Required Elements Pt. 01

Required Elements: Part 1

Authors' note: This work has been reviewed and approved by the International Skating Union's Committee on Erotic Works, which attests that no person under the age of 18 appearing in the narrative engaged in sexual acts therein. In addition, the ISUCEW has granted the author a blanket indulgence in regard to any errors the author may have made in descriptions of the sport or its administration.

In the event that a reader has a quibble with any of the details presented here, they are invited to visit the International Skating Union website. Clicking on the CEW link there will direct them to a form where they may register their complaints and file for a refund. The Union wishes to affirm here that readers will be refunded in full if they are not aroused by talk of figure skating and/or ice hockey.

The ISUCEW has determined that the following account might just be true - if the possibility that the author has changed names, dates, continents, and planets is taken into account.

Thank you.

**********

"Oh dear," Hannah Turner said to her grandson. "Whyever not?"

Sidney had just informed his grandmother that he no longer wanted to play hockey, and that he had not brought his skates with him on this visit, and he had broken his stick against the garden wall at his house and never wanted another. This seemed to Hannah an impulsive reaction. But he was five years old, and this mercurial behavior was probably normal.

"Shame," she said. "Your Pops just freshened up the surface."

Sidney turned to look out the kitchen window. Behind an evergreen hedge, past an ancient swing set and a firepit, the pond lay looking smooth and inviting. His grandfather had plowed the snow from most of the surface and groomed it with his homemade rig, a 55-gallon barrel mounted on a welded steel frame attached to two car tires. On the barrel someone with a talented brush had written: SHAMBONI, which word Sidney had managed to first sound out last year and appreciate the joke this year.

He had watched the operation since he was old enough to propel his little snowsuit-clad legs through the backyard drifts. The filling of the barrel with hot water, his Pops pushing the apparatus around the pond while the steaming water dribbled out and was smoothed by a wide flap of heavy canvas.

Sidney had learned to skate when he was three. He loved the sliding hardness of the ice and looked forward to his visits to the farm. He would skate for hours, an old wooden Sherwood cutdown to toddler size, a dozen pucks on the ice, and his Pops feeding him soft passes to shoot into an imaginary goal.

"No," Sidney now said petulantly, crossing his arms on his chest. "I quit."

His grandmother said nothing, waiting him out, until at last he said, "I stink. They skate past me. Coach put me on the last line left wing. I quit."

"Well," she said. "I can't help you with your wrister or your slapper. That's your Pops' area."

Sidney looked back from the ice to his grandmother, wondering how she knew about these things. He had never heard her talk hockey before and just assumed in his five-year-old database that she had no overlap with it.

She rose from her chair and put on her glasses. "But skating... that we can work on." She went into another room and returned with a pair of white skates. These were not hockey skates. These blades were less round and had teeth on the front edge. Figure skates, he knew. The kind of skates little kids and girls wore. The kind of skates that marked the owner as not in the fraternity of hockey players. His grandmother's pair looked well broken in, their leather creased and worn in spots. She removed the blade guards and ran a fingertip over the steel, then gave a nod of approval.

He followed her silently out the back door. The sun was just breaking though the last of the clouds tailing yesterday's storm and the revealed sky was a brilliant perfect blue. The air was still and frosty. They sat on a green wooden bench so close to the ice that her feet were on the pond, and she began to put her skates on.

Sidney watched with intense interest. These boots were different from his skates, which were all lace holes from toe to ankle. These boots had holes down by the toe, but higher up the laces fitted into hooks. She finished, stood, glided to the center of the ice sheet and skated with strong strides in a small circle. Then in a larger circle, then back the other direction. Then she repeated her path skating backwards.

Sidney was rapt. Her motions were fluid, not what he expected of an ancient. The sound of steel on ice was like a sheet ripping. It filled the calm air. He began to regret not bringing his skates.

Without warning, she did something he had seen only on television, and that from the corner of an uninterested eye, because it wasn't hockey. Skating backwards, she accelerated. She spun forward, and back, and seemed to kick the ice and rise into the air.

Sidney's breath stopped. His grey-haired grandmother had left the ice. Risen above it to at least two feet, spinning what to him seemed a hundred times. She seemed to float in midair, descending gracefully to her landing. Knee bent and arms out without a wobble.

She sprinted to the edge and stopped hard, sideways, spraying ice shavings over him.

She giggled like a little girl at her prank, but Sidney just wiped the melting chips from his face thinking that if he could only skate like that he would be first line center in no time.

**********

Evelyn Jameson yawned a sigh and reached for her fancy coffee cup, thinking that hockey parents might be a huge chunk of their market. It was just half past six and the sky taunted the greater Boston area with a wisp of purple wiped low across the black winter morning. She had chosen to not sit in the bleachers during the practice. Other parents waited faithfully on the hard benches. Some, like Evelyn, hunkered down in their car and napped or listened to the radio or to audiobooks. Evelyn was working through Hawai'i. Fifty hours of narration -- just the thing for commuting and waiting for youth sports.

A rap on the window broke her revery. It was Sidney's coach, and behind him was Sidney lumbering under his hockey bag. Evelyn paused Michener, rolled down the window, and pressed the trunk release.

"Good morning, Mrs. Jameson," the coach said.

"Good morning, Coach," she replied. "Practice go okay?"

"Oh, sure. I wanted to tell you that Sid was invited to join the town travel team. They'll be contacting you with the details."

"Well.... Thank you."

The coach hesitated, probably expecting more enthusiasm. Sidney climbed into the passenger seat and fastened his belt.

"Yeah," the coach continued. "I know Sid has been taking power skating lessons... and they've really paid off. I'll be sorry to lose him. He's the best defenseman in Mites. It would be a waste to keep him in house league Squirts next year."

Evelyn nodded, thinking that her mother would be amused at her highly technical lessons being referred to as power skating. "Thanks again, coach. I have to run."

The coach backed away from the car as she put it in gear and eased out of the parking lot. She glanced over at her son. Eight going soon on nine. He was good on his skates, strong enough to push attackers out of the crease -- even though Mites was a no checking level -- and fast enough to take a misplaced puck up the middle of the ice and through the other team's defenders. He was, she thought, almost fast enough already to hold his own if he were to skate with her senior women's team. But though they were by rule not supposed to, the women checked. Hard. Sidney was tall enough that when she skated with him on her parents' pond she was sorely tempted by instinct to put a hip into him. For educational purposes, of course. Kids had to learn how to take a check if they wanted to go up a level.

"Sid," she said. "Do you want to try out for the travel team?"

He was strangely quiet. Usually after practices and games he talked a streak about plays he had made and not made, about what the other team had done and what his team had done. Not this morning.

"I guess so."

His mother sighed again without yawning. Strong coffee. "Do you want to do both? Travel and skating at the Club? Those two will take all of your time."

He nodded. "I figured. Maybe I can try them and see?"

"Okay," Evelyn said. She saw a lot more taxi mom -- and taxi dad -- in the future.

