Jubilee

Shock and betrayal. That’s what I feel. That lace was brand new a couple of days ago, and there’s no fucking way it should’ve snapped. I’ve been using that brand for years, have never had any problems, and I always check them before I lace up, regardless. How did that happen? Is Beckett mad at me? Does he think I was careless? Irresponsible? Reckless? I’d die if he thought I’d put our program on the line. But no, he’s holding my hand as we skate onto the ice, and gives me a squeeze.

I turn my head, my expression probably pretty frigging desperate, because I’m at sea. I don’t even know what to do with myself. But Beck knows.

“You’re okay,” he mouths, and I believe him. I’m okay. More importantly, we’re okay.

I nod, and swallow, followed by a deep breath and then I let everything in. The noise of the crowd, the smell of the rink, the brightness of the lights, the way my skates glide on the ice. The skate Beckett tied for me isn’t perfect, which isn’t a surprise, but it seems a small thing now. If we were in practice, I’d tie it and retie it until it felt perfect, but good enough and in the running for a medal is far better than perfect and disqualified. At least it’s not the leg I land my jumps on. It’ll do. It has to do.

We find center ice and take up our positions, which happen to be facing each other, his hands at my waist, and my hands cradling his face.

Beckett. With his crazy, curly hair, and his clear blue eyes. His easygoing manner and his strength. All of the things I feel for him well up in me, and it’s all I can do to not tell him I love him—but I’m saved by the music starting.

It’s a departure from the songs our competitors have used, almost exclusively classical or soundtrack pieces with a couple other things thrown in for color. Ours, on the other hand, is a single violin playing the most remarkable Celtic tune. The first time I saw it performed, I knew I wanted to skate to it. It’s dreamy and mystical but also, given the way the notes soar and how I saw the musician’s bow flying, I could tell it was an intense piece not only to listen to but to play, doubly so when the violinist wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve when it was over.

It starts out relatively slow, but passionate, giving us time to find our footing and our rhythm with each other on the ice, but soon enough the notes are flying, and so are we, into our combination jump: a triple toe loop followed by a double. By the sound of the crowd, and what I can see out of the corner of my eye, we’ve nailed it. It’s not an easy thing, for a person Beckett’s size and a person my size to synchronize one jump, never mind two, but I pride myself on how pretty we look doing it. Our bodies are different shapes and sizes, so they’ll never look like perfect copies, but we somehow manage to make them look like echoes. Beautiful.

After a few simple footwork moves, we’re getting ready for the first of our lifts, and we find our grip on each other, firm and true, and then I’m flying because Beck is strong enough to push me into the air with the help of the momentum we’ve created together. I don’t worry up here, but enjoy the freedom of it until he brings me back down with a single hand and I need to find my footing on the ice again and not give a hint of the strain we’re under. Making it look easy is half the battle.

There are so many things to keep track of that when I think about it too much, I get paralyzed. But one of the things I’ve trained myself to do, as well as putting my body into my partner’s hands for safekeeping, is to push all that aside and let my body do its work. Muscle memory is my friend. This program we’ve skated thousands of times is just the same today as it was yesterday and the day before. We don’t need to do anything different. Just be as on as we ever are.

Beck comes into position behind me, grips my waist, and I set my hands at his wrists as I prepare to fly. And here we go, a throw triple Salchow. I can tell even as I leave his hands that Beckett’s given me incredible height and distance, and I’ve got plenty of time to make my rotations, which I do with my hands tucked in an X over my chest and my ankles crossed until it’s time to land on my trusty blade and extend into a long, lithe, beautiful line that sends the crowd to its feet. You haven’t seen anything yet.

Remembering to breathe grace into my body, I keep everything long and fluid right up until it’s time to hit our double axel. The double I used to hate because it wasn’t a triple. Now I find I have a fondness for it, something gleaned from it being our double. A thing we do together. There’s not much time for my face to split into a giant grin or the crowd to offer its applause before Beckett’s pressing me above his head for another lift and I’m gliding above the ice like a bird soaring above the clouds. Is Beckett ever jealous I’m the one who gets to be in the air, who gets this sensation of flight? Or does he take so much pride in being strong enough to carry out this feat that he’d rather have his feet on the ground? Does it give him pleasure to give this to me? I hope so. I wish that for him.

After he sets me down, the music takes on a cyclical quality, and I can picture the violinist’s bow dancing across his strings, up and down, back and forth, making these incredible sounds like magic. Which is what we need to do right now: make magic. This part of the program is difficult—not because of the technical elements, though those aren’t easy. The harder part is keeping in sync with one another as we start our spins, and staying there throughout this ridiculous sequence Daphne dreamed up. Honestly, it’s ludicrous.

