Chapter 14

It wasbeyond freaking amazing to be seated at the ice rink on the Chesterford campus as Shaun's official boyfriend.

We'd even hugged it out before the game in the parking lot. His mom, my folks, and the entire student body saw us. And no one said a word. Maybe some gave us dirty looks, but not a single smear or hateful comment was heard. Of course, his dad and my coach weren't in attendance, so that probably helped. Shaun and his father weren't communicating at all, which was stressful beyond belief. His texts, from the moment he had come out to now—five days after the Stanton men had blown up at each other—were always bright, but with an undertone of sadness.

I'd known his house wasn't all sunshine and kitten whiskers, whose was? But the announcement of Shaun's bisexuality had put an enormous strain on an already tense household. That first night after the showdown with his father, Shaun had confided that he suspected his coming-out might be the cause of his parents separating. I'd told him no, that wasn't in any way the cause.

Things had gotten so bad that his mother had asked his dad to move out. I wasn't sure what was going to happen next for them. Whether they would divorce, or reconcile, or do counseling was up in the air, but whatever went down, Shaun was an innocent caught up in all that mess.

If his folks split, it was on them. He was only a kid. They were the adults, and it was their marriage. Deep down I sort of felt that his dad leaving might be a good thing for everyone.

We'd talked until two in the morning that night. He had so much to get off his chest, the words pouring out of him in text after text. At last, when I nodded off during a discussion about junior prom, we both decided to get some sleep. The next morning, we met on campus, hugged, kissed, and walked into school hand in hand.

And now, I was squished between my mom and Jonah, Tyler's boyfriend, as he snapped pictures of the game taking place down on the ice. The Coyotes were beating the stuffing out of the team from Hershey.

Shaun was great as always. The whispers about him being bi had spread like wildfire through the school. We didn't do a thing to quell the talk. We held hands, hugged, kissed, and did everything else all the other couples on campus did. Shaun seemed so much more comfortable in his skin now. And on the ice as well. I grinned back at his mom, sitting behind us, after Shaun stole the puck from a Hershey forward to take a prime shot on goal. He didn't score, that time, but he was on fire all the same.

After the second intermission, the Coyotes had a commanding lead of 5–0, and the Hershey goalie was at his wits' end. Soren and Tyler teamed up on a speedy breakaway, passing back and forth as they streaked down the ice to the Hershey net. The away goalie had no chance. He moved left to try to defend the net against Soren. Soren shuttled the puck to Tyler. The Hershey goalie could not get back fast enough to block the sneaky little shot Tyler took. The score was now 6–0, and the Chesterford fans were delirious. My throat was sore from cheering. It was at times like this that I wondered if I had made the right call to switch. Figure skating was amazing, and I did enjoy it, but it was a solo sport. At least for me. I spent all my time with Ilya. My parents knew little of what went on behind the scenes with my coach. I kept all the crummy stuff to myself because they were paying Ilya a lot of money to coach me. His agreeing to take me on had been huge. There was no way I was going to tell them that he made me feel anxious at times, or that he said off-color or hateful things about everyone who wasn't Russian.

They'd be so hurt. So, to avoid hurting them, I only let them in on the good things. No mention of the ugliness or the weigh-ins or the crushing need to maintain weight. And no way in hell was I telling them about the parking lot incident or the hourly urge to find a scale to step on. They'd been through that with me before, and it had nearly killed them with worry. I wasn't about to burden them with my stupid shit again. It was under control. Life was good. Great even. I had a boyfriend who stood by me. A group of friends. A loving family.

So, what if I had a grumpy coach? I could handle it. I could handle it.

I shook off the worry to see that Shaun was making a move on the Hershey goalie that I'd never seen him make before. He skated behind the net, the puck in front of him. With a flick of his wrist, he picked the puck up on the blade of his stick, snuck around the side of the crease, and flipped it in. A Coyote goal. Un-freaking-believable! We all shot to our feet to cheer as the score ticked up to a mighty 7–0 with the Coyotes in control.

