CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I DON’T THINK THIS LOCKER room has changed since I skated here back in ‘79,” said Ilya, as he took a seat on a couch with cracked vinyl cushions.
“How did you do?” Daniil made a final check of his costume. Black t-shirt, studded wristbands and fingerless gloves. The stylist had spiked and tousled his hair with enough product to keep it from being whipped around by the centrifugal force of quad jumps. She’d brushed his face with sweat-proof theatrical make-up so he wouldn’t look washed out against the white ice. Now for his eyes.
Ilya furrowed his brow and then chuckled. “You know, I don’t remember. Believe it or not, a day will come when other things leave a bigger mark on your life than skating.”
“Today is not that day,” Anton said, as he came in with croissants and tea for himself and Ilya. Though the words were stern, his tone wasn’t. Their air-clearing talk in Vancouver and being back in Lake Shosha with Carrie and their daughters had restored Anton to his good-natured self. The croissants looked good, but Daniil never ate more than a protein bar before a competition. “You skated well last night, but Tanzo Okuta’s free skate will be tough to beat.”
Daniil glanced over his shoulder to see if Okuta was close enough to overhear. Though they were speaking Russian, the skater could still hear his name. The only person close enough to hear them was the English teenager who’d taken a bad fall last night. He wore headphones. “After the short program, I’m only three points behind Okuta. If I skate as well today, second place could become first,” Daniil said.
From his skate bag he dug out the black drawstring pouch that contained his liner pencils and brushes. The stylists never got it messy enough, and since he wore the liner every day, why not do it himself? The tip of the kohl pencil was too soft, so he gave it a quick twist in the sharpener. Leaning close to the mirror, he drew a dark line along the inside of his lower eyelid.
Behind him in the mirror, Ilya looked away. The sight of him sticking a point so close to his eyeball disturbed people, but rocking the look was worth the pain. He blinked to clear the moisture from his irritated right eye and then started on the left.
“Still,” Anton said. “The fact Domachev choked at Cup of China last week only helps you. When you were neck and neck, Bogdanov could have awarded him a place on the national team over you. But if you make the International Series finals while Domachev doesn’t, your World ranking will be high enough to earn your ticket to Grenoble. Provided you don’t give the Federation of Sport new reason to disqualify you.”
“Which we know you won’t,” Ilya said.
“Tonight, I have a quiet evening planned. You won’t even see me.” Liner finished, Daniil used his fingertip to smudge the kohl, and then reached for the black and silver tube of mascara.
Anton leafed through stapled pages that detailed each competitor’s short programs and scores. “With your short program score of 102, you’re in excellent position to finish first or second. Then you’ll have lots to celebrate with Tabitha Turner.”
Daniil paused brushing the lashes on his right eye. “You know?”
Anton chuckled as he continued to study the protocol sheets. “She was here last night with Brett Stafford, the world’s most understanding boyfriend.”
“If that’s what he is,” Ilya said, sipping tea.
“Not that it’s our concern,” said Anton. “Only you are. And last night you were asleep in your room where you belonged.”
“Tabitha’s a skater, she understands about the night before competition,” Daniil said.
“There is that, at least,” Anton said, resigned. “Because love, or whatever you feel for her, doesn’t wait for the end of the skating season.”
Love. The word had leaped into his head last night when he saw Tabitha in the audience. He’d never been in love. He wasn’t even sure it existed. But love had chosen him, and despite everything, he had fallen in love with Tabitha. With that question settled, a bigger one loomed. Did she feel the same?
Thinking about it drove his normal pre-competition nerves into the stratosphere.
So put it out of your head. Get out there and throw the shit down. Give Tanzo Okuta something to worry about.
Today’s long program competition was a race toward 300 points, fueled by quad jumps. Both he and Okuta had four, including the Lutz, which was the hardest quad anyone was landing. Daniil would skate just before Okuta in the final warm-up group, along with competitors from China and Belgium.
As usual, he didn’t watch the skaters who competed ahead of him, staying in the tunnels, headphones on, to pace through his program. Before it was his turn to skate, he came out in time to watch the Belgian skater who had been in third, pump his fist. Josef Dupree had jumped into first place, though if Daniil had his way, he wouldn’t stay there long.
“Skating for Russia, Daniil Andreev.”
Polite applause and a smattering of boos from Josef Dupree fans greeted Daniil. He ignored it, and at center ice, faced the judging panel. The television cameras were on him, but Daniil didn’t smile. He was already in character. Slowly, he drew cold air into his lungs. The deep breaths calmed him and gave him power. Daniil’s heart pounded, as he focused on his black boots against the white. On the ice, he could do amazing things.
A hush fell over the crowd. Then came the heavy, ominous opening notes of “Radioactive.”
Against a murky minor key melody, and dark lyrics that told of a man in prison, awakening to a nuclear apocalypse, Daniil began his program. The opening choreo had him clawing his way out of the rubble, fear and rage infused every movement. Cross stroking backward, he built up speed for the first jump, a quad Lutz. In character, he pushed upward into toxic, contaminated air. High above the ice, core tight and arms wrapped close to his body, he spun through four blinding-fast rotations. Gravity dragged him down to land hard on his blade. The sliver of steel balanced his weight; his bent knee absorbed a force equal to seven times as much.
The landing was solid. The crowd’s cheers were louder than the music. Daniil clenched his fist in celebration. One jump down, three to go.
A journalist had once described him as a warrior on the ice, the most accurate description he’d ever heard. For much of his life, he’d been at war. With the parents who’d used him as a pawn, and the schoolmates who ridiculed him. With the hockey coach who dismissed him and his sport as unmanly. With the skating establishment that shunned him as a troublemaker.
But instead of letting rage consume him, he’d mastered it. Channeling it into compelling skating was his ultimate triumph.
The program barreled toward its conclusion, with intricate footwork and challenging spins. As the music built toward its climax, he went into his last jump, a quad toe. A final choreography sequence transitioned into a combination spin performed in front of the judges. He came out of it, chest heaving, and sweat beading his brow. Heat radiated from his body, even in the cold air.
There were times when everything just went right. Today had been one of them. Applause swept over him, a wave of appreciation that swamped national bias. He’d channeled darkness and pain into something that touched others. At last he could smile, and raised his arms to acknowledge the audience, who were on their feet. Fans shook flags and tossed plastic flowers. As he skated off, he blew a kiss toward the right side of the rink where Tabitha, seated between Brett and Sergei Fetisov, applauded and blew a kiss back.
As he came through the gate, his coaches hugged and congratulated him. A rink assistant approached with a towel, water and a plastic rose that someone had tossed onto the ice. As he walked to the Kiss and Cry, Tanzo Okuta continued his warm-up stretches, but wouldn’t even look at him.
His final score of 302.77 would earn him at least a silver. Even if Okuta won tonight, Daniil wasn’t worried. He’d qualified for the International Series Championship and had momentum going into Russian Nationals.
Four years ago, the skating world had written him off, but today, he’d triumphed beyond what he, or anyone else, expected. Best of all, the woman he loved was here to share it.
He couldn’t wait to see what was next.