Seven Months Later
“Nyet!”
Matty thought he was going to slit his own throat if he heard that word one more time. Weren’t there other ways of telling him he’d screwed up? Like, “Fuck you” or “You suck,” or “Die, die, die”?
Apparently not. It was nyet, nyet, nyet all day, every day, and Matty hated it. Mainly because it meant he had to do it again—whatever it was—only better, and his entire body was sore from doing it so many times the wrong way.
“Quads are not for giggles and splits,” Valentina shouted.
Matty bit the inside of his cheek so he didn’t crack a smile. Valentina hated smiles only slightly less than she hated him.
“Quads are for champion!” She flexed her biceps. Her dark brown hair hung messily over half her face, grazing her shoulders. Her gray pantsuit looked as if it had been hand stitched in a Siberian work camp. She stood taller than Matty even in his skates, and she was thin like a whip. “Strong man. Be strong man, Matty. Not girly man.”
Matty nodded and resigned himself to the bruises and pain he’d be dealing with that night. The entire afternoon had been devoted to quads, and his failure to achieve one. He ignored the pit of raging jealousy boiling in his gut at the knowledge that Alex Hampton was churning out quads like they were farts, all easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.
Dammit, he never should have let Joanna talk him into coaching that kid’s seminar last weekend. He was still thinking like a nine-year-old.
“Tuck in tummy, lift from thighs and go!” Valentina raised her arms. “Then not to be screwing up. Understand?”
Matty nodded. He’d discovered when he’d first begun to skate with Valentina that it was best to keep his mouth shut. She didn’t find much of what he had to say charming. Not even in Russian. Especially not in Russian.
“Again! Go!” Valentina said, crossing her arms over her chest and staring at him like he was gum on the bottom of her shoe.
Matty closed his eyes, touched the necklace Ben had made him, took a deep breath, and went.
Despite how tough she was, training with Valentina was the best choice he’d ever made as far as his skating career was concerned. He bowed under her command and excelled at her behest. He’d come in second at his Nebelhorn, his first competition. Skate America was in two weeks. He was ready.
Almost.
If he nailed the quad, he’d be set. Yes, if he could just get a consistent quad Salchow and toe, he’d strike fear in Alex Hampton’s heart and every other contender he faced on the ice, because when it came to artistry and passion, he was just that good. Combined with a high technical mark, he could be unbeatable. Matty couldn’t wait to see the look on Alex Hampton’s stupid face when he finally bested him.
The practice ended on a high note when Matty landed two quad Sals successfully. He was still grinning to himself as he changed in the locker room, high from Valentina’s enthusiastic words of praise: “Yes! Da!”
Technically Matty supposed it had just been one word of praise since “da” meant yes. He wondered if he’d ever hear the elusive “good” from her. Perhaps when he had a gold medal around his neck he’d get that great reward.
Rumor had it Julien Alban sometimes wrenched the word from her lips, but the French skater was basically made of flowers and purple ponies. Everyone loved him, and it was possible even Valentina wasn’t immune to his charms.
Matty glanced over to where Julien was changing for his turn for a one-on-one torture session with their coach. His blond hair sat in long ringlets around his pretty-yet-masculine face. He looked like a porcelain doll—pale skin, blue eyes, and blond loveliness—until he took off his shirt. Then it was all holy smoking body, Batman. He was made like the beautiful naked men in Dali’s less famous paintings—muscular, lean, and breathtaking.
Matty thought a fling with Julien, sometime after they’d both stolen medals from Vance and Alex, might be a fun way to celebrate. But he also knew better. Getting involved with another skater would be a huge mistake. He liked Julien, but they were competitors. Still, Julien’s forearms were beautiful, and Matty sometimes thought of them as he was jerking off—before his mind’s inevitable slide toward memories of Rob’s hands and smile, his kisses, and his cock.
“Beautiful skate,” Julien said, glancing Matty’s way. “Finally, you are landing like, how does Valentina say it? Like a butterfly and not a hippopotamus. Bon.”
“Thanks,” Matty said, tossing his dirty socks into his gym bag. “It felt pretty great. Now I just need to do it another thousand times.”
“You’re getting better and better.” Julien smiled, his teeth gleaming like a toothpaste commercial. “You will do it. I know it in my heart.”
Matty smiled back, pleased with Julien’s generous praise and encouragement. He wasn’t sure he’d be so nice himself. Julien was inspiring that way. It almost made Matty want to try to be sweet too. He took a deep breath and gave it a whirl. “How’s it going? Last I heard, Valentina actually said you were good.”