After the game, we all met in the parking lot, the boosters heading to the Hot Pot Noodle Shop to grab tables for a ramen celebration. Shaun walked out with a wet head and a smile just for me. I ran to him, threw myself at him, and hugged him as hard as I could.

"You are amazing!" I whispered into his ear before kissing his earlobe.

"That goal was for you. Because I know you're going to Michigan soon for the Snowflake competition."

I drew back enough to stare into those beautiful sapphire eyes of his. "You are the best boyfriend in the entire history of boyfriends."

"Nah, that would be you."

I kissed his face until he got giddy, then shifted me around to ride on his back. All the way to the noodle shop with the rest of the team and families coming behind us. I held on tight, the cold wind biting at my face as we marched along. I was so happy. So incredibly, stupidly, happy. And so incredibly, stupidly, sappily in love with the guy carrying me as if I were a leaf on his strong back.

The morningof the Snowflake Classic arrived in Michigan with a bitter blast of air off Lake Erie that made the hairs in my nose freeze as I jogged to the rink sitting right along said body of churning water. The waves slammed into the shore as Ilya and I slowed to catch our breath. Yeah, he was still in that good a shape. The sun was still trying to carve its way through the thick storm clouds that had the great lake so chaotic. We'd been up since four a.m. to ensure that we got a run and a final bit of practice time in before the competition began at two in the afternoon. My weigh-in today had been good. I'd come in a pound lighter after doing some intense fasting yesterday. Breakfast today—after practice, so I wasn't sluggish—would be something light. Ilya nudged me. We picked up the run. The rink at the hosting university felt warm in comparison to the brutal winds outside.

I changed after a cooldown spent with Ilya going over the routines for my programs. Once I was in skating gear, I hit the ice. There were two other skaters present, a couples duo I knew from making the rounds of the eastern competition circuit. Ilya was also on the ice, so going over to talk to the couple was not going to happen.

"Give me that," Ilya said, his cheeks still red from the run. I handed him my ice bag, a small tote that held all my warm-up goodies like tissues, a bottle of water, notes for my routine, lip balm, anything I might need so I didn't have to leave the ice during practice. Ilya hated interrupting a practice for a tissue. "Now, we will go over the short, then the long routines."

"Okay," I said, then skated off to warm up with a lap of stretching and swizzles, working out the kinks before heading into some easy Russian stroking followed by crossovers. Then, I moved into step sequences. Ilya watching distractedly as he also worked on notes. When I felt warm and loose, we would begin churning things out a bit more. This was when Ilya would follow me on the ice, shouting at me to push, feel the music, push, spring off your toes, push, let me see a certain move one more time. One more time. One more time. Push. Arms up. Bend and extend. Push. Why are your crossovers like preliminary skater? Push. Get up. Do it again. Push. Push. Push.

An hour later, I came off the ice, exhausted, lightheaded, and in need of a shower and some deodorant.

"We will have breakfast at the hotel in one hour," Ilya told me as he handed me my practice bag. I dug into it looking for a hairband, but none were to be found. "One hour. Do not be late."

"No, I won't. I promise." We left, the wind roaring now, the cold scouring my cheeks, leaving my wet hair to freeze. Wasn't spring supposed to be here by now? The hotel was a mile away, and we ran back. When I hit the lobby my hamstrings were screaming.

Over by the breakfast buffet, I spied Trent Hanson with several of his skaters. They were laughing as they piled their plates full of food. My stomach snarled to remind me it was empty. I'd grab an apple later. Trent glanced up, saw me, and smiled. I returned the smile, then started over to say hi.

"You have no need to speak with that man," Ilya snapped, grabbing me by the arm. He herded me into the elevator, away from the other skaters stirring around in the lobby with their coaches at their sides. "You have no need to talk with any of them," he informed me as the elevator doors closed with a soft ping. "This is not a friendship rally. This is a competition."

"It's not a best friend race," I mumbled and got a strange look from my coach. "Someone said that on an episode of RuPaul once."

"Ah, the transvestite. That your parents allow you to watch such things saddens me. If I had a son, I would not allow him to view such perversion. Americans are too lax."