**********

Sidney stared up at the lights. They were bright. Brighter than those which hung over a hockey rink. And they seemed cleaner, newer. This whole building seamed... fresher. Though in dimensions and most other aspects it resembled a hockey rink, it was not.

This was the Charles River Skating Club. He had heard his grandmother talk about it. She had described to his parents the long process the Club had gone through, fundraising and planning to build this immense structure to replace the older facility closer to downtown Boston. Several ice surfaces, training rooms, meeting rooms, function rooms. It was huge. He knew his grandmother had been a member of the Club since long before he came along.

His grandmother came back to where he was sitting in the front row of the stands and sat next to him. A younger woman skated over to the nearest boards.

"Sidney," his grandmother said, "this is Tess Schwartz. She is going to be your new instructor."

He was too polite to speak it, but his look said: Why? You're my instructor.

Tess reached out across the red plastic top of the boards. Sidney, again polite, shook her hand.

"Your grandmother was my figure skating coach when I was about your age," Tess said.

Sidney turned his head to consider his grandmother more closely. Were the jokes about her riding dinosaurs to school actual events?

"Hannah has told me what you can do. I want you to work on your jumps first. If you join my little group, we will try out some dancing and pairs... just to see if those appeal to you."

Other kids were filtering onto the ice, gliding and crossing over to warm up. All on a sudden Sidney felt that competitive pull in his gut, the pull that always made him rush to finish putting on the pads, to get out there and start shooting pucks.

"I don't have my skates," he said resignedly.

His grandmother got up. "They're in the car. Be right back."

**********

"Where's Jojo?" Ned Turner asked, hanging up his coat. His granddaughter would usually shout blue murder and rush him for a hug. The quiet was abnormal.

"She's at a friend's," Hannah said handing her husband her jacket to be put in the closet. "Birthday party at a trampoline park."

Ned laughed. "Oh, to be seven again." He checked the room for observers. Seeing none, he wrapped his arms around Hannah and gave her a noisy smooch.

"Get off me, you old goat," she laughed just as their son-in-law entered the room.

Paul Jameson was carrying a bottle of wine, his face expressly neutral. "The Mitchells will be here any moment."

"Is Tess joining us?" Hannah asked, straightening her blouse.

"She's giving some group lessons," Paul said. "But she told Evelyn that whatever we decide on will be fine with her."

The doorbell rang.

**********

Evelyn surveyed the group at table. Oliver and Banks Mitchell were an amiable, relaxed couple. They had three children. Chaya, their youngest, was quiet but attentive. Her big eyes took in everything as she ate. Evelyn felt for her and tried not to make the meal seem like what it was, which was a negotiation and judgement session.

The Jamesons were there to evaluate whether Chaya would be a good pair with Sidney and, on the Mitchell's part, whether Sidney would be a good pair with Chaya. Each couple also had to get a feeling for the other -- whether they could stand to be involved with them over the next several years in the kind of close cooperation that parents of a pair skating team needed to display in order that the team have a chance of succeeding.

Then there was the money question -- thus the negotiation.

Figure skating is an expensive sport in which to participate. Coaching, choreography, ice time, travel, uniforms, skates. These add up to a substantial financial commitment which comes with little promise of return. Luckily, the Jamesons each had the kind of jobs needed to fund this kind of venture. Paul was VP for an angel investing fund which had done handsomely in recent years, and Evelyn ran a public relations firm which represented two of the Boston professional sports teams. The Mitchells, on the other hand, were not as affluent -- as far as the Jamesons knew or felt comfortable asking. Banks was a cardiac surgeon. But Fred was a stay-at-home dad. Maybe they had inheritances or maybe they were going to borrow. Maybe they owned real estate. All Sidney's parents cared was that Chaya's family was aware of the magnitude of the task and was ready to shoulder it. Asking for detail would have seemed... impolite.

"I never did," Oliver said in response to Ned's question: Had he ever played hockey? "High school basketball and baseball, but then again, I grew up in Arkansas. Not much skating there."

"Same here," Banks added. "San Diego in my case. I love watching it, though, and I love watching Chaya on the ice."

"How about you folks?" Oliver asked.

Paul pointed at his father-in-law. "Ned was in the AHL for three years. Hershey." He directed his finger to Hannah. "Wall full of medals and trophies. Women's singles. Double Salchows in her sleep." Then at his wife. "First line center. Cornell. ECAC champions." At himself. "D League seniors. We play four periods, the fourth in the parking lot." He saw his guests' quizzical expression. "Beer."

"Ah" Oliver said. "Just like golf, then."

While history was discussed, Sid slipped away. He stopped in the doorway and saw Chaya following him with her eyes. He thought she was pleading for rescue. He nodded and made a motion with his head, and she also slid from her seat and followed.

They walked through a big living room and into a hallway. Sid stopped at a door upon which was taped a picture of Phil Esposito putting in a rebound past a Blackhawk goalie. As he opened the door, he wished he had cleaned up the place. She was going to see his shoes heaved randomly across the floor, the trashcan overflowing, the sunflower seed hulls in a paper cup.

But all she said was, "That's your rig? Cool! Let's play."

Later, after the Mitchells had bid farewell, Sid was summoned back to the dining room where his parents and grandparents were seated. He took his chair.

"Well," his father said. "Do you think you can skate with her?"

Sid looked down, his hands folded together. He shrugged.

"What? What's wrong?"

Sid looked up. "She beat me at Madden."

**********

The doctor probed the knee. She poked, pressed, and twisted.

"Ow!" Chaya complained at one point when her knee was being aggressively manipulated.

Sid looked on in concern. His partner had limped off the ice in the middle of a practice session. They were lucky that the Charles River Skating Club had an orthopedic clinic attached which concentrated on the problems to which skaters -- especially young skaters -- were prone.

He was so close to Chaya now that he almost felt her actual pain.

"Luckily, not a ligament," the doctor said, and both skaters gave a simultaneous sigh of relief. They had seen a few of their peers suffer ACL tears. It wasn't common, but the treatment of surgery and rehab was a prolonged nightmare. "It's Osgood-Schlatter. Painful, but not serious."

"Did I do something?" Chaya asked.

The doctor shook her head and touched Chaya just below the kneecap. "No. It's the growth plate. Your bones are still developing." She opened a folder. "You're sixteen. Most females stop growing between fifteen and twenty, roughly. Your leg just needs some rest. Ice it when it hurts, take some ibuprophen, heat the area once or twice a day. Rest it as much as you can."

Chaya and Sidney looked at each other. Rest? The Junior Grand Prix in Latvia was coming up next month.

**********

They didn't make it to Latvia. For three weeks they limped through their routines in the Club's large training room, which was fitted with a soft floor and mirrored walls. Chaya got massages and heat treatments and ultrasonic therapy. They lifted weights and watched videos of pairs from past competitions while Tess stopped and rewound and hit the slo-mo or pause to highlight details of the image with her laser pointer. Over and over and over.

On the Sunday of the fourth week, Sidney answered the doorbell. Chaya stood on the steps in a long green down coat. She was obviously distraught, her eyes red. He looked over her shoulder. There was a car in the drive, but she was alone.

