Maisy

I should be there. And if she hadn’t pulled that stunt at the snowboard cross final, I would be. God, I am so angry at her. And yet here I am, parked on my bed with my laptop cracked open and my headphones on so I can watch Blaze in relative peace. Yes, Kristie is over in her bed canoodling with that American men’s luger she’s taken up with, but I’m finding it hard to care.

What I care far more about is watching these damn 1,500-meter heats. Short track speed skaters are a crazy bunch. It’s such a strange sport that depends so directly on other people not fucking up. Like if someone wrecks in front of you, and you go down with them, well, too bad. My placing certainly depends on other people’s performances, but it’s not as if we’re playing sequin-and crystal-covered bumper cars on the rink. This is madness.

Every time someone hits the boards, I wince. They’re padded, but that doesn’t do a damn thing. People still get concussions and broken bones . . . regularly. The heats are maddening to watch, but as furious as I am with her, I’ve watched from the beginning because I didn’t want to miss seeing her.

There are five skaters in her heat, and one by one their names get called. They wave to the crowd and smile, the camera capturing their hometown crowds, people waving their country’s flags and homemade signs. Wow are my parents not those people.

Blaze is of course the last one to get called, and she gives that big grin, that mouth that’s worked goddamn magic between my legs, and now she’s using it to blow kisses to the crowds. She’s outright beaming, her smile so bright I almost have to look away even through the screen. I don’t. As painful as it is, I still want to watch her, see her do well, get what she’s after. She had some bad luck in her other events, and I’m hoping this one won’t be a repeat. She’s favored in the longer events because the girl has stamina—hell can I hear her making a that’s-what-she-said joke right now—and this is her shot.

After much fanfare—too much, honestly, for a heat—she’s skating up to the start line with her competition, putting on her helmet until she looks just about like anyone else except that I’d recognize the curve of that ass anywhere. She looks incredible in her speedsuit, and she’s so high up in those towering skates. Heaven help the person who gets between her and the finish line.

They stand there for moments, shifting their weight and waiting for a cue. They must get it, because they’re suddenly digging the tips of one of their blades into the ice, another bleat of a signal and they’ve hunched over. Not quite like runners at starting blocks, but curvier somehow, no fingers steepling on the ground but an elbow resting on a knee and like they’re frozen in motion. With a crack of a faux pistol, they’re off.

From her spot on the outside, Blaze sprints, her arms pumping like crazy, but also moving to the inside as the horizontal line of skaters quickly becomes a vertical one.

Worry flutters in my chest as I think about how close they are together, how fast they’re going, how sharp their skates are. Blaze might joke about retiring to roller derby, a sport which is no joke, either, but at least there if someone kicks you in the face, you get a shiner from the wheels on someone’s skate, you don’t lose an eye.

My stomach clenches thinking about all the wrecks I’ve seen, and I want badly to close my eyes and not have to watch, or watch between my fingers, because if something were to happen to her . . . I won’t, though. I’ll give her my full attention as she’s given me hers for the past couple of weeks, even if I didn’t see it that way at the time.

It seems as though they barely get up to speed when they have to lean into the first turn. Lean they do, a hand on the ground, skate over skate. Even to me, who regularly has ridiculous amounts of G-forces exerted on my body, it looks like they’re defying gravity by not falling over. They switch positions on the insides and the outsides, and my heart races. I get jittery before my own competitions and I’m breathing pretty hard by the end of my programs, but this is different. Pure anxiety instead of exertion. I have to consciously uncurl my hands from where they’ve coiled into fists on my lap.

Killing me. She’s killing me. I so much preferred the shorter events when the torture didn’t last this long. When they casually bump and brush against each other, it creates wobbles, and forces choked noises out of my throat. They’re all going to die.

Which is of course when they go into a turn and suddenly Blaze is sprawling out on the ice and headed toward the boards, and I swear to god there’s red and it’s not from the Chinese uniform or from Blaze’s famous hair, which is tucked underneath her helmet. It’s . . . it’s from Blaze, and it’s spots and smears on the ice, which I barely catch before she makes impact, and hard. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The other women are finishing the race, but Blaze is pressed up against the boards, covering her face with her gloves, and I—

If I were there, I’d like to think that I’d vault out onto the ice and go to her, security and ruining the heat be damned. Thing is? I don’t think I would. Not in real life. So it’s better for me to be here where I can’t fail to make a grand gesture. Not in her arena where I’d sit in the stands, wringing my hands hard in my lap, feeling as though my heart was going to stop but not in fact doing a damn thing about it.