We start out in side by side camel spins, close together, but not too close. I’m always very aware of keeping my distance during this because the scar above Beckett’s eye is a constant reminder of the damage I could do should I stray too close. I won’t do that to him. Nor will I fail to keep up with him as we spin faster and tighter until we come out of the spins only long enough to find each other and curl around, a pretty sculpture of flexibility and strength, I pull my skate behind me and up until the blade is nearly in my hair, and here I let Beckett take us faster, trusting him to keep me from falling.

He doesn’t let me down, but instead eases me out of my contortion, and into a layback followed by a death spiral. Yep, crazy. It took us a long time to not get unpleasantly dizzy during this sequence, but I have to admit, having seen it on camera when we’ve done it well, that it’s truly stunning. The audience has gone quiet, and I can almost hear the thoughts in their heads: Will they ever stop? No. We’ll never stop.

Until Beck is pulling me back up and we take as much of a break as we ever do with our choreography sequence. We’re nearing the end, and all the effort we’ve been pouring out of our bodies onto the ice is starting to show. I can smell Beckett’s sweat, feel the dampness of my own, and the laboring of my lungs to keep providing the excessive amounts of oxygen I require.

Perfect, perfect, we’ve got to keep it perfect no matter how tired we are. Our next element has to be as pretty as the first one we did. Beckett doesn’t disappoint me. I may not have exactly the same height on this throw, but it could only be off by inches. Only experts will be able to tell, and even they’re impressed because we’re nearing the end of the program. And won’t they be surprised by what’s last? I sure as hell was when Daphne suggested it, but she was right to, because as much as I tease Beck about his stamina, the man can skate a badass program and while I know exhaustion must be hitting him as hard as it is me, I also have an inordinate amount of faith in him.

Which is why when we come back together, I’m not afraid, but only hopeful. As he takes me in his hands for this last bit, I feel as though I’m home, where I belong, and it delights me when he tosses me into the sky where I can come into a split before turning like a leaf in the wind, completing my rotations just in time for his hands find my waist again as he lowers me down from my flight. Compared to when I land jumps solo, this is a downright downy landing on a single blade, and I can keep my hands in the air, earning us more points than if I needed to steady myself against Beck. No need. He steadied me earlier, and I can keep my composure through this.

I do, as I take a few beats to finish the form of the jump, and then we take a few easy spins before Beckett comes to kneeling on the ice, clasping my trembling fingers as I lay my free hand on my chest, feeling my heart pounding away.

As if I didn’t know already, the crowd confirms: our performance was phenomenal. Some might even call it flawless. I pull Beck up after the music comes to a complete stop, and it’s only by some miracle that I throw myself into his arms for a hug and don’t pull his head toward mine for a kiss.

Beckett

I’m clutching Jubilee’s hand as we wait for our scores to come down. It’s going to be good. So fucking good. That was the best we’ve ever done that program, and under less than ideal circumstances. For someone who can get so thrown by the smallest changes in her day, Jubilee got her shit together when it mattered the most. Part of me blows on my finger nails and polishes them against my shirt because of course she did, but another part of me is still coming out of the dead faint that holy shit we were going to have to do what?

But she did it. We did it. And we really do feel like a we now. Or at least I feel that way. I’ve felt that on some level ever since there was the possibility of skating together, but after living together, sleeping together, knowing each other better than basically anyone else on earth because at a certain point there’s really not so many people for us to talk to? How much more of a we can you get?

Her hand in mine is delicate and twitchy, like a small animal I’m trying to keep safe but is intent on endangering itself. I’m used to the way her knee bounces as she drubs her heel on the floor. It’s possible she’s a little high-strung, my Ice Princess. If that’s what it takes to make her her, well, I’m not going to argue with that.

Nor am I going to argue with the scores that are coming up on the board. 146.79, which means for the combined score, we have 226.41. Which is good enough to put us in first. The rest isn’t up to us. It’s all up to the Russians and what they do or don’t do, and I hate that I can’t do something about that. Nothing legal, at any rate, and I’m sure not going to jeopardize everything we’ve worked so hard for by doing anything stupid. On purpose, anyway, because as Jubilee would be happy to tell you, I’m a pretty big screw-up, just mostly by accident.

I have to settle for kissing Jubilee on the cheek—maddening—but at least I get to hold her hand and no one will think anything of this gesture of intimacy from now until the Russian scores come up.

The worst of the wait is over now. While I’d very much like to promise her another gold to put in her case, I’m honestly not sure what she’d prefer. A part of me selfishly wants to have a silver, just to bump our path off the same rails she and Stephen traveled. But another part of me wants that gold medal because we’re the best. Plus, no matter what might happen between us when all this is over, that’s something we’ll always have.