"I got my license," she explained, wiping tears. He wondered if she had already had an accident.

"Come on in," he said. "What's wrong?"

He brought her in and held out a hand to take her coat, but she shook her head.

"Who's home?" She asked.

JoJo bounced in. "Oh, hi, Chaya," she said brightly. Then she saw the girl's face and turned to walk out. "I'll be in my room."

They watched her go, then Chaya said, "We need to talk."

He led her to his room. "Mom and Dad are shopping."

Chaya sat down on his desk chair, head in her hands. "I have to show you something."

Sid said, "Okay--" and his skating partner stood up swiftly and dropped her coat.

His knees actually got weak. He had heard this phrase and thought it metaphor -- until now. He collapsed onto his bed.

Chaya was wearing a bikini. A very brief bikini, the sort of minimal skin coverage not usually seen in a Boston area winter. And, he now noticed but somehow had not before, she was... stacked. For lack of a better word. Her hips were... holy crap. The skinny Chaya he had started skating with three years ago had morphed into a vision one might see in a Bottechelli at the Museum of Fine Arts. All curves and--

He realized why she had been crying.

"I had no idea," he said, clearing his throat to prevent any embarrassing cracking.

She sniffled. "I've been wearing a chest compression top... hoping nobody would notice. But Sid -- I've gained twenty pounds. You never said anything because you're too kind."

Sid thought he hadn't said anything because he was clueless. Now that he looked at her, he realized that she had also grown a couple of inches in the last months. The lifts and throws they had been working on -- he hadn't noticed them getting harder, but then again he had been lifting weights and pounding protein drinks. Hell, he had gained ten or so pounds of muscle himself lately. But it didn't matter how much he weighed.

"My mom's a stick, but my dad's mother, well... she's like this...." She swept her hands down her body. "I got her genes. She kept growing until she was 20."

She reached down, rummaged a tissue from one pocket of her discarded coat and wiped her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Sidney. I can't keep skating with you. One of us will get hurt if you keep having to hold a hippo up over your head."

Sidney stood up abruptly. "Fuck that, Chaya. You're beautiful. I'm willing to keep going."

She smiled. "I knew you would say that, Sid. You're not a quitter. That's why I know you will be a champion someday. But it can't be with me."

"No?"

"No. I'm done."

They sat in silence for some moments, Sid trying to adjust to this new reality, Chaya running her eyes over his room and eventually his new gaming rig.

"Hey," she said hopefully.

"What?"

Chaya, shivering, picked up her coat and put it back on. "Can we play FIFA?"

**********

"Oi," the center said, puffing out steam. "Next time you get the puck along the boards, watch for me. I'm going to go hard up the middle."

Sid nodded his understanding. He grabbed a water bottle and took a gulp, then squirted a stream over his hot face. He was in figure skating shape, but he was out of hockey shape. Hockey was all three strides and stop; accelerate and look back for the pass; four strides and cross over to avoid the defenseman; hard stop; accelerate and turn around; tap the stick on the ice to get the puck carrier's attention. Repeat. Figure skating was going hard and smooth around a wide circle then carefully preparing and jumping, or lifting your partner. Figure skating was planned. Your body knew what was coming. Hockey was constant improvisation. Stop start stop.

His old friend Teddy from youth hockey played in this adult league. Sid skated with them from time to time on request. Like tonight, when colds, flu, and parental obligations had pared the Massholes down to eight skaters and a goalie. So Sidney took a call from Teddy, checked his gear, retaped two sticks, and loaded up his bag to go bulk out the roster.

The Massholes were tied with the Mudflat Brothers 4-4 midway through the third and final period. No overtime in adult league. You had 50 minutes on the ice to play three periods, then you got off while the Zamboni clanked on.

The rear door to the bench opened and shut. Sidney heard, "What the hell? Look at those ruts!" and he turned to see Tess standing behind bench like an NHL head coach.

He began to say something, but the winger he was due in for collapsed in fatigue over the boards, so he jumped onto the ice.

The puck had been shot around and behind the Massholes' goal where the goalie stopped it. He ordinarily would leave it for his defense to take, but he knew they were all gassed. The team had three D and five up. This made changing an operation the players needed to concentrate on to make sure they ended up with a line of three and didn't accidentally leave themselves shorthanded until someone on the bench noticed and jumped in. Of course, on short roster nights like this, the guys on the bench might come onto the ice very slowly and reluctantly, especially as the game wore on.

The goalie knew and took the advantage to sharpen his stick handling skills by skating with the puck around the net and looking to pass it to one of his defensemen.

But his two defensemen were heavy-legged and did not get open fast enough for him, so he scaled it up the boards. Sidney stopped it with his skates, dug it out, and shoveled it to the center, who had as promised dug down for some of his last remaining energy, going hard over the center line. He corralled the biscuit perfectly on his blade and split the opposition's defense.

The center was clear to the net, or at least he would have been, but one of the Brothers had charged back from the opposite wing to mark him. To be fair, the Brothers had showed with three full lines.

Sid caught up with the play and shouted. The center sent the rubber over. Sid took the puck for three strides, waiting for his teammate to make a bit of daylight, and then laid a perfect flat pass onto the center's stick.

The sparse cheering section on the bench shouted encouragement as their center came in clean and... lifted the puck over the net and into the glass behind. It bounced back onto the top of the net, where it died. The referee blew his whistle to kill the play.

Sidney, sucking air, cruised slowly back to the bench for a sub, jumped the boards, and sat down right in front of Tess.

"Look out for those ruts," Tess shouted needlessly. "You could break an ankle. They're the size of a ditch!"

The other players on the bench agreed with her, quite vocally.

"Why are you risking your legs on this crappy ice?" Tess asked.

Sidney shrugged, a gesture probably not noticed under his shoulder pads. "'Cause it's fun?"

Tess shook her head in consternation.

"Besides," Sidney said, watching a slapshot from the Brothers go wide of the Massholes' net. "I can't skate. Got no partner."

Tess patted his shoulder, another gesture his pads attenuated.

"You do now."

**********

JoJo waved her Chromebook over her head. "He doesn't have a Wikipedia page, for Christs' sake!"

Sid kept watching the television. The Diesel Creek guy was pulling the engine out of an ancient Autocar flatbed truck. Evelyn came into the room, a laundry basket on her hip. She paused to watch her daughter's frustration that the bombshell news was underappreciated.

"Mom!" JoJo wailed. "He doesn't--"

"Yes, dear. I heard you the first time. I just don't know what is so important. Does that mean he doesn't exist?"

Sidney snorted without removing his eyes from the engine lift operation. "Might as well."

"Mom! It means he's...." JoJo ran briefly out of steam. What did it mean?

"It means," their mother said, "that he is a successful businessman who keeps a low profile."

"You can say that again," Sidney offered.

JoJo stamped a foot. "Successful? He has piles of money. He almost bought the Cowboys. He owns a Premier League team. He has a yacht the size of... of.... well, of something pretty fucking huge."

"JoJo." Her mother admonished.

