by Ariana Rose
“I do know, but you also need to know I’m going to spoil the stuffing out of you for as long as you’re here, whether it’s a week, a month, or longer. Do you need anything else? Towels? Milk?”
“Mom, no. Geez. I’m good. I’m not a guest. Don’t fuss.” I pull her in for a hug and rest my head on top of hers.
“My Spencey Bear is home. I’m going to fuss.”
“God. I was wondering how long it would take for you to bust that out.”
She gives me a playful swat on the belly. “Don’t make fun. Now,” she takes a step back and smooths out my tee shirt. “Do you have plans to see your friends? Garrett, perhaps? Maybe Marisa?”
I take a deep breath in and out. She’s part of the unknowns. Will she want to see me? “I don’t know, Mom. She’s happy. I don’t want to mess that up for her.”
“Or yourself. I know this wasn’t easy for you. The last two years have been awful in many ways. I wondered if it would offer you a bit of peace to see her.”
I’ve gone over that scenario in my head as if it was Groundhog Day. Every way I tried, it ends the same. She is with her new man and I am alone. We both chose. The outcome still remains the same. “I’m not sure, Mom. I’ll think about it.”
“I ran into her at a school function last week. She knows you’re coming home.”
“Yeah. We’d email once in a while. I couldn’t listen to her voice on the phone. Email was safer.”
“Like I said. Maybe some peace.”
I lie in bed tonight thinking about the peace my mom spoke of. My jet lag won’t allow me to sleep nor will the eventual nightmares. In avoidance, I pop back into the group chat on my old team. They never took me out. I’d say, “Hey” or haze someone now and again over time, but tonight, I put myself back in the full mix. Step one.
The boys are playing in the Midwest somewhere, according to the schedule. Chicago, I think. Some are quick to respond with a, “Look what the cat dragged in” or “Hey, asshole.” Garrett slips into a private chat with me.
Garrett: How does it feel to be home?
Me: Feels like I never left and completely different at the same time.
Garrett: I bet your mom is through the roof.
Me: You know my mom.
Garrett: Yeah, why I asked. Ha!
Me: They aren’t saying much or pushing me too hard to talk.
Garrett: I won’t ask the big question.
Me: Thanks.
Garrett: Do you have job plans yet?
Me: No. I’ll start networking tomorrow.
Garrett: My sister Gabi might have heard about something.
Me: What’s that? Tell Gabs hi.
Garrett: It’s out of the box, but the rink where the figure skater she manages skates has a staff position open. Training, off-ice and on. Can lead the power sessions. All that shit.
Me: I’m not sure I have the creds for it. I’m not much with sequins and spins.
Garrett: Wouldn’t hurt to toss your res out there and see what sticks.
Me: Have her email me the info. I’ll look into it. Hey, Rook – get to bed before coach blames me for your sluggish ass on the ice tomorrow.
Garrett: Fuck you.
Me: Score one for me tomorrow. Fuck you too.
Garrett: Did tonight. Twice.
I fall asleep with the phone against my chest. I do dream, only it’s not a nightmare for once. Coach. I could still be close enough. It wouldn’t be hockey but still ice. I could have a team or student that could compete. I could still be close enough. I could.
Chapter 3
Spencer
I wake up about one o’clock in the afternoon. Mom finally comes and wakes me with that said peanut butter and jelly. I eat it lazily from bed while she sorts out my suitcase and offers to do my laundry. I feel stupid for having her do it, but I can tell she wants to. She’s in the ‘I want to do something for my baby, and I can’t really help so I’m going to do this’ mode.
I give her a kiss on the cheek as I wander toward the shower. The hot water is so welcomed as it washes away not only the aches and the pains, but also a little doubt. I toss on a pair of gray sweatpants and a tee shirt. With my hair still wet and flopping all over the place, I check my phone. Gabi’s email was already there and waiting.
