ass for years. Maybe I should give him the number of Pedophiliacs Anonymous.”

  Dale looked at Andre. Really looked. He’d never noticed how harsh his features were before. The jagged jawline. The small eyes hovering over a long nose that nearly reached down to his non-existent upper lip.

  “That’s disgusting,” Dale said, almost tasting the bitterness of his words. “He never touched me. He was like a father to me after my dad died. I felt like a traitor bailing out on him after all those years. He was good to me.”

  Andre rolled his eyes.

  “He’s a pathetic old queen who’s lived his entire miserable life so far in the closet he’ll need a Sherpa guide to find his way out. I won’t let that happen to you. I love you too much for that,” he said, stroking Dale’s hair.

  Andre uncrossed his legs and slowly leaned in, bringing his lips close to Dale’s. The young man flinched. Andre withdrew.

  “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Andre said, more angry with Dale than himself. “How many times can I apologize? You know my temper. I realize I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. It’s just that this means so much to me.”

  “I thought I meant something to you.”

  “You do. Would I have given up all my other skaters to work exclusively with you? Between the coaching and choreographing, I was making a fortune.”

  “If I’m so important, how could you…” Dale stopped. You don’t hurt someone you love.”

  “You don’t intend to. But it happens.”

  “Not twice.”

  “Okay,” Andre said, with that condescending sing-song tone of voice that made Dale’s skin crawl. “You’re nervous about tomorrow. I understand. I’ll let you get your rest.”

  He bent over and kissed Dale gently on the lips before he could refuse. Dale hated him for doing it and hated himself for allowing it. He waited for the click of the door, then ran into the bathroom. He wanted to vomit, but nothing came up except a rising sense of panic.

  “Fisher!” called a muffled voice.

  Dale came back into the room.

  “Yo, Fish Face!”

  Only one person in the world called him that and did it only because he knew how much he hated it. Dale forced open the jammed window and looked to the ground four floors below. There stood TJ McNally with his hands in his pockets, shivering as the rain pelted him.

  “What are you doing down there?” Dale called to him.

  “The halls must be crawling with officials by now. I’ll never make it past them.”

  “You’ll have to find another way.”

  “Why do you think I called you, turd brain? Climb down the fire escape and lower the ladder.”

  “No way,” Dale insisted. “I’m not gonna freeze my—”

  “Fisher, I swear if you don’t get down here now—”

  “Okay. Let me get my shoes.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Boys, is everything okay in there?” a woman asked.

  Dale raced back to the window.

  “It’s your mother!”

  “Oh crap! Turn on the shower!” TJ yelled.

  “Why?”

  “Jesus! Do we have to discuss everything? Just do it!”

  Dale hurried into the bathroom. The knocking continued. Outside, TJ stared at the spindly structure. Shades of reddish brown crept through the black paint. The cold rain beat against his boyish face as he hugged himself to control his trembling. His jacket and jeans were glued to his body.

  “If he blows this, he’s a dead man.”

  Dale stuck his head out again.

  “Do you want hot water or cold?”

  “Do you want your balls ripped off one at a time or all at once?” TJ answered.

  Dale raced back inside, turned on the water, then sauntered back to the window, determined to enjoy TJ’s dilemma.

  “Now what?”

  “Say anything,” TJ said. “Just get rid of her. Screw up and I’ll torch your library card.”

  Dale calmly opened
the door. Sally Ann Tomasson entered resolutely. She rarely wasted time or words.

  “Where is he?” she asked, her bejeweled hand making a check of her platinum blonde bob.

  Dale pointed in the direction of the bathroom. Like her son, she didn’t enter a room, she overwhelmed it. The former Canadian and Olympic champion was pushing fifty, though her official biography claimed five years less. Despite time and far too many cocktail parties in the twenty years since her ultimate triumph, her sunflower yellow dress hugged an ample, yet still attractive figure. With the matching pumps and purse, she was undeniably picture perfect. Too perfect for words. At least the words one used in mixed company.

  She glared at Dale, glanced around the room, then noticed the shower running.

  “That is TJ in there, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Well, who else would it be?”

  “You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?”

  She walked over to the bathroom door. Dale panicked at the thought that she might just barge in, but couldn’t think of a way to stop her. Being denied her desires was not an experience she was familiar with. Her hand reached for the knob. Then without cause or explanation, she balled her fingers into a fist and knocked.

  “TJ, are you all right?”

  “Uh. He can’t hear you. Too much steam,” Dale said.

  She gazed at him suspiciously. He returned an angelic smile.

  “Tell him I expect him to get a good night’s sleep,” she declared as she sailed out the door.

  Dale slipped on a pair of black loafers and climbed out the window.

  “Whoa!” Dale shouted as his foot slid on the ice-encrusted grates.

  “Come on!” TJ called.

  “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  Dale made his way to the lowest landing about twelve feet over TJ’s head, but couldn’t budge the ladder.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “It’s frozen,” Dale said, tugging again and again.

  “You’ve read every freakin’ book on the planet. Didn’t you ever come across something like this before?”

  Dale’s hands stuck to the iron grates as he yanked on the hook. Suddenly, the latch released and the ladder dropped, just missing TJ’s head and taking a layer of Dale’s skin with it.

 

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