"But how can you not have a Wikipedia page? For fu--" She stumbled in her attempt to clean it up mid phrase. "Hell, even Sid has a Wikipedia page." She paused for the tiniest of instants to reset. "And Hell is in the Bible, so it's not a swear."

Her mother narrowed her eyes.

"U. S. Figure Skating set it up," Sidney said, still without turning this head. "I had nothing to do with... look at the size of that fucking chain! Who even owns a fucking chain like that?"

JoJo tossed her arms out, nearly sending her laptop off like a rectangular silver Frisbee. "Mom! Why does he get to swear?"

Their mother shook her head. "The two of you better get it out of your systems before we meet with the Chumaks tonight."

"I'm just a foul-mouthed little girl. I'm not coming. I'm not invited." JoJo spoke in a sing-song mockery of the injustice of them not taking her along.

"Not with that fucking attitude," Sidney said.

**********

As they sat down at the table, Paul thought that this meeting was somewhat different from the one with the Mitchells. That had been held around the Jameson's smallish oval table, in their dining room with all the comfortable bric-a-brac a family accumulates: children's attempts at pottery, the odd Lego construct, Grandmother's tarnished silver tray.

Not here. This room looked over the Boston Public Garden. This table was covered with a starched white linen tablecloth. These men and women dressed all in black standing backs to the wall were not of either family. They were here to serve. No Chumak would be schlepping a covered dish from kitchen to this table. The Jamesons had paid off their mortgage a few years ago. The Chumaks had purchased outright this condo complex just last month.

Paul straightened his tie. He and Evelyn were pretty well off. But the Chumaks were well off -- in orbit. The place settings probably had set them back the price of a new Bugatti. And by 'set them back' he meant they had not noticed the expense one tiny bit.

Mr. Chumak, who had not invited them to call him Marek, rose after asking Paul, who he addressed as Mr. Mitchell, to accompany him to select a dessert wine. Paul pushed his chair back and followed their host out of one of the glass doors.

Mrs. Chumak, who looked like she would have pushed a hidden panic button if anyone called her Zofia, said to Evelyn, "Mrs. Mitchell, I understand that you played ice hockey at university."

"Yes, I did," Evelyn replied.

"Such a brutal sport. You are fortunate that you escaped mostly unmarked."

Damn! thought Sidney. If JoJo had been allowed to attend, he was sure his uneventempered little sister would have clocked their host upside the head with one of the very expensive bottles of dinner wine -- French reds, fantastic vintages which were still apparently not good enough for dessert pairing. But his mom had been a hockey player, and man or woman, you did not ascend to Division One without knowing how to chirp.

"It is," Evelyn said raising her wine glass cooly. "But one of the benefits is a shapely, muscular ass that no amount of time in a posh gym can possibly equal."

Double damn! Sidney almost licked his forefinger and drew a point in the air. He looked over at Nadine, who seemed bored.

"Hey Nadine," he said, breaking into the polite cat fight before claws could become red. "How is Alexei doing?" He spoke to her with some degree of familiarity. They were the same age, and he and Chaya had competed against her at too many events for him to recall accurately. They had ridden busses together, eaten many burgers together. She had been skating then with Alexei Wondrov -- before Alexei developed what pair skaters called Boitano Fever, an affliction which hits male skaters at about 13 years old. They become convinced that singles is the only path to fame and glory and fortune and they switch away from partnered completion.

"He needs to work on his triples," she said. "And if he wants to be serious, he will have to get a quad in there as well."

Sid made a low whistle. "I don't remember him as an especially strong jumper."

Nadine got up and came around to sit beside him. "I wanted him to throw me farther, but he was... reluctant. After Lake Placid he became almost timid."

Sid nodded. At a competition two years before, when the young pairs were still polishing their throwing techniques, Alexei had launched Nadine up and out at such an angle that she could not recover. Her skates did not find the ice, and she landed hard on her front. Three front teeth had broken, but luckily no bones, though her face was the color of grape jelly for a couple of months.

"I watched you throw Chaya with confidence... even after she...." Nadine made a motion with her hands indicating expansion. She didn't want to say the word 'fat'. To a female figure skater, talking about weight was like a baseball team talking about a no-hitter. It was a jinx. It just wasn't done. "I will trust you to send me safe up in the air." She put a hand on his nearest bicep and gave it a squeeze.

Just then, the fathers came back with two thin bottles of wine. They sat down, one of the ninja servers uncorked the bottles, and poured. Other ninjas brought out crème brûlée.

"This is the best dessert I've ever had that wasn't mostly chocolate," Sidney whispered to Nadine, who had stayed seated next to him. She nodded minutely, and he thought she probably had this all the time.

On the drive home, Sidney said, "What's wrong, Dad?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've seen that look. It's the same look you get after a game when you complain about the other team bringing somebody's kid brother who skates for Curry as a ringer or when some idiot runs your goalie. You want to crosscheck somebody, I can tell."

"Paul?" Evelyn said.

His father shrugged. "He wants you to train with their coach. And by want I mean demands. Guy named Lec Novak."

"Yeah, I know him," Sidney said. "Worked with Nadine and Alexei since forever. Hard guy. Never smiles. Good reputation, though."

"Think you could live with it?"

Sidney looked out the window. They were just merging onto the Pike.

"Golden Rule," Evelyn muttered resignedly.

They all knew what that meant. The sport was driven by cash. The Mitchells, for instance, had been just at the upper, or lower depending on how you looked at it, limit of the necessary income needed to pay the skating bills. Even though the two families had officially divided all the common expenses, Sidney knew that his parents had kicked in more than their share. In subtle ways so as not to offend. Now they were going to enter into this weird and potentially dysfunctional agreement with Nadine's family -- but this time the Jamesons would be the poor cousins.

"Who's going to break it to Tess?" Sidney asked.

**********

This time it was, as it often was, a college friend who had been invited to bring the numbers up -- and keep the exhaustion, hopefully, down. Upon being told of Sidney's other hobby, the kid just asked what it was like. You know, that whole... figure skating thing.

"Well..." Sidney. "What I love about hockey is that time you're in your zone, between the circles, and a puck squirts over to you -- once in a while, on this team, it's a pass." The dozen or so of the Massholes shivering and drinking, cursed him half-heartedly. "You catch it on your blade, backhand it a bit to center it, and then onto the blade again. You bend your whole torso over and down, arms going back, shoulders rotating... and you flick it on net. Top corner." Sidney moved to parallel his description, using his beer can as a stick placeholder. Some sloshed out when he shot.

"You're assuming you can lift it," a heckler muttered.

"It's a great feeling," Sidney said, ignoring the implication.

"Or the goalie gloves it, then it's a better feeling," said their goalie.

