Blaze

How dead would I be if Maisy knew I was here? Super dead or just a little bit dead? Maisy’s pretty thorough, so I’m guessing like really dead.

Despite that, I’m here. I’m not known for my caution or my strong sense of self-preservation, but I’m not a moron. I’ll still hide. Hat pulled down over my head—most importantly my hair—and I keep fucking quiet. No yelling or cheering, sitting here with the people next to me giving me serious side-eye because I’m biting my thumb to keep from yelling or pumping a fist when other skaters make mistakes.

I am by no means an expert, and figure skating is far more complex than speed skating so I haven’t been able to pick up even the basics really, but I know falling isn’t good. Which is why I get so excited when the other skaters do it. And I have had to sit through a lot of skaters. They go one at a freaking time, and there are thirty of them. Of course Maisy is scheduled to be toward the end of the line-up. What I wouldn’t give to have all thirty of them skating all at once, and have part of the competition be that they had to avoid each other while pulling off all those twirls and tricks. No, wait—that Maisy would definitely toe-pick me for. Spins and jumps.

These short programs are chock-full of the fancy stuff, though, because they have to squeeze eight elements into less than three minutes, so that’s cool. And five of the skaters won’t be moving on to the next round—I’m so not worried about Maisy being one of those.

Finally, finally, after a skater from Kazakhstan has a solid program, they announce Maisy, and there she is, taking her guards off at the entrance gate in the boards, and skating onto the ice. She’s wearing a pale pink thing with a flippy skirt, long sleeves, and encrusted with crystals. It’s pretty, but it’s not her. She should be in bold colors, and they should show off every bit of her figure they can, because her body’s enough to make anyone drool.

But here she is, her hair rolled up in a taut bun, her over-the-skate tights making her legs look a million miles long, and her face heavily made-up. She’s beautiful, but she looks fragile in a way, which is ridiculous. She’s one of the strongest people I know. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t look into the stands while she skates to the center of the ice. Doesn’t look at anyone. What is going through that busy head of hers? Probably a million things. I hope at least one of them is that she’s happy.

The music starts, and it’s definitely not the raucous stuff she was performing to when I walked in on her. Is that for her long program? The strains of classical music fill the arena, and I don’t recognize them. From her pose in the middle of the rink, she starts her program, and my eyes are glued to her.

People clap when she executes her jumps, oooh and ahh when she spins, but to me she looks . . . plastic. Technically very good as far as my untrained eye can see, but kind of lifeless. I don’t understand it. Maisy is one of the most passionate and vibrant people I’ve ever met—when she’s letting herself be—but all I can see is that she’s holding herself back. What could she do if she left everything on the ice? Is she pacing herself for the long program tomorrow or is this how she skates because this is how she thinks she’s supposed to? If so, who told her that? I hate that she’s so wooden.

She finishes out her program, posing in the center of the ice with her arms wrapped around herself, and she doesn’t look delighted, she doesn’t look proud. I clap, but . . . that was downright painful to watch. Well-executed, I think, though the scores will tell me for sure, but smiling and waving as she skates toward the gap in the boards looks like something she has to do. My stomach feels as though I’m on a small boat in rough seas, and I don’t think I can blame it on my head injury. Maisy doesn’t seem to be faring much better as she picks up a bunch of white roses that will look pretty with her dress and skates off, meeting her coach at the exit to put her guards on and head to the small set where she’ll sit and wait to be judged.

Maisy

That was fine. Not earth-shattering, but solid. Exactly what I’m supposed to do. I nailed my jumps, my spins were textbook, my footwork was perfect, and no one could say word one about my presentation. My coach tells me quietly and sedately that I gave a very good performance.

As I sit on the small bench with her and wait for my score to come down, I want to scream. I know I did. Everything was perfect. A robot couldn’t have performed a more flawless program than that. But that’s the thing . . . I felt like a robot. Reciting my program in my head, counting, checking off a thousand boxes of the things I was supposed to be doing. Double axel, check; step sequence, check; triple salchow into a double toe, check; combination spin, check; flying camel spin, check; triple lutz, check; a layback spin, check; and not an ounce of passion. Methodical, disciplined, meticulous. I can see the headlines now. Except those kinds of performances don’t get headlines.

Waiting, I wish Blaze were here. Except maybe I don’t. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach that she’d be disappointed in me. And the stupid thing is that I’m kind of disappointed in myself. I don’t want to see playback of that routine, because even if it was technically perfect, I probably look like a skating corpse. No personality, no passion—an automaton doing what it’s been programmed to do.

When I get ahold of my phone, I’ll likely have a message from my parents telling me that they saw my performance. Then a pause. Then a grudging “You did well,” followed by the inevitable “You’ll do better in the long program.”

