by Lisa Luciano
“Skating’s not about one man beating another. It’s about fear. You find what you’re most afraid of and put it out there on the ice. If you face the monster, it dissolves into the mist and you realize it never existed to begin with.”
TJ parted his lips, but this time, maybe the only time, Dale was determined to have the last word.
“We play these games. Hide who we are because someone might not like it. We weigh ourselves down with other people’s expectations until we can hardly move. I always feel so heavy… except when I’m on the ice. Nothing’s fake there. I can drop the wall and be myself. I can fly. Fly away from life… and people… who don’t understand.”
“Yeah… well… that’s good,” TJ said.
Dale smiled at his confusion, then dove deep inside himself to prepare for the battle ahead. Conway grinned and awarded the TKO to Dale.
As Dale and TJ awaited their turns, the building shook from foot stomping and cheering that was growing louder with each successive performance.
“Jesus. You’re looking at your first national title. At least pretend to be nervous,” Dale said, wondering why his days of feeling so utterly fearless seemed like a distant memory.
TJ defiantly crossed his arms and watched another skater’s efforts. Applause rang out as the music faded.
“Showtime,” said TJ, boldly waddling to the edge of the rink, kicking off his skate guards, and taking his place at center ice.
He wasn’t sure he’d fooled Dale, but prayed he could convince himself that he wouldn’t die in the next five minutes. TJ tapped his toe pick impatiently against the frozen surface, anticipating the announcement.
Who should I be today?
Reality was too boring and much too scary. He needed someone to hide behind. He’d used John Wayne. Douglas Fairbanks. He wished he’d listened more carefully to Dale when he rambled on about characters in the books he was always reading. TJ didn’t read books. He’d tried for years in school, but it seemed everybody always finished before he did and he hated that. So he sought his heroes on the silver screen. It didn’t take much effort and what else was there to do cooped up in a hotel room or a plane?
Come on, come on, he thought. Who’s it going to be? Aha! Perfect. Captain Kirk. Macho, smart, fearless… and different.
Just what TJ could relate to. That’s how he was viewed by the skating community and that’s how he felt. Like someone from another place and time.
The silence was shattered by a woman’s wolf-like hoots. Brody as well as others in that section turned their heads in shock. This strange salute had begun a year ago and continued at every one of TJ’s performances since. He’d grown used to this faceless lady being out there somewhere and smiled as he imagined her charting his every movement through the entire program, knowing that when it was over she had expended as much energy watching as he had performing. The skating was a necessary evil. It was the reaction he lived for. And it was intoxicating.
The program flew by. To no one’s surprise, there were moments of brilliance balanced by sloppiness, the result of a lack of concentration. As he entered the final section of the routine, TJ caught a brief glimpse of his mother’s dispirited face out the corner of his eye. He could hear the TV announcer inside his head.
“Son of seven time Canadian national champion and Olympic gold medalist…”
While he’d spent years listening to accusations that he’d benefited from his status as heir to the throne, he felt no such privilege. In his mind he was a prisoner of his own good fortune. Expectations ran high, and no matter how far he jumped, his mothers legendary status hung over him, as did her larger-than-life personality. Her victory had come twenty years ago, yet she was still every inch the Ice Queen.
TJ began gasping as he felt his lungs burn, but each breath only increased his discomfort as he pushed to finish the performance. When the music ended, despite his fatigue, he offered a final salute and a wink to the judges.
Ha! he thought. It takes that wimp Shatner an hour to beat those aliens. I did it in an eighth… no, a tenth… uh, a lot less time.
He took his bows knowing his body couldn’t skate another inch. Though he’d never admit it, his coach was right. He didn’t work hard enough. But why should he? He’s gotten what he wanted without the extra effort.
No reason to bust your hump when you don’t have to, he reasoned. I don’t skate to win. Only morons work that hard. Everybody knows the deck is stacked. I ain’t gonna let some piss ant judge jerk me around and deny me something I really want. So I just won’t want it. That’s all.
Sincere applause swept him off the ice into his mothers arms and her full-length sable coat that nearly swallowed him. There was no way to avoid her. She embraced her son who was more interested in waving to the crowd than accepting her congratulations.
Still clutching an armful of flowers and stuffed animals, TJ stopped beside Dale. He was not particularly interested in anything TJ had to say, but as knots of pain began to replicate in his stomach, he was happy for the distraction.
“Guess you don’t have to be an Olympic champion to get noticed,” he said, thrusting a fluffy brown bear in Dale’s face. “Check it out,” he said with glee.
TJ revealed the contents of a small envelope stapled to the paper around the flowers. Inside was a diamond stud earring. He was too busy reveling in the moment to notice the woman whose hands were shaking so hard with utter delight that she could barely hold the video camera still as she recorded his every movement.
“The lady has good taste,” TJ said, scanning the enclosed photo of a beautiful woman in a red bikini. “Oh my God,” he added, moaning with desire. “This is too good to be true.”
He dangled the picture under Dale’s nose.
“Oh, sorry. I forgot. She’s not your type.”
“Careful. Looks are deceiving,” Dale warned.