"Now imagine you're caught deep in your own zone. The puck goes out and you put your head down and just dig as hard as you can for the point you should be covering. No puck to worry about or other players to worry about. Just go hard for maybe 150 feet. That's also a great feeling. Now imagine you are skating that hard, but backwards. No stick, no pads. Nobody else on the whole rink. You rotate your torso and raise your right foot and bend your left leg and jump up at the same time you kick into the ice with the toe of your right skate -- which has teeth -- and you twist with legs and arms to spin. Up you go while the world whirls around. You find your point of reference to orient the landing blade so it's going in the direction of your jump, then you find the ice as you touch down and adjust to keep your balance and keep skating." He jumped, spinning once, and this time the beer went flying in a circle like a sprinkler. "When you hit that, it's an awesome rush."

"And how often do you land on your ass?" Teddy asked.

"All the fucking time," Sidney said. "If you're not falling, you're not learning."

One of the team said, "You're a fucking poet."

"And his feet are Longfellows," Teddy said.

The crowd groaned as though one of them had just missed a wide open net.

**********

"That... was... fucking... embarrassing!"

Nadine was bent over, panting after her run.

Sidney stood next to her, breathing deeply after trying to keep up with his partner. She had sprinted down the hallway and down two flights of stairs to the lobby level. As he sucked air, he had several thoughts: 1. We should be in better shape than this. Maybe we need to incorporate more sprints in our training. 2. I hope this doesn't affect our short program tomorrow. 3. Literally fucking embarrassing. And 4. Who the hell--

He voiced this last point. "Who the hell was that?"

Nadine was swallowing and still panting. "Dana and Tyler."

Sidney hadn't caught their faces when Nadine opened her room door, just a shapely ass in determined motion with another shapely ass, trim muscular legs everywhere. He did a quick recall. "He's... twenty or so. Dana is...."

"Nineteen," Nadine said.

"Thank goodness," Sidney said. The couple might have been in flagrante, but it was allowed by statute. Then another thought: "At least they were screwing each other."

"As opposed to?"

"I don't know. Cross pair screwing? Getting caught in a strange rut?"

Nadine guffawed. She had a tendency to guffaw when she was greatly amused. She probably had been trained at the Swiss school she had attended not to guffaw at all but to smile a thin smile -- with no teeth showing. A girlish giggle was probably as far as the convention there could be made to stretch.

"So... why were they in your room?"

She shrugged. "You and I were supposed to be on the ice right now. I guess they didn't see the updated schedule."

"Yeah," Sidney said weakly. "But... Dana isn't your roommate."

"And thank fuck they weren't doing it on my bed."

**********

Teddy shook his beer, then held it to his ear and shook it again. He tried to angle the can so the dim yellow light from the nearest lamp post might penetrate the hole, into which he then peered. He nodded.

"It's official," he announced. "My beer is freezing up."

Sidney and the other four tenacious remnants of the game still hanging in the parking lot dutifully shook their beers but continued to drink them.

"Beer slushie," said one. "No charge."

Teddy drained his, tossed the empty into a paper bag, opened the cooler which sat on the asphalt in the middle of their small shivering group, and said, "Sid, when are you ever going to sub for us again?"

Sidney had come all the way into Boston to watch the team. Half of them had played youth hockey with him. "Someday. I miss having a goalie to abuse. Maybe the ISU will introduce goalies into the sport."

The guy next to him, who was the actual goalie, said, "Would they make me wear figure skates?"

"Why not? -- and a tutu," another said.

They all laughed, even Sidney. He had known these guys since elementary school. When they found out he was dropping hockey for figure skating, they had given him a good-natured but scathing ribbing. Until they found out that part of his new gig involved lots of putting his hands on some well-shaped female thighs. Something hockey was not known for.

"What's next?" Teddy asked.

"Next? I can't even keep track. Nadine and I can skate in junior events or senior events. We are going to China next week, then Croatia, then France."

"You banging that yet?"

Sidney flipped him the bird. "You crude fuck. Is that all you can think about?"

"You didn't answer the question," Teddy pointed out.

"We're a team," Sidney replied. "We train together hours and hours a day, on the ice. Off the ice. Travel, meals, passing the time watching stupid movies on a laptop together. Watching video of us, watching video of our competition. Video from the past. We have to be on the same page and frequency, especially on the ice. There are teams that have allowed their feelings to enter into the partnership. It's not usually a good idea."

Teddy blew a raspberry. "But if you retired tomorrow, you'd--"

"Hit it like it was a slow left winger staring at his skates."

The rest of the team shivered and made sounds of agreement. They had known Chaya, who used to come and root for them on occasion when Sidney skated. Nadine had not, but they had all studied photos of her in her tight outfits.

**********

The next name on Mr. Higgins' list was Jolene Jameson.

"JoJo? Are you ready?"

She answered physically by rushing to the front of the classroom and addressing her peers. "My timeline is on the Olympic Games."

Thank God, thought Mr. Higgins. Something other than the fall of Rome, World War 2, or Washington crossing the Delaware. He had been teaching Freshman World History for five years and had watched the chronology of Hitler's death projected onto a white screen way too many times.

JoJo picked up the remote and clicked. The projection on the screen showed: WINTER OLYMPICS

"The Winter Olympics are coming," she began. "I will focus today on the timeline showing how a pair figure skating team makes it to the Olympics."

She clicked, and a picture of Boromir appeared under the text: ONE DOES NOT SIMPLY SKATE INTO THE OLYMPICS. She went on to work backwards from the Olympics -- to the national team selection mechanism. A document titled U. S. FIGURE SKATING Athlete Selection Procedures Olympic Winter Games flashed up. The class gasped and groaned as she paged through the dense 22 pages.

"I'll tl; dr it for you. If you and your partner medal at the United States Figure Skating Championship just before the Olympics, you're probably golden. So to speak. If not -- if you get injured or screw up your skate because you have the flu or have a bad day like you've never had before and you've scored really really well at other competitions -- you can still get in by committee vote. Because the teams are actually selected by a vote of the Selection Committee. But if it comes to that, somebody who medalled and expected to go will get bumped."

**********

"Shit, shit, shit." Nadine spoke after about an hour of silence.

They sat in the waiting room outside the entrance to the two locker rooms. Neither had moved since coming off the ice after the medal ceremony. Novak sat down between them once the room cleared. You skated cleanly, he said in his accent that Sidney had never been able to characterize, though Sidney had travelled in the last few years to many eastern and northern European cities. The kind of accent that a native English speaker would associate with expertise in winter sports. Novak told them that they needed to find a way to get to the next level. He hadn't discussed what those ways might be, but perhaps he could tell from Nadine's sullen eye avoidance and Sidney's unresponsive body language that it was not the right time to discuss their future. So he left.

They still had their skates on. The ice resurfacing had long ago finished and the lights in the arena turned off.

Sidney sat up straight for the first time in a long time. He fingered the round grey chunk of metal hanging by a green lanyard.

"What the hell is pewter, anyway?"

Nadia looked at her own medal. "You're the chemist."

"Biochemist," Sidney said slowly.

"Same to me," Nadine replied. "How much is pewter worth?"

They each contemplated their award. Struck to honor and rep this Grand Prix of Finland, they bore some kind of device that represented figures skating. They seemed lighter than the thickness and diameter suggested. Didn't help the lack of gravitas that the pewter surface strongly resembled plastic.

