Kiss and Cry

Manon said to me, “We always start with the basics. Knee action and balance for a strong foundation. Skate in the ice, not on it.”

I wanted to argue that I’d learned the basics many years ago, but it was my first day, so I joined in, feeling a little ridiculous. Manon had been an ice dancer back in the day, so it made sense that she focused on edges and fundamentals. But I could have slept in and skipped this.

After a ton of bubbles, we moved on to edges. Again, this was basic stuff. I peered at Henry tracing an old-fashioned figure eight. They’d abolished compulsory figures at competitions before we were born—thank God—but I bet Henry would have crushed them. I couldn’t imagine how boring it would be to practice these for hours on end.

I forced myself to concentrate and carved out my figure eight, my blades curving and gliding. I wasn’t known for my finesse, but that was because jumps were way more important and fun to practice. This was dull.

Manon nodded. “Très bon, Theo. You’re such a natural.”

It was true—I’d taken to the ice like a duck to water as a kid tagging along to my sister Veronica’s skating lessons. She was two years younger than me, and I was supposed to have been playing hockey in the rink next door, but I’d kept sneaking into the back of the figure skating class.

Even in hockey skates, I’d been able to spin and jump. The instructor had told my mom I could be great, and that was that. Sometimes, I wondered what my life would be like now if I’d never put on skates, but I did love it. Kind of. Most of the time.

Henry stared at my perfect tracing with his usual blank expression. He was such a freak, going back to do three more figures in a row with precision. I’d competed against him since we were kids, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard him string together more than three words outside press conferences.

The session ended with each of us performing the element we were going to especially focus on that week. Manon called it “setting our intentions.”

The junior skaters went first, the girl skating down the rink on her spindly legs and launching into a triple Lutz-triple toe. With the top women—who were all teenagers these days—doing quads and triple Axels, I wasn’t surprised to see a kid doing what used to be the hardest jumping combo for women.

Everyone applauded her, and I joined in. The younger Canadian man, Julien, fell on his quad toe, but we all clapped anyway and Bill told him how close it had been.

It went on like this until Henry stormed down the rink and launched off his toe pick into a quad Lutz, which he’d struggled with last season. This was the hardest jump for men these days, and he squeaked it out, the rotation questionable.

I couldn’t lie—I was relieved he hadn’t nailed it over the summer. My arsenal of quads—loop, flip, Lutz, toe, and Salchow—were my ticket to Olympic gold. I’d tried the quad Axel, which was four and a half revolutions since the Axel was the only jump that took off going forward.

I’d managed a few in practice, but the risk of hurting myself wasn’t worth it. Landing a jump on practice ice was still miles away from landing it in a program in competition. Unless I had eighty percent consistency in practice with a jump, it wasn’t going in.

Before I’d moved to Mr. Webber, I’d had a tendency to rush into jumps. Mr. Webber said it was because I wasn’t focusing and concentrating through every moment of the program, and he wasn’t wrong. I’d needed patience. He’d beat it out of me—metaphorically—and my quads had launched me to the top of the podium.

After applauding Henry’s attempt, it was my turn. I hadn’t given any thought to working on a particular element—I figured Manon and Bill would tell me what they wanted me to do. But I couldn’t resist tossing off my own quad Lutz, snapping up into the jump with plenty of flow for a triple on the end for good measure. I held my running edge as applause rang out.

“Don’t think you have much to work on with that combo,” Julien said, shaking his head. “Wow.”

Henry turned away, but not before I could see the clench of his jaw and flash of stink eye. He’d always hated me, but I didn’t let myself get riled by my competitors.

Really, the only person who could beat me was me. And Henry would be waiting to pounce, sure. But being rivals on the ice didn’t mean we had to hate each other, at least not in my book.

I was pretty sure Henry disagreed. Strongly.

The younger kids left for a morning of school before coming back in the afternoon. I was ready for a nap, but apparently Henry, Julien, Ivan, and I were doing another session.