As we pass by other teams who are also waiting for this to be over, to determine exactly what their fate is, a calmness about our own fate comes over me. The very worst we can get is a silver. At worst, we will be second best in the entire goddamn world. Yeah, yeah, there’s been studies that say bronze medalists are happier than silver medalists, but I think having an outcome I could point Jubilee toward when her head gets to be a mess of paranoia and superstition and yeah, that gnawing, achy loss that still occupies the space where Stephen used to be, well, that would be worth the mental burden of having missed first. If we do, it won’t be by much.

Jubilee

Close, close, we’re so close. My stomach feels like a beehive. Nervy and buzzing and busy, but also with the possibility for sweetness. I’d never admit it to Beck, but I’d almost prefer the Russians come out on top. Or tie. Both of those outcomes would be different enough that while I’d still have to struggle against my paranoia and irrational certainty that I’m two steps away from losing everything I love yet again, it wouldn’t be a certainty.

I won’t say that, though, because if he said that to me, I’d smack his arm, tell him that was a ridiculous thing to say and he was in so much trouble. I can at least keep my hypocrisy to myself.

We turn down a hallway together, looking for a quiet place to bury our heads in the sand for the next ten minutes or so. Quiet places are in short supply around here with competitors and staff littering the hallways, so we end up ducking out of the official spaces, away from the noise and turn corners until we’re alone long enough to slip through a door labeled Staff Only.

Apparently, we’re not the only people with that idea, because there are voices coming from behind some of the ducts and pipes and wiring. The sounds of the HVAC and the plumbing must cover up our footsteps, because the people don’t stop talking.

I don’t eavesdrop. Sure, who hasn’t on occasion, but in general, I don’t want a piece of other peoples’ conversations. Except that at the moment, I will take any distraction I possibly can get, and if this is a lovers’ quarrel between rival skaters or some classic SIG romance, then I want in on that action.

The closer we get, though, the more obvious it is that that is not what’s going on here. Raised voices, and one of them sounds downright on the verge of panic.

“Why are you even telling me this?”

“It’s not like I could tell anyone else.”

“How about you maybe tell no one? Or even better, do nothing. Fucking hell, what were you thinking?”

They sound familiar somehow, and while Beckett is trying to hold me back, I need to get close. Want to see who it is. So I creep as best I can and peer over an enormous pipe just in time to hear the woman speak.

“The question isn’t how could I, it’s how could I not? Best outcome here and we’ll get the bronze. Worst and most likely? We get a fucking certificate and a quick trip home. Of course I tried to do something about it.”

“You sure this has nothing to do with your mad jealousy?”

The man is taunting her, and that’s when I know who we’re overhearing. It’s Sabrina and Todd. What are they on about?

“Don’t even go there, Todd. If you’d been more on your game, I wouldn’t have had to resort to this at all.”

Up until a second ago, Beckett had been trying to pull me away, but he’s stopped now and is listening just as intently as I am. What is this, what did she do?

“The whole village is talking about it, you know. How great Beckett looks with her. How perfect they are together. And what a moron you are for throwing him away.”

I swear she stamps her foot, but it could just be one of those mechanical noises in a big building. Hard to say. What I do know is that Sabrina is seriously angry.

“I wouldn’t have been a moron if you spent as much time on your skates as you spend trying to get laid.”

“Don’t you put this on me. Don’t you fucking dare. I’m not the one who weakened that lace. What I should do is just fucking turn you in. You know as well as I do she could’ve been seriously injured if her lace snapped in the middle of the warm-up or during their performance. I know you hate her, but that seems extreme.”

Holy. Shit.

Beckett is grabbing my arm and shaking me, as if I didn’t just hear what Sabrina said. More accurately, confessed. I’m not sure how she did it, and I hope there will be some evidence because I don’t want to sound spoiled or paranoid if I suggest it, but Sabrina is the one who weakened my lace. And of all the times not to have my phone on me to record a conversation, holy hell. No one is going to believe us.

And it suddenly matters a whole lot less when the metal door clangs open and a yell sounds down the rows of vents, pipes, and wires.

“Jubilee? Beckett? Are you in here? You’d better get out here because people want to see some gold medal ass.”

Daphne just said “gold,” and my stomach drops. I may have another gold medal to hang on my mantel, but no one to stand in front of the fireplace with to admire it. That one single word, a word I’ve been aiming for my entire life, has just delivered some not-great news and suddenly my heart and the rest of my internal organs ache. I may be brave enough to let Beck toss me across a good fraction of an ice rink, but no way am I going knowingly down this path again. Not a chance in hell.