It was common knowledge and therefore of questionable veracity that in any competition, the gold medalist was ecstatic for winning, the silver medalist was sad for having just missed gold, and the bronze medalist was just happy to be on the podium.

Nadine and Sidney, pewter medalists, had been on the podium. Not the classic three stepper, but the modern one that had an extra level added below the bronze. They had not figured out where they fit in the above paradigm. Happy? Sad? Indifferent?

Sidney removed the medal from around his neck and chucked it at a tall waste can in the corner. It sailed through the room like a flat pewter-colored comet with a flappy emerald tail and clanged dead on into the trash.

Nadine tried to copy him, but her comet ended up well short of the goal. It lay on the hard carpet. Neither bothered to retrieve it as they stood and went to their respective locker room.

**********

Four Years Before Olympics

Sidney opened his door gripping a textbook that must have weighed fifteen pounds. If it was that gobshite Murky Adams again wanting to borrow his Enzyme Kinetics lecture notes, Adams was going to be obliged to remove the latest edition of Lehninger's Principles of Biochemistry from a tight crevice.

It was not Adams but Teddy.

"Shit," said Sidney. "I thought security was better than this."

"Yeah... And I thought you were going to live at home."

Sidney waved the text in a semicircle. "This is home. Two hundredish square feet of rarified Harvard atmosphere, not counting the head. By the way -- you need to use the head?"

Teddy ignored the offer and sat on a chair that looked stolen from a dining commons.

Sidney continued. "I offered to commute, but my dad said that being on campus was part of the experience and that driving an hour back and forth every day wasted valuable time. So here I am, overlooking Harvard Yard and everything...." He paused. "Who ratted me out? Let me guess... JoJo?"

Teddy looked out the window, not smiling.

"What?" Sidney said.

After a moment, Teddy asked, "You not skating today?"

"No," Sidney said. "We have a full session day after tomorrow, but off until then. Nadine has a sniffle."

Teddy did not reply for a time. "Sniffle."

"What?"

Teddy pointed at the laptop open on Sidney's desk. "You ever try PuckVue?"

Sidney tilted his head. "That streaming video from local rinks? Yeah, I looked at it one night when you guys had a game in Dedham last year. Made me realize how slow and out of position we usually are."

Teddy didn't smile. "When you aren't subbing for us our average speed goes way down... but that's not...." He dug in his pocket and brought out a thumb drive.

Sidney took the drive, worried now at his friend's unhappiness, wondering what tragedy could be on the memory besides their goalie's chronic five-hole problems. He plugged it into the computer.

"Open the video," Teddy said, paused, then spoke again. "We played right before this. I had set the feed up to record. This was the ice after the Zamboni."

Sidney watched as two skaters glided on and stopped at center ice. One was Emile Kusek. The other was... Nadine.

But... he thought. Maybe he just needed her to stand in... Sniffles? They started to skate, his arm around her waist. It was the opening choreography of the routine Kusek and Xu....

"Fuck!" Sidney shouted.

**********

At 5:10 am, Nadine pushed open the door to the women's locker room and took the two steps inside needed to trigger the motion sensitive lights. When they came on, she was momentarily blinded -- then she saw the hulking figure in the middle of the room. She shrieked.

"Good morning, Nadine. How'd the sniffle today?"

Panting from the scare, one hand at her throat, she said, "I guess you know."

He nodded.

"It's like Lec said," Nadine breathed deep. "We need to get to the next level."

"So you're leveling up... with Kusek."

She shrugged. "Sorry. But I'm a better skater than Christina, and--"

"Don't bother to finish that thought. Message is loud and clear."

Just then three junior members came in, looked at the two in obvious conflict, turned tail, and fled.

**********

Sidney didn't keep a lot of stuff in his Club locker, so when he cleaned it out everything fit in a gym duffle. Skate bag over his shoulder, he hoisted the duffle and walked out into the arena on his way to the front doors.

There was a clinic in progress. Looked like a youth skills program, and Tess was one of the teachers.

Sidney stopped to watch the group for a minute. The boys and girls milling about on the ice, sliding more or less gracefully into positions for drills, reminded of himself. He remembered always side-eyeing the other kids, trying to ape their movements, watching the instructors and vowing to someday move like they could move, as if it was natural, ingrained, something they had been born with.

He sat down and unzipped his bag.

"Sidney!" Tess exclaimed when he took her arm. "How are you, dear? Let me finish this session and we can--"

But he backed away, pulling her with him. They gathered speed and she opened her mouth but did not protest. She recognized the opening moves. It was the routine that she had designed for Sidney and Chaya once upon a time, so that when he put his hands on her hips she knew to turn and kick off.

The class moved back against the boards, watching closely as the pair sped around the rink.

Sidney timed her kick and tossed her into the air, into a double horizontal spin. He caught her by the hips and helped her down to her skates where they ended up facing each other, one leg extended.

"You still got it," he said.

Tess just nodded. Her skinny little student had grown into a strong man. He could have thrown her twice as high.

One smart-ass kid started to whistle Bolero, and the rest quickly took it up, clapping out a rhythm for the pair as they pumped backwards around the ice, positioned for a jump, then launched into a quite acceptable side-by-side double toe loop.

"Done," Tess breathed, and they skated to the center and made a bow to the enthusiastic applause of the students and a couple dozen parents.

Tess stretched up and kissed his cheek. "What was that about?"

He hugged her. "Farewell performance."

**********

Leaving the arena, he passed the skate shop. Murray the skate tech was carefully grinding a blade and did not notice Sidney, who put his skate bag down on the counter and waited.

"Hey, Sidney," Murray said at last. "Usual radius or want to try something new?"

"Neither. Put these in your stash." Murray kept a large room in the back stuffed with used equipment which he refurbished and dealt out as to those who needed but maybe could not afford them.

Murray opened the bag and took out Sidney's skates. Skates generally lasted two years, and these were less than a year old, he knew. "You sure? Is there a problem?"

Sidney shook his head. "Nope. I just grew out of them."

**********

Evelyn cut into the lasagna. "This okay?"

Paul nodded, holding out his plate.

"The State Police have a reinforced trailer you put a bomb into so if it goes off the damage is contained," she continued while doling out the pasta carefully. The hanging strings of mozzarella made the transfer.

Sidney said nothing but did look over to where JoJo was furiously punching a sofa cushion.

When Sidney made his announcement that Nadine had dumped him, his mother sighed. His father said, "This is what we call a non-enforceable oral contract which can be dissolved at the will and notice of either party. Sorry."

JoJo had jumped from her seat and screamed, "I will fucking kill the bitch! Who does she think she is?" Then she ran to the sofa and began pummeling it.

"Forget it," said Sidney. "I'm done. I cleaned out my locker and gave away my skates.

JoJo stopped her war on furniture. "You WHAT?"

"I need to spend time in the lab. Dr. Mendez has been cutting me all kinds of slack and I need to get off my ass. She went to bat to get me into the BA/PhD program. Time to repay her."