I sighed so hard I felt wobbly. Yep, we were all sickos over here. The doors couldn't open fast enough to suit me. Of late, every minute I spent with Ilya felt like a lifetime. He'd always been gruff and demanding. Intense. But ever since I had come out as pan, his bias had begun to creep into our time together, and it really was starting to work its way under my skin. I thought about speaking up, but knew if I did, he'd probably scratch me just to show who was in charge. Or maybe not, since I was the only one of his students who had gotten his permission to attend. The skater girls had been heartbroken when he'd told them. They'd left the ice sobbing. He'd told them to work harder instead of consoling them. There were times I despised Ilya so much.

"Maybe it's not wrong to accept people for who they are," I muttered as we reached our floor. His gaze—stormy as the lake—flew to me. I tipped my chin higher, exiting the elevator as soon as the doors whooshed open. "I'll meet you for breakfast."

He followed me out of the elevator, mumbling in Russian about who knew what. I stalked to my room, scanned the key, and stepped inside. My legs barely carried me to my bed. Collapsing into the hard mattress, I had a moment of sheer joy. I'd snapped back at Ilya. I rolled to my back, wiggled out of my coat, and dug my phone from my practice bag. Ilya did not allow cell phones during practice, or competitions, or in his general presence. My attention was to be on him and him alone.

Tons of notifications rolled in after I turned the Android on. My folks were on the way, Jun was going to meet them here, sans the girl he'd brought to the art show. Shame, because she had been nice, pretty, and able to put up with his happy horseshit as Dad liked to say. Shaun, along with the guys from the Coyotes—Soren, Felix, Tyler, Jonah, and a few others, were also on the way having left super early. The drive from Harrisburg to Detroit was eight hours. Pretty considerable. That the guys were willing to put that much time behind the wheel, and then cough up cash for a hotel room overnight, said a lot about my friends. My family kind of had to come for the allotted days I'd be skating. Today was short programs, tomorrow long, and the closing day was exhibition skates for those who could afford to miss school. Since most were homeschooled, it wasn't a problem, but for me, I had to be absent for that day. Mom and Dad were cool with it though.

I caught up on social media, sent Shaun a selfie of me with puckered lips that I added hearts and tiny lips to, as well as a message to drive safely. I told him I missed my boyfriend and could not wait to kiss him in real life.

He hit me back with a line of red hearts and a quick shot of him and the guys standing beside Soren's dad's SUV. Grandpa Rowe was the chosen driver as he was retired and thought a road trip with the boys was pretty groovy. His words, not mine. Grandpa Rowe was also along because there were limits on how many kids could be in a car with a driver under the age of eighteen in our state.

Smiling at the ceiling after talking with Shaun, I sat up, fought off another round of dizziness, and got into the shower with care. The hot water revived me a little. By the time I was seated across from Ilya in the hotel eatery, I felt better, less wrung out, more alert.

Ilya was eating eggs, bacon, and some fried potatoes with some coffee on the side. I made a slow crawl around the breakfast buffet. Everything was fattening or loaded with sugar. Bagels and muffins. I opted to pick at a nectarine and sip at a cup of unsweetened green tea.

"Do not overeat or you will be sluggish," Ilya commented, then began informing me of the scores I'd need to progress to the Eastern High School Regionals at the end of the month. I'd have to do well here, or I'd miss out. I'd come into this competition with some good scores, but there were some real tough competitors skating today. "I think you are going to do fine if you remember to hit your jumps."

I rolled my eyes as I picked at my nectarine. Like, no shit. Did he think I didn't want to land my jumps? Why did coaches say such dumb things?

I ate half the nectarine as Ilya reminded me of everything that was on the line. How his reputation was now resting on my shoulders, since the girls had disappointed him. Awesome. No pressure there or anything. My tea made my tummy warm. The nectarine half did its job. The rumbling had stopped, so I could now focus on skating.