I pull it up and it’s mixed with good news and bad. The position Garrett was talking about is already filled. A former skater from the rink turned pro and wanted the opportunity. It was a great fit. However, Gabi heard from a colleague of hers that his daughter, a figure skater, needed a private trainer to join her team. Gabi said she’d make the introductions to get the ball rolling if I was interested.
I scratch through the two-day stubble on my face as I read the email again. The other position seemed to be a better fit, but this could be an opportunity to pass on things one-on-one. It might make it easier to transition. It wouldn’t be a long-term commitment probably and it could open other doors. Doesn’t hurt to talk, right? Shit. I should apply that other places.
I text the cell number Gabi left in her signature block. I go back and forth with her for about thirty minutes before I agree to a phone interview with the parents and the coach. The skater won’t be present. This is a red flag to me, but I’ll admit, it has me curious.
This is the quickest I’ve had an interview set up. After my yes, I had two hours to email my full résumé and get presentable for Mr. and Mrs. Avila and Brian Mason. I did a quick browser search on Coach Mason and the skater in question, Miss Cierra Avila.
I thought Coach Mason sounded familiar and I was right. When you grow up in an ice-minded house, as well as with Winter Olympic fanatics, you’re going to remember it all. I don’t know much about the mechanics of figure skating myself, but all the videos I patrol have the commentators and competitors alike using phrases like greatest of all time. That catches my attention right away. Someone of that caliber wants to talk to me.
Then I look up Cierra Avila. I go through the general bio first. She is twenty-one years old. She’s been skating since the age of two. She has a number of national placements and was working her way up internationally when she tore her ACL.
Her father is a well-known agent with several baseball, football, hockey, soccer, and golf stars to his roster. Gabi gave him a first-rate approval, which helped. Her mother seems to be somewhat of a manager for Cierra’s life. Hmm. Could be another red flag.
The next thing I look at is the images. There is a picture that leads to an article about Cierra winning the junior title about six years ago. She is flanked by her parents in the pic. Her father is very tall and stately. He reminds me of a politician, which stands to reason in his profession. Her mother is petite in comparison and very beautiful. She’s in a deep blue sweater, which next to her dark skin is striking.
Cierra is a nearly perfect combination of the two. The pale skin of her father and the rich dark skin of her mother has given Cierra a beautiful mocha frame that is a bit taller than her mother. She has her father’s eyes. In this picture, there is a smile and a fire. In one that was filed after her injury, the smile is gone, and the fire is smoke. I know that look. It’s the one I still see in the mirror sometimes.
Finally, it’s time. I click on the link for the meeting and find I’m the last to join. The three of them are together in a meeting space somewhere. “Hello? Mr. Mason? Mr. and Mrs. Avila? Are you able to hear me?”
Coach Mason responds, “Yes, Spencer. May we call you Spencer?”
“Yes, of course. Please. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon. Please, call me Brian or Coach B. Everyone else does. For the purpose of this meeting, I will be leading it on behalf of the Avilas. They will be jumping in from time to time, and if you have questions for them directly, please feel free.”
“Thank you. I will.”
“Good. We’ve had time to look over your résumé and are impressed. However, this seems like it might be a deviation for you.”
“To be honest, Coach, it is.
I think I can address your concerns. But first, I would like to know more about Cierra’s injury.”
“We didn’t release all of her findings on purpose, at the family’s request, but there is a Grade 3 tear in her right knee. She had surgery some weeks ago and has been resting at home. You’re familiar with this surgery, I understand?”
I know he’s done his homework. I feel like he wants to see how I answer. “Yes, I am. I had a Grade 3 tear in my right as well, and a Grade 2 in my left. Those combined ended my hockey career.”
Mr. Avila leans forward. “You were a beast of a player, Spencer. I’d seen you live a couple times.”