Instead, I’m startled by a hand on my shoulder. It’s Kristie, and she looks like I’ve grown another head. So I slip my headphones off one ear and dart my eyes to her then back to the screen in hopes that I won’t miss anything. The heat’s finished by now. I don’t know and I don’t care who’s won. It’s not Blaze, and unless they can tell me how badly she’s hurt, I don’t give a shit. Luckily the camera crew’s decided this kind of wreck is far more likely to glean attention than some random-ass heat in the 1,500 meter and is focusing on the medical team swarming Blaze.

“Maisy, are you okay?”

“Yeah, no. I don’t know.” I point to the screen where Blaze is surrounded by medical professionals. There’s also a cleaning crew descending upon where her blood splattered onto the ice. Not that I haven’t left my own blood on the rink at some points during my career, but that was ugly. I shouldn’t be able to see the blood on the screen. “Blaze totally wiped out, and there’s a lot of blood, and I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

Could be anything. Short track is like that. People break ankles, get cut all the time. At the last SIGs, a guy severed a muscle in his thigh with his own damn skate, and the thought makes me stomach roil. He’s here again this year, but not without a lot of rehab. Blaze can’t be done. She can’t be, because she needs to finish out her shot.

“Hey, look.” Kristie puts her finger to the screen, and I’m so worked up I don’t even tell her not to touch. Especially because she’s pointing at a Blaze, who’s coming to seated, and yes, finally, to her feet. She’s still got a glove clutched to her face and someone from her coaching staff is helping her off the ice, and people are clapping.

Before she heads into the tunnel to get to the locker rooms and the trainers office, she takes the glove away, and it’s soaked with blood. There’s more blood running down her face from a big ol’ gash on what I’d guess is her forehead, but it’s hard to tell with so much gore. She waves her goddamn bloody glove at the crowd and smiles, that crazy bitch.

Which is when I start to laugh, because of course she’s not upset. She must be loving this. Could’ve lost an eye, might have to have plastic surgery, but she’s playing this for all it’s worth, and her face, bloodied and battered in the pursuit of sport, is going to be all the fuck over the place tomorrow, if not in seconds.

I hope she’s happy.

Kristie looks at me as if I’m a crazy person, which I can’t blame her for. I am in fact cackling after someone I’m quite fond of and have been having epic sex with for the past two weeks had a really bad accident, and who knows if it’ll keep her from competing in her last event. She’s got to be out for the 1,500, and that makes me ache for her. Short track is so fucking fickle. But at least she’ll be above the fold in most English-speaking newspapers tomorrow with blood dripping down her face. She’ll be thrilled.

She’ll be even more thrilled if she can get in for the 3,000-meter relay in a few days, and will probably start to badger them about it as soon as she’s off-camera. Another chance to be in front of the press, and she’s sure as hell not going to give that up.

Blaze

The first thing I want to do when they get me off the ice is to text Maisy.

Did you see that? OMG, this is going to be great. Head wounds bleed *profusely*

I don’t know if she’s watching. She was pretty ripshit with me. Too pissed to come and watch me in person. It had hurt to look into the crowd, in the area where I know her ticket was for and not see her there. But I’d like to think she’s watching this on her phone? Maybe in one of the lounges? No, that would be too public for her.

There’s a nagging feeling on the side of my neck and I want to reach up and rub away the scratchy feeling of shame. Of embarrassment that someone like Maisy wouldn’t even watch me on TV in a public place because she’d be worried that people would know about us. Probably best that we’re over because in places other than the SIGs, we’d really have no excuse to be out and about together. People would have to know, and I don’t think she’d be okay with that.

Sure, I talk a good game about not caring what people think of me, and for the most part it’s easy to shrug off the shitty way some of my fuck buddies have treated me, never mind the people who sneer at me from on high, half of them fucking hypocrites, and they criticize me because they don’t want the shaming turned on them.

But to have Maisy so blatantly do the same thing? I don’t think I could handle it, especially not in the long-term. Which is why I’ll pick someone else up at the bar tonight. Someone will want to be seen with me, even if it’s to have some of my notoriety and press attention to themselves. Better that way since I know what they want me for, and they’re not so fucking mysterious like Maisy.

I try to sit still while everyone fusses over me, asks me questions, but if I can’t text Maisy, I’d like to see if my bloody face is on any media outlets yet. Unless something crazy spectacular happened, I should be the top photo on sports media sites and social media. Also since this is the one time per year the rest of the world pays attention to short track, I might actually be trending on Twitter. I hope my hashtag is good . . .

Maisy

My pacing disturbed the lovebirds enough that they’ve flown the coop, and I’m not sorry. This way I can pace without holding my laptop, which made me look ridiculous. Now I can crank up the volume on my laptop and leave it on my desk while I wear a ditch in the floor.