We went to his room after breakfast, watched tapes for an hour, and then, it was finally time to gather up our gear and head to the rink. This time we took a taxi. I enjoyed my last chance to check my texts and was thrilled to see that Shaun and the guys had arrived safely.

My nerves were starting to ramp up as we made our way to the men's locker room. Ilya was like a mastiff at my side, protecting me from the media with a stiff arm, leading me past other skaters, and directing me to my seat in the locker room.

He was a meticulous man. He inspected every facet of my outfit from the neck of my black and green sequined top to the toes of my skates. He made me polish my skates again to ensure the judges knew I kept them in good condition. He did my hair, applied what little makeup he allowed me to wear, then left me alone for a bit to deliver the CDs of my music to the sound engineers at the rink. Two copies in case something happened to one set. As I said, Ilya was nothing if not thorough. I glanced around at the other kids here, most my age, and their coaches. I smiled at them, then placed some earbuds in to try to counter the anxiety bubbling away in my gut.

I was fully into the latest cut from Beyoncé when someone sat down beside me. My gaze flew to Trent Hanson, all bundled up in a thick yellow parka, his eyes lined, his lips painted bright pink, and his hair swirled up into a hairdo Effie Trinket would envy.

"Hi there," he said as soon as I yanked the buds out of my ears. "I know you're getting into your zone, and I totally respect that. I just wanted to touch base with you. How are things?"

"Good, things are really good."

"And Ilya is treating you well?" he asked, his gaze flicking around the locker room as if looking for someone. Probably my coach. Ilya didn't like Trent, and I got the vibes the feeling was mutual.

"Yeah, he's great," I lied and got a nod from Trent.

"Okay, good, good. You still have my card?"

"Yeah," I said. It was in my wallet. Tucked behind my driver's license and the lone condom I carried just in case my boyfriend and I ever went that far. Neither of us were in any hurry.

"Good. If you ever decide to change your outlook on how you wish to proceed in skating, just know that I'm going to be opening a school in Harrisburg. This traveling every weekend to see my husband is not cutting it, so, if you ever want to chill with my gang or me or check things out, give me a call."

"Oh cool, sure, yeah. I'll do that."

He smiled widely. "Excellent. Good luck."

I watched him return to his skaters, confused about the impromptu visit. That rarely happened because Ilya forbade people from talking to me before a competition.

As the time ticked down to my time on the ice, I began to feel queasy and unsettled. The nectarine was acidic in my stomach, giving me some killer heartburn. I was sweaty as I rose to my skates for warmups. The rink was filling up, fans and family hooting as we made our way to the ice. I handed Ilya my skate guards, took a sip of water and skated out. The ice swam a little bit, the sounds of the other skaters and people in the stands seemed grating. Loud. Just too loud. I ran through my warmup, my costume soaked through already, my vision doing this funky kind of psychedelic sixties shit.

"I don't feel right," I told Ilya an hour later as my time on the ice neared. I'd been fighting through the nausea, but now, I was having trouble recalling what my short routine was. Shit.

"It is nerves." He adjusted my collar one final time as the rink announcer began my introductions. "Focus now. Do not let the little things break your concentration. Remember to smile at the judges. Do not let your attention waver. When you feel as if you cannot give more to the routine, that is when you must push yourself to give more."

I half heard what he said, the sound of my name blurred in my ears. Ilya shoved me to the ice, my hand automatically coming up in a small wave. The crowd was muted, the lights far too bright, my hands clammy. I made it to the center of the ice, unable to recall how this routine began. Panic set in. My music filled the rink. I heard my father shouting my name. Or was I hearing things? I pushed off to start my routine, the footwork sloppy as I struggled to remember what came next. Unable to recall, my thoughts sluggish, I made a round of the ice, tears welling, and did the only thing that I could remember knowing how to do that Ilya would be happy with. I launched into the first jump of my short routine far earlier than it was scheduled, my speed lacking. The salchow was an utter disaster. I didn't push off my toe pick properly. The jump collapsed in on itself just as the lights, sounds, and smells of the rink flickered once, twice, and then, blackness as the ice raced at me.