Page 283 of Well Played

Vesper

I groanwhen the alarm clock goes off at four for the fifth day in a row. Ever since meeting Nicolette last Thursday, I’ve been training hard. Too hard.

There’s a fine line between being dedicated and driven and being obsessed, and this week I’ve definitely fallen into the latter category. I can’t help it. Nicolette’s words struck a nerve. Already I’ve been feeling the pressure to qualify this year, and her well-placed jibes just confirmed that everyone is thinking the same thing as me: I might be too old to be doing this.

Logically, I know that there are skaters in their mid- to late-twenties who have more than thriving careers. They earn their gold medals and their titles. But those people are incredibly lucky—something I’ve never been.

So I panic-booked the rink and locked myself away for private practices, using both early-mornings and mid-afternoons, logging far more hours than Dell would deem healthy or fair on the others who need the space, too.

I’ve not even seen Nicolette at the rink. Does she think that she doesn’t need to train because the semester hasn’t started yet? Or has she gone down and booked the Arena ice rink?

The first round of qualifiers for the British Championships is in less than two weeks, and I’ve got to make sure my new program is perfectly polished if I’m going to stand out. Especially with Nicolette competing this year. I don’t know if she’ll be qualifying this month or in the second event next month, but I need to be ready, regardless.

My mind is racing with the new season approaching. It feels like I’ve wasted months getting my technical skills back up to my best when I should have improved by now. Everything is happening so fast.

Breathe. Gotta breathe. Dell’s right. I’ve got this.

I roll out of bed and quickly dress in my practice gear, grabbing my skate bag and car keys as I quietly creep out of my shared house. My housemates are athletes as well, but they’re not skaters. The lucky devils get to sleep in most mornings because they don’t need to fight for time on the ice. Sometimes I’m envious of them, but I know it’ll be worth it. It has to be worth it.

It doesn’t take too long to drive onto campus and park near the rink, even with stopping at the twenty-four-hour coffee place en route. I could easily walk the short distance, but my parents don’t like the idea of mewalking the streets in the early hours. I told them that they make it sound like I’m a prostitute, but they didn’t care. They insisted on buying me the car, and on me actually using it. It’s fine. The drive means I don’t waste any time on the ice.

I balance the two coffees in one hand and use the other to open the door to the rink.

“There’s my favourite lass,” Old Joe, the caretaker, says whilst giving me his usual toothy but gappy grin.

“Yeah, yeah, I bet you say that to all the girls who bring you caffeine,” I reply with a laugh and a wink.

“Nonsense. None of them get it just right like you do.”

I pass him his coffee, smiling to myself that he doesn’t know that the secret to his amazing coffee is a shot of caramel, because he’d never agree to any ofthat fancy shit.

“Guard the ice for me while I warm up?” I ask.

“Always do, lovely lassie.”

I blow him a grateful kiss and head upstairs to the small on-site gym to stretch and warm up on the ballet barre. I take professional ballet classes twice a week after school, but my ballet teacher is on holiday at the moment, so this will have to do for the next few weeks.

An hour of ballet later, my limbs are nice and supple and ready for the rink. I don’t need to worry about arseholes sneaking in to steal my ice time, because my coffee bribe encourages Joe to guard the ice for me. After a few tried it last year and he chased them off with a broom—or the Zamboni if they actually made it onto the ice—my competitors got the message. You want time on the rink? You book your own. I don’t share my space unless I have to, and getting up at four thirty usually guarantees me peace. Who knows with Nicolette around now, though, even if she doesn’t strike me as an early riser?

In just my training gear, I slip downstairs, carrying my skates. When I get to the side of the rink, I pull my boots on and lace up, remove the blade protectors, and step out onto the ice. Sometimes, I swear Old Joe gets here even earlier to smooth it for me. I’ve told him it’s always absolutely fine from the previous night, but there is something magical about skating on the mirrored glass shine and being the first to make my mark.

This morning, however, the hockey goals are still up from the kids’ class last night. They’re easy to dodge, so I don’t worry about getting them removed for my early morning sessions likethis. It’s rare for my routines to take me too close to them, anyway.

I complete my laps and take to the centre circle to begin a run through of one of my older routines. I need to be working on new stuff for my competitions, but with my ballet teacher—who acts as my choreographer—away, I’ll save trying out new moves until Dell joins me. The last thing I want is to have a fall and bleed out on the ice before anyone finds me. Joe knows to leave me alone out here, so he wouldn’t think to check on me.

The music begins and the opening bars of “Edge of Seventeen” by Stevie Nicks begin to play, and I begin the stationary dance element of my routine. The movements come to me as easy as breathing, but that doesn’t mean they themselves are easy. Dancers and figure skaters have to work twice as hard as other athletes to make their movements look elegant and effortless, and yet we’re rarely considered serious competitors in sport next to the jocks and their team games.

Even swimmers garner more respect than us.

The breaking point for me with my old coach was when she wanted me to skate during the breaks of ice hockey matches like some fucking cheerleader on ice.

I’d never demean myself in such a way.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I push off on my right foot, lap the rink and launch myself into my first jump, a triple toe.

A wolf whistle rings out, startling me, and I pop the jump, landing awkwardly.

“Damn,” someone drawls, and I get the distinct impression they’re taking the piss.

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