Kiss and Cry

Ivan mumbled through another bite, “He’s a nice guy, sure, but don’t forget he’s the enemy.”

I wanted to argue. A few months ago, I would have agreed wholeheartedly. A few months ago, I’d hated Theodore. I watched him now begin jump drills, reeling off one of his exceptional quad Salchows.

I reached for the resentment that had once flowed like water. Theodore was laughing and saying something to Bill, and then he gathered speed for another perfect Salchow. It came so easily to him—the natural snap and quick spinning motion.

The memory of his hot tears on my neck as I held him on a rainy street invaded. The way he talked and talked to Esmeralda as if she understood him. Curled on my couch dozing. Following a recipe with earnest effort. The tightness in his jaw when he spoke of his mother’s abuse though he’d likely never use that word.

“Everyone thinks you’re going crazy.” Ivan laughed. “Be careful.”

On the drive to Dr. Shankar’s office in Markham, I tried not to imagine Theodore on the top of the podium in Calgary while I was a step below. But I could hear “The Star-Spangled Banner” in my mind instead of “O Canada” and see him with his hand over his heart, singing along.

A surge of petty jealousy took over, and I let it flourish. I encouraged it with more memories of losing, trying to fan the flames. I would beat Theodore at the Olympics. Once we left for Calgary, he would be my enemy. I could close the door on this strange…what? Friendship? I was still in control. Everything was fine.

At the appointment, Dr. Shankar asked, “How are you doing with your visualizations?”

“Well,” I lied.

Even if I did my very best, would it be enough to beat Theodore? The judges would put him in front if he landed all his quads. He had one more in his planned free skate than me, and it would be all the difference he needed no matter how shallow the edges on his footwork. His hip swiveling would be more than enough for his PCS even if Manon couldn’t improve his posture.

“Henry?”

I blinked at Dr. Shankar. She watched me with her head tilted slightly, brown eyes almost squinting. I answered, “Yes?”

Sitting across from me in her neutral-toned office, she uncrossed her legs, her slacks making a shushing sound. I shifted, the pristine leather of her couch squeaking.

“You seem distracted today. Restless. You mentioned you have a new injury?”

I waved a hand dismissively. “I strained the intercostal muscles around my ribs.” I motioned to my left lower back, not letting myself wince. “It’s improving daily. Very minor.”

“Glad to hear it. How are things going with Theo?”

My spine stiffened. “Fine.” I couldn’t hold her gaze and looked at the sage throw rug on her wooden floor.

She chuckled. “I don’t think that’s true. Neither do you. Remember, if you focus too much on your competitors and not your own performance—over which only you have complete control—that’s when distraction can lead to mistakes.”

Control. Dr. Shankar was correct. I’d remained in control in so many aspects of my life for years. After my shameful stupidity in Vancouver, I’d rededicated myself to skating. Yet now I was letting Theodore distract me.

The worst part was that it wasn’t on the ice. It was at home.

My eyes flicked to the round metal clock on Dr. Shankar’s office wall. Dinner was scheduled in two hours. Since he’d returned from the funeral, he’d eaten dinner at my condo every night. I typically cycled through the same handful of recipes, and Theodore eagerly sliced vegetables, both of us in the kitchen now.

When toasting nuts, he watched carefully, wooden spoon in hand.

“Henry, have you considered visiting a personal therapist?”

I snapped my attention back to Dr. Shankar. “I need a sports psychologist.”

“Yes, absolutely. But you might recall a couple of years ago when I suggested you might also want therapy that doesn’t center on skating and your career. I have many clients that do both.”

“Skating is all that matters. Being the best. Winning.”

“Mmm. Yet you’ve told me you prefer training to competing. Do you want to win for the accomplishment or the validation?”

Leather squeaked as I shifted. “Perhaps both.”

“You haven’t brought up Theo since before the Grand Prix Final.”

“We just discussed him.”

She smiled. “I’m not sure I’d call your one-word answer a discussion. And I raised the subject. Which, having gotten to know you, indicates to me that there’s a reason you don’t want to talk about him. How did it feel when he beat you by such a slim margin at the Grand Prix Final?”

“Fine.” I couldn’t tell her that I had only cared for a few minutes before learning of Mr. Webber’s death. That I’d scoured the dark, sleepy streets until I found him, content to watch from a distance to make sure he was safe.