“No. She says I’m terrible. Yesterday she said, ‘You are naughty and rotten as duck in a meat stack.’”
Matty cocked his head. “What does that even mean, Jules?”
“I don’t know. She said it several times. It’s a mystery.”
Matty laughed.
“But it can’t be a nice thing, no?”
“No.”
“Yet she also says my Rippon Lutz is good. Twice even.”
“Holy crap, man, give yourself a high five.”
Julien held up both hands and slapped them together with a grin.
“Give me a high five.” Matty zipped his jacket and held up his hand.
Julien slapped his palm and then grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “See you later, Matty. Don’t be so self-defeating.”
He wasn’t sure what to say to that, but the assessment seemed pretty accurate. “Good luck,” Matty said, the sensation of Julien’s cool fingers lingering on his palm.
Matty watched Julien leave the locker room before pulling down his leggings. His legs and hips were mottled with bruises. He rubbed arnica over the worst places. No matter how badly his body ached, no matter how frustrated he got—it would be worth it to see Alex fail and him win. That was what Valentina was going to help him do, and that was why when she said go, he went, no matter how much he wanted to just collapse to the ice and cry instead. That was why the bruises didn’t matter.
Sometimes when Matty submitted to Valentina’s cruelty as a coach, he was assailed by thoughts of Rob, the whips, and of sinking into a stronger form of submission during truly intense sex. Instead of letting himself fall apart from missing Rob, he’d force himself to find that place inside for Valentina. Open himself to that abasement and let her push him further on the ice than he’d ever been pushed before. From that space of deep surrender, he’d brought home his first medal in two years.
He stared at the bruises and wondered what Rob was doing, how he was, and if he was happy. He wondered if Rob ever missed him.
Then he dressed in track pants and a thick sweater. It was time to go home to his tiny apartment in Chelsea and make dinner. If he was lucky, maybe he’d find the strength to read for a while as he soaked in a bath of Epsom salts. He was trying to get through the complete Sherlock Holmes and making terrible progress. He kept falling asleep before he made it more than a page or two.
Matty lifted his bag and shouldered his way past the hockey players making their way into the locker room. Snide remarks slid off their tongues, but Matty ignored them. It was the same old, same old. It couldn’t touch him. Not when he was this tired. Exhaustion flooded him to the bone. He wouldn’t read in the bath tonight. He’d be lucky not to fall asleep in the tub and drown.
The warmth of a late heat wave assailed him as he exited the cool sports complex. As he crossed Tenth Avenue, he pulled out his iPod. He wanted to listen to the new mix Elliot emailed him the other day. But he accidentally hit shuffle, and a random song started to play. Suddenly Matty was back in a dirty-looking bar in Montana, swaying back and forth with Rob’s arms wrapped around him.
He stepped out of the middle of the sidewalk and leaned against a building. He closed his eyes as the song played on, allowing memories to flood him and sharpen in his mind—Ben’s laughter, the effervescent sensation of Montana air against his skin, Rob’s strong hands, and the warm, piney scent of Rob’s neck.
Matty held very still, waiting for the song to end and the memories to let go. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes as the last notes played and lifted his chin resolutely. He clicked on Elliot’s playlist and rotated his shoulders, throwing off his reverie. When the first jarring notes of the power-pop song began, Matty opened his eyes again and started off again toward home, walking at a fast clip.
He was tired and he missed Rob, but this was his life and he was committed to it.
Still, the always painful questions lingered—had he made a mistake insisting that they go their separate ways? Could they have survived the distance, the lack of time together, and Matty’s all-consuming commitment to the ice?
No. He hadn’t and they couldn’t.
Matty couldn’t afford even the smallest distraction. Not now. Not when everything rode on the next couple years going exactly the way they needed to go for him to end up back on the Olympic team. It wouldn’t have been fair to Rob or Ben or himself. It wouldn’t have been fair to anyone at all.
As Christina sang his feelings, Matty wondered how long it would continue to hurt this badly. Would it be over when he walked in the Olympic Opening Ceremony? When he brought home gold for the United States and showed everyone that Matty Marcus had what it took to win? Surely the pain and grief would finally wash away under the pride of finally achieving his goal.
He had to believe that was true.
***
Matty sat on the bench in the locker room, fingering the tabs of Ben’s necklace as he stared at the YouTube video on his phone. It was his third time watching it, and he still felt as if the ground dropped out from under his feet when it reached its inevitable and triumphant conclusion. It was only a training video, so there was no roar of applause at the wildly glorious finish, but Matty could hear it in his head, explosive and insane, the sound of an audience leaping to its feet in overawed astonishment at a perfect performance.