“Maybe. But if she has money, I’m calling the preacher.”
“Well, if that’s any indication,” Dale said as TJ scrutinized the earring.
“Not bad for a day’s work.”
“You’re going to keep it?”
“Until I can get to a pawn shop.”
Dale exhaled. He knew what TJ would use the money for. It had become a game to him. How close to the competition could he get high and still not get caught? But Dale couldn’t spend any energy on that. He reluctantly crawled back inside himself. He had lost all sense of time. He didn’t know where he was or why. All he knew was that he wasn’t ready to be a champion.
Brody shook his head as he watched the woman next to him rewind the tape and then watch it through the viewfinder, completely ignoring the rest of the competitors. Her day was done. She’d bagged her trophy. Now all she had left to do was to go home, tape her side of the conversation, edit the pieces together, then invite friends over to see her and TJ interact like the good friends she assured them they were. How could they question it? There was the evidence on videotape.
Waiting for the next skater, Brody began to wonder if he’d wasted his time coming all the way up here. He flipped through his program for the tenth time. On the back was the list of sponsors. Coca Cola. McDonalds. Nothing unusual there. It was something else that caught his eye. Global Communications Corporation. He felt ten years of shame and frustration suddenly welling in the pit of his stomach. The heartfelt applause racing through the arena at the announcement of Dale’s name turned his thoughts away from the past that unexpectedly had returned to haunt him.
Just before he stepped on the ice, Andre placed his hands on Dale’s shoulders and leaned forward.
“Come on, baby,” he said, his lips brushing Dale’s ear. “You can do this. Do it for me. Do it for all of us.”
He gave him a gentle push. As Dale glided slowly to center ice, he hoped something would happen, like the ceiling would cave in, because if it meant his life, he couldn’t remember his first move. With the initial few notes the fear, of exactly what he wasn’t sure, began to melt away.
Andre wrapped his arms around his narrow rib cage, squeezing the air out of his chest with each of Dale’s jumps. The first combination was solid as were the next two triples, though Dale seemed to be going through the motions. He prepared for another triple, but was tilted as he went up.
“Oh my God,” Andre cried.
He could still save the landing if the edge of his blade could find enough ice to bite into.
“Come on, damn it! Fight for it!” Andre begged.
By the time he had spit out the words, Dale was down. The crowd moaned, not in shock, but disappointment. Dale was slow in getting up. His music continued relentlessly on. Conway’s first thought was that he’d injured himself. Andre had other concerns.
“Get up, you prick! You’re destroying my choreography! Keep going!”
Dale finished the program and appeared intact to Conway’s great relief. As he stepped off the ice, Andre didn’t ask about his physical condition. Instead, he greeted him with frozen silence as they sat side by side, awaiting what everyone knew would be second place marks.
“You stupid son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered. “McNally was God-awful tonight. You could have taken him.”
Andre was so distraught, he didn’t attend the post competition press conference, claiming he had to return to his room to recover. Dale couldn’t have been happier. He didn’t trust Andre and never knew what might come out of his mouth. It made no difference. TJ, the newest star of Canadian sport, was center stage and loving it.
Conway stood by watching the action. TJ’s mother beamed brighter than the diamonds around her neck.
“TJ, who do you think is going to give you the biggest challenge? Chandler or Donovan?” came a voice from the gang of reporters sitting across from the makeshift dais littered with microphones.
“To be honest,” TJ said as he slouched in his folding chair wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and a pair of old warm up pants. “I’m not worried about the old guys coming back. It’s their last gasp. The one to watch is Polnikov.”
Polnikov. Who the hell is that? Brody wondered as he sat in the departure lounge of the airport terminal the next morning.
He continued scanning the newspaper article. Dimitri Polnikov. The number one Russian skater.
Russia? Damn. Jake’s never gonna go for this.
Chapter 9
“No freakin’ way! You’re not going to Russia!” Jake threatened.
“Okay,” Brody said, glad they were separated by a phone line and considerable miles. “Calm down. You’ll bust an artery.”
Brody would never admit it, but getting Jake that angry was one of the pleasures he’d missed over the last ten years.
“You go there and I swear I’ll kill you,” Jake warned.
“Okay.”
“I mean it. I’m not footing the bill for your trip around the world.”
“Now hold on. You’re the one who started all this. Do you want the damn story or not?”
Jake hated the rare occasions when Brody was right. He jammed the phone between his cheek and shoulder, then held two fingers against the pulse point at his wrist and counted as he took a few deep breaths.
“You think he could be the one?” Jake asked.
“Won’t know till I get there. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anybody in the whole freakin’ sport that somebody doesn’t want to kill.”
“No!” Jake said, losing it again. “This is crap! Forget it. Watch it on TV.”
“If that’s what you want,” Brody replied calmly.
There was a pause. Brody knew Jake was reconsidering and Jake knew he knew it.
“I hate you. I really hate you,” Jake said. “Okay. But you fly coach. And no fancy hotel. You get the information you need, then get your ass back here.”
Before he left, Brody put out some feelers, leaving his phone number and a promise of financial remunerations for anyone who could provide him with information or a lead on anything strange in regard to the American skaters.
