Page 28 of Fire on the Ice

There’s about a hundred different angles of it, and I’ve squinted at every single one trying to figure out how bad the damage is. Probably not as bad as it looks because head wounds bleed like crazy, but still—a fucking head wound, and so close to her eye that I’m still not sure it won’t have an effect on her vision. Damn Blaze and her vain refusal to wear the safety glasses. She’ll say it’s for vision purposes, but that’s a goddamn lie. It’s because if she wore them, more of her face would be obscured.

It’s almost an hour that I pace and wait and definitely don’t contact Blaze. But finally one of the announcers comes on between heats and tells us that Blaze Bellamy’s wound is being treated by a full staff of medical professionals, and though it will require stitches, there should be no long-term effects.

They show a photo of her, and never have I seen someone so delighted to have rivulets of blood coursing over the curves of their face. She looks elated and the announcer is outright perplexed by her glee. “I’m wondering, Fred, if perhaps Bellamy hit her head harder than it at first appeared. She looks way too happy for someone who got knocked out of her second to last race after a disappointing showing here in Denver.”

The announcer clearly has no idea who he’s dealing with.

I understand that it’s difficult to get commentators who are experts on every single last sport, especially the more obscure ones, but might they be able to give them a crash course on how not to say stupid and insulting things? Yes, I’m sure on some level Blaze is disappointed because if you’re good enough to be here, you’re good enough to be disappointed about not winning, but I’d like to see this joker stand up on a pair of her skates, never mind make it once around the track with a modicum of speed or grace. Jerk probably wouldn’t be able to lace the things up without whining about his hands hurting.

“We are hearing that Bellamy will be participating in her final event, which is the 3,000-meter relay. That event is taking place in two days, and will give the veteran her final shot at glory.”

I ought to take that guy’s glory and shove it up his . . .

Instead, I contemplate exactly how many medical professionals’ sound advice Blaze will be ignoring to take her last shot. Probably lots.

I’m still alternately fretting over her and chastising her in my head when my cell rings. I answer, half-hoping but ultimately knowing it won’t be her. I made sure of that.

“Maisy, it’s your father.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“You sound out of breath, are you at practice? Conditioning? You shouldn’t answer your phone when you’re training, it’s—”

“I’m fine, Dad. Just in my suite watching some of the other events on my laptop, that’s all.”

“Why aren’t you with your team and your coach? You should be at the rink, getting—”

Yes, yes, everything I do is wrong. I should be practicing, but if I’m practicing, I shouldn’t answer the phone, but you can be sure if I hadn’t answered the phone, I would’ve gotten a very uptight message about where was I and I should always answer my parent’ calls, otherwise they worry. I’ve become used to not being able to win.

“We have really limited ice time between everyone who needs practice spots and also the other competitions, and I already had conditioning with my team this morning. Really, I’m good.”

There’s a pause as though he doesn’t believe me, because of course he doesn’t, and I can hear my mother in the background, asking the same questions he’s already asked of me. Seriously, these people are exhausting.

“We wanted to speak with you before your program tomorrow.” And here it really comes. Most parents would be calling to wish their child good luck, maybe try to thrust a few last-minute reminders upon them, and hopefully assure them that no matter what happens, Mom and Dad love them and are proud. My parents are not most parents.

“You need to focus on your elegance. Don’t be so . . . athletic.” Yep, because that’s a terrible thing for a SIG athlete to be. Athletic. “The judges don’t care if you can land a triple axel if you can’t charm them. We’ve done what we can with your costuming to make you look more refined, but you can’t be such a show-off.”

I wish Blaze were here. Not because she’d be able to fuck this conversation right out of my brain when it’s over, but because I’d like someone here to roll my eyes at, and offer a voice that’s a counterpoint that’s not only loud but one that I respect and from someone who seems to like me precisely as I am. Would that be so very awful? But I’m angry at her for trying to make me into something I’m not, as surely as my parents have tried to shape me for my whole life. Too much this, not enough that.

My dad is continuing to lecture me on how to be refined and graceful. I could hang up, but it’ll be easier to tune him out, tell him when he’s finished I’ll do my very best, and yes, of course, I’ll be polite to the reporters, smile and wave to my fans, and keep control of my expression when my scores are announced.

“You know it’s not too late—it’s never too late—to change your program. Maybe a double axel instead a triple. Give you more time to focus on being elegant, amiable. Maybe this time . . .”

He trails off and I can see what he’s thinking: maybe this time I’ll be the daughter they want.

“Don’t disappoint us, Maisy.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, because would it really be so awful of him to assume that I won’t? “I will do my very best, I promise. Goodbye, Dad.”

Chapter Twelve

Blaze

How dead would I be if Maisy knew I was here? Super dead or just a little bit dead? Maisy’s pretty thorough, so I’m guessing like really dead.

Despite that, I’m here. I’m not known for my caution or my strong sense of self-preservation, but I’m not a moron. I’ll still hide. Hat pulled down over my head—most importantly my hair—and I keep fucking quiet. No yelling or cheering, sitting here with the people next to me giving me serious side-eye because I’m biting my thumb to keep from yelling or pumping a fist when other skaters make mistakes.

I am by no means an expert, and figure skating is far more complex than speed skating so I haven’t been able to pick up even the basics really, but I know falling isn’t good. Which is why I get so excited when the other skaters do it. And I have had to sit through a lot of skaters. They go one at a freaking time, and there are thirty of them. Of course Maisy is scheduled to be toward the end of the line-up. What I wouldn’t give to have all thirty of them skating all at once, and have part of the competition be that they had to avoid each other while pulling off all those twirls and tricks. No, wait—that Maisy would definitely toe-pick me for. Spins and jumps.

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