Both his parents nodded agreement, but JoJo drew her very dull table knife across her throat. "Nadine -- she's a dead woman. Novak -- dead! Kusek--"

"Nice movie reference, dear," Paul interrupted. "But violence is never the answer."

"Can I curse them? I'm a Wiccan now. Did I tell you?'

Her mother took another bite and replied with an unmannerly full mouth. "In detail."

"Ad nauseum," her father added.

JoJo glared at them. "I will have vengeance."

"Yes, dear," Evelyn replied. "Will you have tiramisu?"

"Hell ya!" JoJo exclaimed.

**********

Three Years Before Olympics

Introduction to the Principles of Biochemistry at Harvard University was comprised of two long labs, three medium lectures, and three tedious discussion groups each week. Tedious because Sidney had to teach some of them and couldn't chill like he could while walking around the lab or sprawled out in lecture. No, in discussion groups the freshmen students actually asked questions and expected answers and attention from their teaching fellow commensurate to the tuition they were paying. Or, much more likely, their parents were paying.

They were good kids, though, Sidney came to realize. They respected that he knew moderately more than them about the subject. It probably didn't hurt that he had come with a reputation in a sport whose demographic of enjoyment if not actual participation overlapped with the class'. After he spent the first discussion answering as many questions about figure skating as about biochemistry, they buckled down to the class materials.

Some of them looked familiar to one degree or another. Maybe they resembled one of his old friends, or maybe they looked like a face from a movie.

Three weeks into the term, he was kicking through snowdrifts in Harvard Square on his way to the Coop to buy a Harvard hoodie for JoJo's birthday. In the cashier's line, the customer in front of him was a short redhead who turned to him and said, "Hi, Mr. Jameson."

"Oh," said Sidney. "Hello." What was her name? He had almost two hundred students in his classes. It was something exotic, he thought. "Sorry... Helena?"

"Nice guess. Hera. Montalbano."

Sidney colored, hoping the cashier would hurry up, but the girl in front of them was buying a huge double handful of fingernail polish bottles which avalanched from her grasp.

"White... mountains?"

Hera nodded. "Right. I was named after my tits." She pointed both index fingers at her chest. "They're real. And they are fantastic."

Sidney felt himself beginning to bead sweat. He checked around to see if anyone had caught her comment. The department had held long and serious sensitivity trainings for their TAs.

"You don't remember me," she stated, but not sadly.

"Thursday discussion?"

She spread her arms wide. "From the Skating Club. I was in the Intermediate group when you and Nadine led our sessions... three years ago?"

"Oh... right. I thought you looked familiar."

"I'm sorry about Nadine breaking up with you."

He motioned around him. "It's for the best. I'm busy these days."

"You still skate?" The nail polish purchase finally sorted, Hera laid a spiral bound notebook on the counter.

"No. You?"

"Every day. Twice on Sunday."

Her notebook's ownership legally transferred, she slid it into her backpack. "See you in class."

**********

"Ouch-a-roonie," their goalie said as he knelt on his pads and fastened the straps.

Sidney was dressing beside Teddy on the cold hard bench at Stoneham Arena. He hadn't played in a couple of months -- long enough that he had to think about which piece of kit to put on next rather than being able to rely on instinct.

One of the defensemen offered, "Did you at least get a goodbye fuck?"

"That's not how it works," Sidney grunted as he pulled on a stocking.

"Needs to be in the rules," the goalie said. "Not even a blowie?"

Sidney shook his head.

"Handy at least?"

Teddy stood up and grabbed his sticks. "Shoulda stuck with hockey, pal. Hockey groupies wouldn't leave you hangin' like that."

**********

Wednesday afternoon, Sidney was in the Mendez lab when Hera walked in. It wasn't unusual for undergraduates to look into labs trying to find someone to answer a question. The labs weren't locked. Interrupting your TA's work was impolite but happened so often that it was tolerated.

Sidney was in a corner of the lab running an LC-MS. He waved her over.

"I was just in the building," she said apologetically. "I have a question... what is that?"

He pointed at the screen. "I synthesized a new phosphoramidite. This is the chromo peak and here is the mass."

She considered the instrument. "Building an oligonucleotide?"

"Full marks. New theraputic model. Keep it under your hat."

Hera giggled. "Okay, but that wasn't my question, actually. I want to know if you'll come skating with me tonight."

He paused. The HPLC pumps clicked in slow syncopation. "I quit. You heard the Club gossip."

"It's just fun," she said. "The Frog Pond is opening tonight."

"I have a lot to do here."

She gave him a seductive look. "I'll buy you a chilidog at Flour."

He wavered. "All I have is hockey skates... and those are an hour away at home."

"They rent skates," Hera threw down, sensing his resolve was weakening.

Sidney suddenly felt the oppression of the lab's artificial lighting. Outside the low winter sun was yellow but did not warm. It would be gone tonight, and the full moon would sub in for it. It was very cold today. The ice would be hard, brittle, perfect. He sighed.

They took the T to Park Street. On the way they talked about the people they knew at the Club. Sidney told her how he had gotten interested in figure skating from his grandmother.

"I remember when I committed to pairs," Hera said, swinging as she gripped a rail. "I was eleven or so and watching videos of Hammell, Witt, and Yamaguchi and dreaming about spinning sparkly in the spotlight. Then at the Club one day I saw a couple skate, and they looked so happy it made my heart jump. After that, I wanted to be a member of the world's best pair."

They walked up to the Frog Pond. Hera opened her skate bag while Sidney rented a pair. These were pond skates -- hard shell boots with hockey blades. He felt the blade. The edges were good enough for slowly going in a straight line but not much more. The boot was one piece of plastic. Good for stopping a puck but not for the kind of ankle flexibility needed for figure skating.

They warmed up with several laps around the ice, weaving in and out of the crowd, then Hera took his hand and sped up.

"Come on," she urged. "One rotation."

By then, he was warm and muscle memory was communicating permission to his brain. He veered them to where the crowd was sparse and tossed her. She did one turn and landed perfectly.

"Two," she said.

He went through the same prep and she rotated twice and again landed like a polished performer. The crowd started to part and make room. A few applauded.

They pivoted and Sid lowered her into a spiral. Hera eased back into a forward inside death spiral. After two orbits, he pulled her up. His rental blades had the wrong rocker for spinning, and he had to constantly catch himself from falling. He let go of her hand and went slowly to the side to more applause.

She followed behind him as he sat on the bench. "Perfect fucking elements! Why'd you stop?"

He flicked open a boot strap. "Because I'm out of practice and these skates are crappy enough that I could get carried away and end up dropping you in front of everybody."

"Who cares?" she exclaimed. "I've been dropped plenty."

"Not by me," he said quietly. "Not by someone the University trusts with your safety."

She sat down beside him. "Fair enough. Let's get that dog."

**********

After they ate, Sidney ordered a Lyft that dropped them in the Square. He expected her to start walking toward the Yard and all the various Houses, but she led him across Mass Ave and turned south. They stopped in front of a modern building which loomed over the Widener Library. Sidney looked up. It had been constructed in distinct beautiful halves. One side was an ultraluxury hotel and the other side was condos probably just as posh.