Immediately upon his arrival in Moscow, he picked up a copy of Sports Express, a popular all-sports newspaper. He was greatly relieved to see Alexi Andrianov’s byline. He had no other contacts there and needed not only an interpreter, but someone to get him a press pass to the national competition.
It took a while to flag one down, but eventually Brody caught a cab to the arena and found Alexi furiously puffing on a cigarette, waiting out front for him. Andrianov hugged him and planted a kiss on each of Brody’s cheeks. Brody knew it was a cultural thing, but it still made his stomach turn as did the smell of stale smoke embedded in Alexi’s clothes.
“Too long! Too long!” Alexi shouted in his usual effusive manner.
Brody wanted to say he looked good, but it would have been a lie. Alexi’s shirt was stained and he had aged. Brody had heard stories about washing machines being in short supply. That explained the clothes. Excessive drink and God knows what else had taken its toll on his body and perhaps his soul. Brody couldn’t help thinking he was looking into his own future.
“How did you convince your editor to pay for this?” Andrianov asked, clipping each word, eager to pronounce them correctly.
“Piece o’ cake. The guy practically begged me to make the trip.”
Please God. Don’t let him change his mind, Brody thought, having already decided he’d sell his car if Jake decided not to pay for the plane fare.
Brody was ushered backstage with an ease that surprised him.
“Man, things have changed since the last time I was here,” he said.
“Yes. Now, instead of police guarding athletes, we need them at food stores to keep people from killing each other over the last loaf of bread.”
As they penetrated the recesses of the arena, Andrianov pointed out a small young man with short blond hair dressed in red and white sweats, surrounded by officials in dark, ill-fitting suits.
“There he is. Dimitri Polnikov,” Alexi said. “I will introduce you.”
“Uh, no,” Brody answered quickly. “I want to keep a low profile.”
Alexi was almost as good a reporter as Brody. He could sense something was up. “What is it?”
“Nothin’.”
“Bullsheet,” Alexi insisted.
“Okay, look. I can’t give you the details, but somethin’ big is brewin’. I need to know about this guy.”
“I’ll help on one condition. Next time I’m in America, you buy me a bottle of champagne and introduce me to Angelina Jolie.”
“You got it.”
They listened as a burly man of about fifty, without a hint of levity in his appearance, gave Dimitri instructions.
“Who’s that?” Brody asked.
“Sergei Blasko. Dimitri’s coach.”
“What’d he say?”
“He told Dimitri to stop taking his vitamins immediately.”
“Vitamins?” Brody asked, crooking an eyebrow.
“It loses a little in the translation,” Alexi said with a wry smile.
“I’ll bet.”
Dimitri seemed unconcerned as his coach rambled on. His attention was riveted on the three-year old child with golden ringlets cascading to her shoulders who was running toward him. He scooped her up in his arms and began speaking to her in Russian. She nodded and offered a few words here and there in response, but seemed more interested in the doll she clutched in her tiny hands.
“He’s married?” Brody asked.
“You could call it that. It was arranged by the skating federation. Originally, he and Natalia were pairs skaters. Good, but not great. They were encouraged to marry to help their on-ice relationship and to save expenses when they traveled. They did as they were told, just as we all do. A year later, along came little Sasha. Then some bureaucrat decided we needed a male singles champion more than a mediocre pair. Dimitri had the raw talent. They placed his wife with someone else and forced him to skate solo. Sasha was the apple of his eye, so he looked the other way when Natalia began sleeping with her new
partner.”
“Why don’t they just get divorced?”
“She won’t agree to it. She likes being Mrs. National Champion and what comes with it. She also knows that given the chance, he’ll take Sasha and leave.”
“You mean, leave her?”
“Leave Russia,” Alexi said as he checked around for uninvited ears. “He wants a better life for his daughter. Who can blame him? Democracy is an attractive concept, but the reality is a lot more difficult than anyone here bargained for. He could turn professional and make a great deal of money in America if…”
“If what?”
“If they let him go. But they won’t. It would be too great a loss to the program and yet another embarrassment to the country. I think Ilyukin would kill him before he’d let that happen.”
“Il…Ily u…”
“Petr Ilyukin. Head of the sports ministry.”
Geez, Louise. That’s another one on the list, Brody thought.
“Sounds like a mystery novel” he said casually, trying not to spark Andrianov’s suspicion.
“Desperate men do strange things. And these are desperate times. They know with help he could still slip through their net, so they keep the reigns tight on him through his little girl.”
“You mean she’s a hostage,” Brody said.
Alexi chuckled.
“Americans love melodrama.”
“You’ve had a few writers who weren’t exactly a barrel of laughs. Come on. Level with me. In this new society of yours, what’s the bottom line? Are they prisoners?”
“A colorful way of putting it, but essentially true.”
They watched the joy fade from Dimitri’s face when his daughter was finally lead away by a very large, dour-looking man.
“Amazing how something so good can come out of something so bad,” Alexi said, unable to resist smiling at the little girl as she passed by, waving to each person.
Brody didn’t need to think hard to know exactly what Dimitri was feeling.