Kiss and Cry

“I have competition here. Ivan is almost landing his quad Sal. He’s a national champion.”

Manon raised a narrow eyebrow. “You know as well as we do that Ivan represents Ukraine because he’s not strong enough to make the Russian team. We’re very proud of how far he’s come, but he’s not a medal contender.”

“If Julien was old enough to compete as a senior, he could be.” My heart thumped. This wasn’t part of the plan. Theodore Sullivan coming to Toronto to train was not the plan.

Bill said, “True, but he’s not, and Theo is currently ranked number one in the world.”

I was very, very aware of that fact. “But you’re my coaches.” I cringed at my plaintive tone. I was an adult. I shouldn’t have an emotional reaction to this news. Skating and coaching were a business.

Their faces softened, and Manon reached across the ring-stained table to briefly squeeze my hand. “We are. And we’re committed to helping you be your very best. You know we love you, Henry.”

The saggy love seat springs creaked as I squirmed, dropping my gaze and nodding. Manon spoke so openly about love and feelings, but it made me want to be anywhere else. Not that I didn’t appreciate it and reciprocate her affection, but did it really have to be said aloud?

“He’s been taking from Mr. Webber for a long time.” I thought back and calculated. “Four years. He won Worlds in March. There’s no reason to switch coaches.”

You didn’t change the formula when you were winning, and I could bitterly confirm that Theodore Sullivan had been undefeated the past two seasons.

They shared another look, this one serious and sad. Bill blew out a long breath. For a terrible moment, his perpetually chapped lips quivered, and I thought he might cry. “This isn’t public knowledge yet, but Mr. Webber’s been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He needs to start aggressive treatment immediately.”

My heart sank. “Oh.”

Even though Bill was in his late forties, he still called his old coach “Mr. Webber” like he had as a pupil and as most everyone in the skating world did. Many coaches were known by their first names, but Mr. Webber was a legend. He was almost eighty now and had always seemed indestructible.

When I was younger, I’d dreamed of being coached by him, but when I had to leave Vancouver three years ago, Theodore Sullivan was Mr. Webber’s star pupil. I hadn’t even considered training with my archrival. Having to see him and his careless smile and natural jumping ability daily? No.

“You can imagine how upset Theo is.” Manon shook her head. “It’s a shock for everyone. Mr. Webber sounds in good spirits, though. He’s going to fight this.”

“You talked to him?”

Bill nodded. “He called us yesterday to ask personally if we’d take on Theo.”

My heart sank all the way down through the ugly shag rug. How could I say no?

Manon seemed to read my mind. “We realize we’re putting you in a tough spot. But we truly believe this is the extra training push you need.”

“I’m going to beat him.”

I’d imagined seeing my name in first place over Theodore Sullivan for years. Gold: Henry Sakaguchi, Canada. Silver: Theodore Sullivan, USA. Or sometimes he didn’t even make the podium. I imagined wiping that infuriating smirk off his perfectly symmetrical face.

Manon grinned. “That’s the confidence we love to see. Our job is to train you both to be your best, and then it’s up to the judges. It’s a win-win if you two can push each other to new heights.”

I wanted very badly to argue, but they were right. I’d been the top skater at the Ice Chalet the three years I’d trained here. I knew I couldn’t be childish about the idea of my coaches helping the competition. It was the norm in skating these days.

“What’s the verdict?” Bill asked. “Of course we understand if you want to sleep on it.”

It was selfish to deny Manon and Bill the prestige and potential income that would accompany coaching another world champion. Even if it plagued me that while we were tied at two titles apiece, he’d beaten me the last two years running. He had the momentum and was the favorite going into these Olympics.

It was selfish to deny them even if I hated Theodore Sullivan.

I thought of Mr. Webber being sick, and my skin prickled with a hot rush of guilt. Manon and Bill waited for me to respond, though Bill’s foot tapped on the rug, jiggling his knee.

They were good about giving me time to find the right words, but I could see the tension in their bodies. They wanted this opportunity. Really, they didn’t have to ask me at all—they were the coaches and this was their business. If I didn’t like it, I could hire someone else.