“Thank you, sir. I have walked the path Cierra is on. All ACL injuries are different and unique, as I’m sure you’ve been told. Much depends on the rehab itself, the condition of the athlete, and the mindset they carry as to how or if they recover. They could have the best of all these things and still not be able to compete. That’s something I would caution you to prepare for.” I know what I’m saying is harsh but it’s the truth. I’ve lived it.
“Nathan. Let me address this.” Mr. Avila sits back and takes his wife’s hand in my view and turns to Coach Mason. “All of what you’ve said is absolutely true. Which is why we’re speaking today. Cierra is…she’s not dealing with things well. We can see her spark fading daily, to the detriment of her mental and physical health. We’re hoping, if you agree, you can try to reach her.”
A savior? Is that what they think I can be?
“There’s no magic potion. Just like no one could tell me, if she doesn’t want to listen, I can’t make her.”
Mrs. Avila leans in with a soft voice. “Please, Spencer? All we want you to do is try.”
Chapter 4
Cierra
I’m beginning to have a love-hate relationship with this couch. I love it because it’s not my bed. I don’t think I could spend another waking moment in my bedroom. I feel so isolated and alone when I’m forced to stay in there. The thoughts running through my head when I do tend to not be good ones. However, I hate the couch because I’m not fond of my mother or Coach B hovering around me twenty-four seven. That’s how the last several weeks have been.
I feel like I can’t do anything by myself. The diagnosis was a torn ACL. I watch the huge brace on my leg. The pain makes it so I can barely sleep comfortably when I do sleep. I’m scared to try to shower. I didn’t think I’d miss it that much, but I do. I have to get help climbing in and out of the tub, so privacy is out the window for now.
Sometimes I get up on my crutches and go sit in the bathroom with the door closed, so I have real time to think. I hope if I get all the thinking done during the day I can actually sleep at night, without the memories of other days and the replaying of the accident over and over again. All of those things mix with the oddest combination of other thoughts.
I used to want nothing more than the ice. I think I was on the ice before I could walk. There are pictures of me sitting on the ice making angel wings with my legs. That led to standing, which led to crossovers, which led to speed. God, I love the speed! The only thing I love more is the sound of the ice beneath my blade in an empty rink. You take that first step after the Zamboni has cleared and it’s a stroke with the right, then the left…. faster and faster until you’re racing around the rink at what feels like the speed of light. Then you take off in the air.
It’s a couple of waltz jumps to get you settled. Taking off forward then landing backward. Simple. Making sure your feet are under you. Then it’s a couple of single axels in sequence, taking that last landing and seeing how long you can draw it out. The crunch you hear when the last of the front of your blade leaves the ice and the rip it gives you as you grind out the landing. It’s better than sex, so I’ve heard. That rip when you land perfection as a single, double, or triple. There is nothing like it.
Triple. Three. Usually my lucky number.
Triple. Three. The number of times I circled the boards.
Triple. Three. The number of times Coach hollered and forbade me to try.
Triple axel was what I was attempting.
Three was the number of opinions I sought after I was told I would be out at least a year. The sports psychologist came to see me the day after my surgery, and at that point all I could ask was when and how soon I’d be back on the ice training again.
Within a few days, and the second and third opinion, I became a different person. It was as if that killed the love for skating I had inside me. The solitary force that drove my will to compete died with me being sidelined. The anger slid into near constant tears, which slid me into numb, and then rounding third and coming full circle back into anger. This is where I’ve stayed.
I haven’t wanted to eat right. I’m not doing my basic exercises or stretches. I get out of bed or off the couch long enough to clean up, brush my hair, and do enough basic makeup so I don’t scare anyone, and that’s it. I only have to look presentable for my mom, the random people who stop by to “cheer me up,” and Coach B.
Mom takes the morning shift so I can at least have her be the one to help me with the tub and any other personal needs I have. She’s always the one who’s been the person behind the curtain for me with rides to practice, interviewing, and hiring my training team. I love her for it. I do. Sometimes though she became the skating mom and that’s where we’d butt heads.
