Kiss and Cry

While Manon and I discussed the straight-line footwork element in my short program, Henry worked on his quad Lutz with Bill with varying degrees of success.

Though neither of us were tall—he was about five-six to my five-seven—he had long legs that looked great when he held the extension on his landings. After a hard fall that made me wince, he leapt back up, and our eyes met.

“Theo?”

I snapped my attention back to Manon. “Sorry! Jet lag.”

She laughed, dangly gold earrings clinking as she shook her head. “Why do I feel like you’ll be saying that for a month?”

I laughed too. “Because Mr. Webber warned you about me?”

“He did indeed.” Her smile faded. “Did you speak to him on the weekend?”

“Yeah, I called yesterday. He still refuses to text. He sounded good! The same.” He was starting chemo this week, so that would probably change, and I hated it so fucking much.

“Good, good. I know you only arrived Friday night, but are you settling into the condo all right? Giselle got you all set up with your rental car and everything you need?”

“Yep, everything’s great! Thanks.” It was honestly too embarrassing to admit the truth, and I’d figure out the car situation later. I watched Henry’s flying sit spin. Level four for sure.

I said to Manon, “I’m surprised he agreed to let me train here.”

She watched Henry, smiling fondly. “He’s too honorable to refuse.” Her gaze turned to me, sharpening. “Most people think Henry’s cold and that nothing bothers him. That’s not true. Just so you know.”

“Right. Noted. We’ve never had a problem. He’s so quiet I hardly notice he’s there.”

She frowned. “You shouldn’t underestimate him either. All right, time to focus. Jet lag or not.”

At some point, Henry moved on to his long program, which the ISU officially called “free skating.” His short program was to “The Blower’s Daughter.” The long was “Moonlight Sonata,” which was historically a bit cliché and overused in skating, but honestly sounded refreshing these days.

After they allowed lyrics in competition music, there’d been a steady stream of emo ballads like you’d hear during one of those mom shows like Grey’s Anatomy or something. Or sometimes edgier music, but not a lot of true classical. This piece suited Henry’s quiet intensity perfectly.

The gentle piano of “Moonlight Sonata” had a meditative quality, and at least if I’d be hearing this music over and over and over all season, it was a beautiful piece.

It filled the rink despite a tinny edge via the sound system that was probably getting old. Manon and I were sure to stay out of Henry’s way as he did his run-through. I couldn’t help but notice when he missed his quad Lutz, but the rest was good.

Frighteningly good. It was still early in the season, and Henry was competition-ready. My stomach flip-flopped uneasily, and I tried to focus on my camel spin position as Manon encouraged me to point my toe. Which I already was, but I grudgingly pointed it harder even though spins weren’t worth enough points to spend too much time on them.

Meanwhile, I realized “Moonlight Sonata” was playing again. And again. Bill was working with Ivan at this point. When it started again, for a split second, Manon’s mouth tightened before smoothing out into a smile as she called across the ice, “Okay, Henry. That’s enough. It’s time for your Pilates session.” She raised a hand to whoever was in the booth, and the music stopped.

Henry was breathing hard, but I realized as he passed that he was still doing his program, gliding into a tough spread-eagle transition into his triple Axel-triple toe, which he landed perfectly with flow and glide. Then he picked up speed and went for the quad Lutz again, squeaking it out and putting a hand down. But it looked fully rotated. I applauded, and he shot me an acid glare that could have stripped the ugly orange paint off the walls.

“Geez,” I muttered. “I thought this was a clapping rink too? Mr. Webber always taught us to be supportive when someone lands a tough element they’re struggling with.”

One summer when a top Russian skater had come to train, I’d applauded his quad Sal after he’d missed a bunch. He had not appreciated it.

Manon winced. “I’m sorry. Henry’s a perfectionist, and he can be…”

A humorless tightass? “A perfectionist?”

“Indeed.”

“Yeah, but…geez. He just did three full run-throughs in a row that were practically perfect.”

“If we let him, he’ll keep going until he does it absolutely clean.”

My eyes were probably bugging out. “Why doesn’t he just stop if he makes a mistake and start again?”

“Because that’s not good enough for Henry. Anyway, it’s your turn. Short or long? We’d love to see both since we weren’t involved in the choreography.”

“Now? I don’t do a lot of run-throughs. Especially on Mondays. With jet lag.”