The ice has been cleared of Blaze’s blood and they’ve moved onto the next heat, but if there’s news, they’ve got to announce it, regardless of what’s happening elsewhere, right? One plus of Blaze being an absolute ham is that the photo of her bloodied face is all over the place.

There’s about a hundred different angles of it, and I’ve squinted at every single one trying to figure out how bad the damage is. Probably not as bad as it looks because head wounds bleed like crazy, but still—a fucking head wound, and so close to her eye that I’m still not sure it won’t have an effect on her vision. Damn Blaze and her vain refusal to wear the safety glasses. She’ll say it’s for vision purposes, but that’s a goddamn lie. It’s because if she wore them, more of her face would be obscured.

It’s almost an hour that I pace and wait and definitely don’t contact Blaze. But finally one of the announcers comes on between heats and tells us that Blaze Bellamy’s wound is being treated by a full staff of medical professionals, and though it will require stitches, there should be no long-term effects.

They show a photo of her, and never have I seen someone so delighted to have rivulets of blood coursing over the curves of their face. She looks elated and the announcer is outright perplexed by her glee. “I’m wondering, Fred, if perhaps Bellamy hit her head harder than it at first appeared. She looks way too happy for someone who got knocked out of her second to last race after a disappointing showing here in Denver.”

The announcer clearly has no idea who he’s dealing with.

I understand that it’s difficult to get commentators who are experts on every single last sport, especially the more obscure ones, but might they be able to give them a crash course on how not to say stupid and insulting things? Yes, I’m sure on some level Blaze is disappointed because if you’re good enough to be here, you’re good enough to be disappointed about not winning, but I’d like to see this joker stand up on a pair of her skates, never mind make it once around the track with a modicum of speed or grace. Jerk probably wouldn’t be able to lace the things up without whining about his hands hurting.

“We are hearing that Bellamy will be participating in her final event, which is the 3,000-meter relay. That event is taking place in two days, and will give the veteran her final shot at glory.”

I ought to take that guy’s glory and shove it up his . . .

Instead, I contemplate exactly how many medical professionals’ sound advice Blaze will be ignoring to take her last shot. Probably lots.

I’m still alternately fretting over her and chastising her in my head when my cell rings. I answer, half-hoping but ultimately knowing it won’t be her. I made sure of that.

“Maisy, it’s your father.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“You sound out of breath, are you at practice? Conditioning? You shouldn’t answer your phone when you’re training, it’s—”

“I’m fine, Dad. Just in my suite watching some of the other events on my laptop, that’s all.”

“Why aren’t you with your team and your coach? You should be at the rink, getting—”

Yes, yes, everything I do is wrong. I should be practicing, but if I’m practicing, I shouldn’t answer the phone, but you can be sure if I hadn’t answered the phone, I would’ve gotten a very uptight message about where was I and I should always answer my parent’ calls, otherwise they worry. I’ve become used to not being able to win.

“We have really limited ice time between everyone who needs practice spots and also the other competitions, and I already had conditioning with my team this morning. Really, I’m good.”

There’s a pause as though he doesn’t believe me, because of course he doesn’t, and I can hear my mother in the background, asking the same questions he’s already asked of me. Seriously, these people are exhausting.

“We wanted to speak with you before your program tomorrow.” And here it really comes. Most parents would be calling to wish their child good luck, maybe try to thrust a few last-minute reminders upon them, and hopefully assure them that no matter what happens, Mom and Dad love them and are proud. My parents are not most parents.

“You need to focus on your elegance. Don’t be so . . . athletic.” Yep, because that’s a terrible thing for a SIG athlete to be. Athletic. “The judges don’t care if you can land a triple axel if you can’t charm them. We’ve done what we can with your costuming to make you look more refined, but you can’t be such a show-off.”

I wish Blaze were here. Not because she’d be able to fuck this conversation right out of my brain when it’s over, but because I’d like someone here to roll my eyes at, and offer a voice that’s a counterpoint that’s not only loud but one that I respect and from someone who seems to like me precisely as I am. Would that be so very awful? But I’m angry at her for trying to make me into something I’m not, as surely as my parents have tried to shape me for my whole life. Too much this, not enough that.

My dad is continuing to lecture me on how to be refined and graceful. I could hang up, but it’ll be easier to tune him out, tell him when he’s finished I’ll do my very best, and yes, of course, I’ll be polite to the reporters, smile and wave to my fans, and keep control of my expression when my scores are announced.

“You know it’s not too late—it’s never too late—to change your program. Maybe a double axel instead a triple. Give you more time to focus on being elegant, amiable. Maybe this time . . .”

He trails off and I can see what he’s thinking: maybe this time I’ll be the daughter they want.

“Don’t disappoint us, Maisy.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, because would it really be so awful of him to assume that I won’t? “I will do my very best, I promise. Goodbye, Dad.”