Page 25 of Fire on the Ice

Oh.

I bite my lip because Maisy’s not really into public stuff, but . . . she’s been going to races with me. People have seen us hanging out. It’s not as if it’s asecretsecret. Right? I don’t want to be with someone who treats me like a dirty secret. Not for more than a one-night screw anyhow. I’m not something to be ashamed of. She didn’t seem too bent out of shape after we made out in the bar that first night. Nobody whose livelihood depends on performing in front of thousands of people can possibly be as self-conscious as she makes herself out to be.

Oh yeah? What if I could promise you an international lesbian lip-lock?

Maisy must be finishing up with her teeth because the girl is thorough, but it’s not as though she’s full-on going to the dentist. Though I wouldn’t put it past her to floss after every meal. I tap my foot a couple of times, but then my phone pings.

Can you? Promise, I mean? Because if I miss out on America’s Sweethearts and don’t have anything to show for it, my ass is getting fired.

Can I promise? I want to. But Maisy . . . well, Maisy doesn’t know what’s good for her career. She’s a damn good figure skater, obviously, but she’s got no flair. Hasn’t ever given anyone reason to pay attention to her, and even when she’s doing what she loves best, she may as well be performing a root canal. Determination I get, but there’s no passion, no oomph, nothing human there. So even if she doesn’t like it, this would be good for her image, too. She’ll thank me later when she’s got an endorsement deal with . . . I don’t know, whoever wants to be endorsed by Canadian figure skaters.

I guarantee it. If I don’t deliver, I’ll have a sex tape for you by the closing ceremony.

With who, I’m not sure, but I’ll figure something out. Best to deliver what I’ve promised despite the niggling guilt at the back of my brain.

Dude, you’d do that on a day ending in Y, but fine, I’ll be there. You better make it worth my while.

I text him back with a winky-kiss emoji and slide my cell back into my as Maisy comes out of the bathroom. She’s not only brushed her teeth but put on some eyeliner and mascara as well, maybe slicked a bit of gloss on her lips. Good. She needs to get ready for her close-up.

Maisy

Sometimes Blaze’s focus on timed events as the only sports worth watching can be tiring. Yes, there’s certainly artistry involved in going fast, and I have nothing but respect for guys like Miles Palmer who have been doing this for half their lives and are still at the top of their sport. Sadly, figure skaters aren’t built that way. We have to have the speed of a hockey player, the flexibility of a gymnast, the grace of a dancer, and the durability of a rugby player. And yet people think we just lace up our skates and look pretty. We do—look pretty—but we also kick some pretty serious ass and are pros at multitasking.

To be perfectly honest, sometimes I look down at the speed and strength sports. I understand there’s some stuff going on with their technique, too, but from the outside it seems a whole lot as though all they have to do is go fast or be strong. Whoop-de-doo. But I wouldn’t say that to Blaze because it would hurt her feelings.

So here we are at snowboard cross, watching people go fast. And of course Blaze likes it. It’s not so different from short track, but with boards strapped to the competitors’ feet instead of blades. Also, a variable track. To give credit where credit is due, it is fun to watch, though it’s frustrating you can’t see the whole course from any vantage point. I suppose that’s one of the advantages of competing on a rink.

It’s cold out, but luckily we’re prepared with our parkas and boots, hats and mittens. I feel likewe’re incognito because neither of us is wearing any team gear, though Blaze keeps looking around the crowd.

After the latest run of snowboarders flies past us and we cheer even though there isn’t a Canadian or an American in this heat, I elbow her. “Expecting someone?”

She’s so distracted craning her neck, she doesn’t hear me properly. “Hmm? What?”

“Are you expecting someone? You keep looking around like you’re waiting for someone. I hate to break it to you, but with that toque over your hair, the odds of you being recognized are not so good. If you want to be swarmed by your adoring fans, you’re going to have to take it off.”

I’m teasing, but I don’t get even a smile for my trouble. For being such a good-time girl, Blaze can be awfully serious, and I’m not sure why she’s doing so now. This is supposed to be fun. Is she seriously relying on me to remind her of that? This seems entirely backward. But what’s a girl to do?

I bump her hip, and when she turns, her face has gone back to the expression I’m more familiar with: excited, fun-loving, and yeah, a little devious.

“Sorry, sorry.” She puts an arm around my waist and I do my best not to recoil. If we were in private, by all means, but we’re in a crowd, and though we don’t exactly have spotlights on us, it wouldn’t surprise me if we were recognized. I like Blaze, I do, but I have enough on my plate without my father calling me up later and tsking at me for being out in public with “that girl.” Likely asking more questions about how I know her, why I know her, what am I doing with her when I should be putting in more practice hours because I clearly have some time on my hands and I should be devoting all waking hours to the only thing I’m good for, the only respectable way for me to present myself and ask for attention.

Before I can politely put a couple of inches of distance between us, at least as much as the crowd will afford, she’s pressing me forward.

“I want a better look.”

I feel as though we have a perfectly good view, and Blaze is tall so I don’t want to get much closer—she’ll no doubt block someone’s view if we move up too much, but she’s unlikely to be dissuaded, so I let her pull me along up to where the plastic netting keeps the spectators out of the circle at the bottom.

People are buzzing, and I realize it’s because we’ve reached the medal events. I feel guilty, but I don’t recognize any of the names coming up on the board. If it were women’s figure skating, or men’s, pairs, or ice dancing, I’d recognize most if not all the names. As it is, I clap and whoop when a Canadian flag pops up on the screen.

A few minutes later, we’re cheering wildly as the finalists make their way down the mountain. Snowboard cross reads like controlled chaos, and not all that controlled to be honest. They have to stay within the boundaries of the course but aside from that, it doesn’t seem to me like there are any rules at all. It’s still fun to watch the women fly over the obstacles, and maybe more so—because skaters well know how fricking hard it is—land the damn things.

As the small crowd comes racing toward us, one of the girls takes a turn too sharp, and wipes the hell out. The crowd, including me and Blaze, gives a collective wince and sucking of air between our teeth. That blows. To be so close to glory, have one wrong step and tank it all. I don’t know if Blaze feels the same way, but for me watching people spill is particularly painful. Not just the empathy, but also I feel a phantom gut punch—how close are we every single time we go out on the ice to having the exact same thing happen? So close. Too close. One wrong move, and it’s all over. Everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve sacrificed for, and it’s gone in the blink of an eye. It’s enough to make a person want to puke.

Instead, I cheer for the medalists who are crossing the finish line. A Finn, a Brit, and an Austrian. The Canadian and the American slide in close afterward, but finish out of the medals, and that’s got to hurt. That’s it. It’s over. No do-overs, no take-backsies, no “hold on a second, I finally figured out that third jump.” It’s . . . done. And unlike the individual events where you don’t have to come face to face with your competitors in the moments so soon after a race, the women are hugging in various permutations. Some celebratory, but others more commiserating. The most awkward embraces are between medalists and non, which I get. A fraction of a second makes all the difference in the world.

The gold medalist and the silver are almost right in front of where we’re standing in the oval, and basically crash into each other and fall to the ground while still being strapped to their boards. How . . . unrefined. Though the snowboarders have a reputation for being downright crude, so this shouldn’t surprise me at all.

What does surprise me is an arm around my waist, and when I turn to protest, because,oh-my-god-people-are-watching,my protests are swallowed. By Blaze’s mouth. What the hell?

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