Except I won’t.

That was the best I could do given the constraints I’m working under. Maybe that’s the problem, that I feel constrained. I want to feel like I’m flying, I want to feel as though I’m free, not like I’m dragging chains of obligation and expectations and requirements around the ice. Not to feel caught between the walls of too much and not enough. But perhaps this is as good as it gets. How depressing is that?

Then there’s a rustle that carries around the icebox of the arena, and my coach nudges me to look at my score.

67.89. That’s . . . excellent. Not quite a career high for me, but close. Definitely medal-contender territory.

My coach is so excited, she squeezes my arm. I think I’m smiling, but the elated feeling I get after skating my exhibition program is missing. The joy, the rush, the delight. That feeling I get when I’m with Blaze—in private of course, or in a quiet way in public—or when I’ve been doing a program based on what I damn well please.

I wave and smile at the camera, but the hollow feeling remains. I want to—for once in my life—feel full. Filled to the brim with all good feelings, and no room for shame. Yes, I’m still furious with her for betraying my trust and for allowing her own values and priorities to trample so completely over mine, but Blaze might be the only person on earth who would want that for me, too. I can’t help think of her as I move off the set and head to a place where I’ll be able to watch the last few performances.

Maisy

Back in the privacy of my suite after all the insanity is over, and I can reasonably excuse myself from being around other people, I lie on my bed. It’s quiet on the hall, quiet in the building, and it leaves me alone with all my thoughts. Including a wish that we could skate the short and the free programs on the same day because I would like to get this over with. Yes, I appreciate the break, because it gives me a chance to rest and refill the well before I have to skate again tomorrow, but it leaves a lot of room for thinking. Too much.

If Blaze were here, she’d fill up all that room with her big, strong, badass body, her wild hair, her loud voice, and yeah, some excellent sex. I’m not sorry I left her, and I don’t regret being angry with her and letting her know it. She was wrong. So, so wrong, and if someone had ignored her wishes like that, I have no doubt she’d do exactly the same thing, if not something even more dramatic.

I also realize that she’s an impulsive person, which is part of what makes her fun. It’s irritating to love and hate the same of her personality traits. The thing is, though, that if I explained why these things are different, why sometimes it’s okay and sometimes it’s not, she’d do her best not to do it again. Sometimes she’d fuck up because her mouth and her body move way faster than her brain.

But to have a voice in my life that was so emphatically pro-me, pro-what-I-want, 138 percent of a believer that I should have whatever I want whenever I want it and will go out of her way to help me get it? What’s a girl to say to that except “Yes, please”?

In the silence of the suite, the ping of my phone is loud. There’s a notification for a text, and I hold my breath. What, exactly, should I hope for? Doesn’t really matter, though, the message will be the same so I should get it over with. My heart beats harder when I see it’s from Blaze. And it’s not short.

Maisy,

Idk if you’ll read this. I hope you do. I came to see you skate today—don’t be mad. You were beautiful, as always, but . . . there was something missing. I know jackshit about figure skating so I don’t expect you to give a flying fuck about my evaluation of your performance. To me it looked perfect. Your score was awesome and I hope it gets you a medal.

But—and the only reason I’m saying this is that I don’t expect you to ever talk to me again anyhow, and I need you to know—you didn’t look happy, you didn’t look fulfilled. I’d like to think I know what you look like when you’re in the throes of passion, and you don’t look anywhere close to orgasm on your skates. And fucking A, I think you should.

You love skating. I’ve seen you love it. I’ve seen the way your eyes light up when you step into a rink and breathe in the air. How your face gets bright when you even think about lacing up your skates. But someone killed the joy of it for you. I don’t know when, and I don’t know who, and it doesn’t really matter.

I have one wish for you, and you might tell me to go fuck myself (which would actually be kind of hot, but this I swear is not about sexting, I’m being SERIOUS F0DFSee, shouty caps) but it’s for you to enjoy yourself tomorrow. Let’s be real that this is probably your last time at the SIGs—though if anyone is badass enough to pull off a third appearance at the SIGs as a female figure skater, it’s you—so do it your way.

I miss you, I’m sorry, and I . . . I want all the good things for you, Mais.

xoxo Your Redheaded Hellion

Wow. Way to make a girl tear up. I’m not ready to forgive her. Hell, I’m not ready to even talk to her yet, but what I am ready to do is read her message over and over and over, let it wash over me like a steaming-hot shower after a long, hard, disappointing practice, and let it soothe me. Let the warmth of it sink into all the places that hurt. And before we leave, maybe get a chance to tell her that, because something occurs to me—I didn’t know she was there, I’ve seen no press talking about how she was there. That wouldn’t have been an easy thing for her to do, and yet she did, for me.