He gave Hera a questioning look.

"Don't worry. I don't expect a goodnight kiss, not from a faculty member," she said.

"I'm not fac--" He stopped. If he was teaching, he actually was. He stared up at the building again, then at the entrance.

"Yep. This is where I live. Condo."

Sidney kept looking up.

"See that sign?" She pointed.

He couldn't miss it. It was a name that was known on every continent. Maybe Antarctica by now, who knew.

She laughed. "Guess what my mother's maiden name is."

He should have been surprised, but he wasn't. The figure skating world, the Harvard world, the suburban Boston world. These had all inured him to money and the implicit status and influence that money affords those who possess it. And the mindless acceptance of such privilege. He was tired of being used to it. He shrugged.

"Good for you. Well... night."

"Wait a minute," she said. "I plied you with chilidogs and cherry cokes for a reason. I want to skate with you."

He nodded. "Sure. We can skate. Anytime."

"No. I mean skate."

Oh. He shook his head. "Look, Hera. I'm out of shape. You're barely past being a novice. I have a degree to finish. So do you, come to think of it. Sorry. It's out of the question. Remember the quiz on Friday. Thanks for the chilidog."

"That pair I saw at the Club? It was you and Chaya. You don't have her anymore. But here I am."

"Can't live in the past," he said. He wanted to say 'Can't live in the past, kid,' but restrained himself and just said, "Good night."

He promptly turned and crossed Mass Ave. Cars braked and honked.

She must have sprinted up to her condo, because he heard the sliding of a door. Glancing back, he saw her on a third-floor balcony, leaning over the railing. Her red hair had come undone. It formed a spikey wind-blown crimson aura.

"I can do a triple Axel!" she shouted above the traffic noise. "I won silver in Geneva with someone who isn't half as good as you!"

He ignored her.

"This could be legendary! It could be a fucking movie!"

He mimed putting his hands over his ears.

"Someday soon you'll be sitting on your ass on your couch watching Emile Fucking Kusek on the podium! You going to let him win? You going to give up?"

This time he did put his hands over his ears as he entered Harvard Yard.

**********

It felt strange standing in a parking lot drinking beer in bright daylight.

"Is this even legal?" Sidney wondered.

Teddy pointed at several men who were lugging hockey bags into the rink. "Those guys are Boston cops. They're a division up, but they play a lot on our nights. They don't care. If we stay here long enough, after their game, they'll set up their coolers next to us and offer to share."

Fourth period in the sun was new and different. Sometimes after late games, they might not leave a rink until midnight. One night in Brockton they had hung in the lot until 4 am. They might dominate the fourth period in the moonlight, but in the day it felt... otherworldly. Even if the winter wind was blowing below freezing.

"Okay, Teddy said, "your turn."

"I thought a gentleman never kisses and tells."

"We don't want to know who the hell you've kissed. Besides, you're the one who just said that figure skaters get more ass than hockey players. So you're up. Start at the beginning."

Three beers, thought Sidney. That's all it takes for me to open my big mouth.

"Okay. Shelly."

"Fuck me," said Teddy a little enviously.

The goalie spoke up. "Can we get some pictures? I don't know these chicks."

"Mutual friends," Teddy said. "More mutual for some, apparently." He held clawed hands a foot away from his chest. The others nodded knowingly.

"June... oh, there was Sandra...." Sidney looked off into the distance, smiling. "Emory. Remember Emory."

"I remember her legs. Emory in shorts almost made me run over three teachers in the parking lot one morning."

One of the other guys opened a beer. "What kind of manwhore aftershave were you using, for Christs' sake?"

"No pheromones needed," Sidney said.

"I can use the word hormone in a sentence," the goalie observed. No one challenged him.

"I'd go on, but you wouldn't recognize the names."

"You bragging or complaining?" One of the listeners asked.

Sidney shrugged. "It's just the way it is. Competitions... everyone is amped. Hyper. Then when it's over, the women are warmed up... willing and very able."

"So how many times you boff those two babes you used to skate with?"

"Oh, hell no," Sidney said. "Pairs is like being married -- without the sex. The fastest way to bust up a team is to start fucking your partner."

The goalie finished his beer and tossed the can in a paper bag by the cooler. "You win. Where do I sign up to retrain for this new job?"

"You probably will have to wait until they allow checking in figure skating."

The goalie opened and sipped a fresh beer as he let that marinate. "Yeah -- that would rule."

**********

Pros and cons, she thought. Pros first:

She liked these kids, she really did. The money was fantastic, unexpected. A Godsend. She was here, in her element, doing what she loved to do, so....

The cons:

"No. No. No. No. Give it up now. Go home. Have a life. You already know the stress you'll be under. Why the hell would you even consider this?"

Hera and Sidney turned away from the big whiteboard upon which they were plotting a short program. Hera made notations in red; Sidney in blue.

They looked at Tess, then at each other.

"Just let me say," Sidney began, "that Herb Brooks you are not."

"I know," Tess almost cried. "I want to be up, I really do. I just... this is impossible. You realize that."

Hera shook her head. Sidney shook his head.

"Come on, you two. You have not worked together--"

"Frog Pond," Hera interrupted.

Tess ignored her. "It's three years until the Olympics. Some of your competitors have been together for a decade or more already. Sid's been off the ice for months. Hera, you've been in senior internationals what -- three times? No, I'm being paid under false pretenses. I should walk out now and save us all a lot of time and grief."

Sidney slowly wrote a big BELIEVE on the board.

Hera said, "You can do it, Tess. You are the best pairs coach...."

"You could dig up on short notice because everyone else was busy not teaching ten-year-olds?"

"Well, yes, but you are the best for us. You know us. You know what we can do. You can stick us together like two lumps of...."

"Play-Doh," Sidney offered.

"Yeah -- and mold us into a perfect team."

Tess sat down and cradled her head in her hands. "How did I let you talk me into this?"

Sidney pointed at Hera. "That's how."

Yeah, thought Tess. That and a whopping big check from her mother.

**********

As Paul served up caponata, Sidney showed them the printed list.

"Holland. France. New York." Evelyn read. "Mexico? London. Bulgaria. Thailand?"

"That's an aggressive schedule," Paul said. "Tess isn't worried that you'll drop dead of exhaustion?"

"Worried?" Sidney said. "She's counting on it. We have three years to prepare. Seems like a long time, but it's not. This year we'll be skating as often as we can. It's more like a three-year publicity campaign. We have to skate well and finish with high scores at enough stops. In three years, the International Committee makes our picks. We have to impress at the Nationals, and at the ISU Worlds, and at some of the Grand Prix events, to convince the Committee that we are one of the three best teams to represent the US at the Games. And that relies on US skaters doing well enough at the various competitions in the year or so before the Games that the ISU gives us three team slots."

JoJo had the whole time been uncharacteristically reserved, but she could restrain her tongue no longer. "She's a rich brat," she said quietly, directing her words down, into her barely-touched meal. "She's going to break your heart." And she stood up and went to her room.