Hank Babikov. A nineteen-year-old Canadian skater. No one had heard of him even a year ago, yet here he was. The technical aspects of the routine, clearly a long program intended for competition, were flawless, and the artistry was undeniable. But the aspect of Hank Babikov’s performance that pierced Matty’s heart with cold terror was something else entirely. Something uncontrollable. Something that no amount of practice was ever going to allow Matty to match.
Babikov’s shoulders were wide and strong, waist narrow, and his legs were powerhouses of strength. His cheeks were dark with the shadow of a beard thick enough for the color to linger even after a fresh shave. Each move was certain and masculine, while retaining necessary grace. He was as rugged as a rancher, but he moved on the ice like he’d been born on it. If Matty was lovely and beautiful in his movements, Hank Babikov was powerful and strong. If Matty was like a bird, Hank was a lion. There was no doubt about it—this stranger was the international judges’ dream. He was the manly man they’d wanted for years. He was the Patrick Swayze of ice.
He was perfection.
Matty wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and wondered how much it would cost to assassinate someone, and how one even found an assassin anyway. He closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath.
“Do you feel sick, Matty?” Julien’s voice was gentle.
Matty felt him drop onto the bench beside him.
“You are really, how do you say? Vert.”
Green, Matty wanted to tell him. Green with envy and nausea. But he didn’t trust his voice not to shake. After everything he’d given up, after leaving Rob and Montana, after training so hard, so damn hard, this kid—no, this man—could not just come in and steal his chance at Olympic gold. For the first time in his life, Matty felt perhaps he was a kindred spirit with Tonya Harding.
“Hank Babikov,” Julien said, tapping the screen of Matty’s phone. “We’re fucked, aren’t we? Let me guess, you’re thinking, bye-bye gold medal, hello sadness? Don’t be so ready to throw in the towel.”
“You’re going to be late,” Matty said, standing up and shoving his phone in his bag. He didn’t understand how Julien could sit there like everything in that video didn’t render all of their effort wasted. Though Julien still stood a chance. He didn’t have as much to prove. Julien hadn’t screwed up his first Olympic opportunity with a bad attitude, laziness, and a deeply held belief that he didn’t deserve a medal anyway. Not like Matty had.
Now he deserved a medal. He did. He knew it deep inside, and even if that was a lie, Rob had wanted him to believe in himself, and wasn’t that close enough? Wasn’t that what all of this was about anyway?
“Matty,” Julien said, his voice tender. “Cheer up, friend. A practice video is not a competition. Even the best skater can fall apart under pressure. Our brains can steal medals right out of our hands, can’t they? We don’t know enough about Babikov to give up yet.”
Matty cleared his throat and forced a media-smile. “Of course. I’m not giving up. I’m just tired.”
“Good. Seriously, you get better every day. In my heart,” he closed his eyes and took a deep breath and then broke into a big smile. “Yes, in my heart, I believe that, if you keep on working, you’ll win satisfaction and happiness.”
“And what do you win?” Matty asked.
“Gold,” Julien said and winked.
“Julien! On ice!” Valentina’s voice carried into the locker room like a crack of angry thunder. Matty shuddered and made an empathetic face.
“Sorry. I hope I didn’t make you late.”
“No worries. She often makes me cry, but that goes with the, what is the word? Territory. Go home and be happy, all right? You’re my friend, sweet Matty, and I hate seeing you sad.”
Matty watched Julien rush out the locker room door, a half-smile soft on his lips. If only Julien knew the murderous thoughts he’d been entertaining just before he’d come in. He wouldn’t think Matty was so sweet then, would he?
Matty touched his necklace. He fingered through the most worn tabs, the ones featuring the highest scores, and then let go. The Grand Prix season was starting. He couldn’t let Hank Babikov do his head in. He wasn’t out of the game when it hadn’t even officially begun.
Matty resolved not to watch any more of Babikov’s training videos. All that mattered was his own training and submitting to Valentina’s coaching. He’d placed all his faith in her, and he had to hang on to that belief.
He remembered the strength he found in submission and surrender. He’d learned what it meant to give everything to his boyfriend Figure Skating. He remembered the pain of Rob’s horse whips. He needed to close his eyes and find the place inside himself that was stronger than his fear.
Deep down, he was the man who could fight, take the pain, endure, and come out better. All he needed was to summon that strength and believe he was the man who deserved the ultimate reward.