My “friends” usually come by in the afternoons. I say they’re my friends, but I don’t know if they are really. I’m not good at letting people in. I try to trust, but most of them are my competition as well. I feel like sometimes it’s a ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ thing and it’s too bullshit for me. I’m not about fake. I can’t play poker. You will know, for better or worse, what I’m thinking in an instant.
Coach B comes to cook me dinner, then make sure I can get myself into bed at night. My coach, Brian Mason, was men’s skating in the eighties. He held every title more than once and there is even a move or two named in his honor. He knows me as well as my parents. He’s been with me since I was nine.
We have a father-daughter style relationship. My father didn’t mind sharing. My father, Nathan Avila, he’s a sports agent. He’s on the road so much, managing his clients; it is a relief to him that I have a man like B to watch over me when he can’t. That was great until I turned about sixteen and tried to have a real voice.
The last five years have been real up and down with both Coach and my parents. Many things have been a constant battle. Since this happened, I’ve given up the fight. Mom seems grateful. She thinks her daughter is back. Coach B knows different. I can tell.
He came over extra friendly but stern tonight. He can tell by the lack of dishes that I’ve not really eaten much again today, so he’s bribing me with his special grilled chicken with a pineapple and barbecue glaze and brown rice. He knows I’ll eat that when I won’t eat anything else.
“Cici?”
Fuck. He’s calling me Cici. He only does that when he’s trying to pull the dad card. Most people get three named when they’re in deep shit. I’ve always gotten Cici from my parents and Coach. This isn’t going to end well for me. “Yeah?”
“We need to talk while we eat.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“I don’t want you to start this off negatively. What I’m about to offer up to you should look more like an opportunity.”
I take the plate from his hand and turn my upper body more to face him. “Here’s as real as I can make it for you. You’re not doing well here in Detroit. I think we all expected to see a fight from you. We’re not.”
“By we, you mean who? You? Mom and Dad? The sponsors?”
“This is a clear example of what I’m talking about. I’m telling you those who love you are concerned, and you think it’s about money or endorsements. You know I don’t give a damn about them. I do give a damn about you. Which is why I refuse to let you fall farther down the hole you’ve decided to climb in.”
“Take another choice away from me. Nice.”
“Cierra, I’m going to ignore that. The doctors have told you to use your passive motion machine way more than you are. You won’t. The sports psychologist has said you refuse most of her conversations. I can see you weakening each day I’m here. It’s going to stop.”
“Are you going to wave a magic wand and rewind to before the injury? I’d like to see that trick.”
“No, I’m not. I’m going to force us ahead. I’ve got an offer for a multi-week guest residency in Sun Valley, Idaho. I have some off-ice training classes I will be performing, as well as specialty on-ice classes. I’ve spoken to your parents and they’ve agreed to sublease your apartment here so you can travel with me.”
I let my fork drop to my plate. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Cierra,” his voice raises. His voice never raises. In the twelve years we’ve been together, this is the first time he’s ever yelled at me. “I don’t appreciate the language or the tone. Take it back.”
“I’m sorry, B. I’m sorry.” If I could shrink back through the couch at this point, I would.
“I know you’re frustrated, but there are certain things you know I won’t tolerate. Now. As I was saying, I think it would be good for you to have a change of location, change of routine, be around different people. You might gain a new perspective.”
“This sounds like it’s a done deal already.”
“Unfortunately, it is. I don’t want this to bring out your color. I do want it to bring out your life. There is a staff nutritionist and a first-rate training center that has everything you’ll need for rehab. Once you’re ready for the ice, there will be plenty of that too.”
My color. I hate when he pulls out the Cutting Edge references. Sometimes he even calls me Kate for good measure. That character and I do have a lot in common. Where we are different is that she didn’t battle an injury and I am. “You sound very sure of yourself. You sound sure I’ll want back on.”