Page 31 of Fire on the Ice

Eventually the scores come up, and they’re . . . far better than I was expecting. I suppose they couldn’t penalize me too much since all the elements I did include were done almost flawlessly. Except that damn wobble after my triple axel. But I pulled that off at a point in my program when most women wouldn’t have been able to land a double.

149.17, which brings my overall to 217.06. That could be good enough to medal. It would have been at the last SIGs. Bronze, but a medal still. The rest depends on the remaining skaters. Six to go and I’ll learn my fate, how I’ll be remembered in the history books.

Blaze

It is absolute torture sitting here, waiting. I would like for these people to skate faster, but noooo, they’re going to take precisely the amount of time allotted. At least I didn’t have to suffer through another warm-up and ice-resurfacing. I would have lost my fucking marbles all over the ice, and then it would’ve taken even longer.

. . . It’s possible patience isn’t my strong suit.

Not to mention that after Maisy’s performance, most of the programs seem dull and lifeless. Pretty, sure, but I’m not the only one who seems to feel like the next few skaters are kind of letdowns. I feel a little bad about it because it’s not as if they had any way of knowing what Maisy was going to pull—none of us did—so I don’t heckle. Also, I’m pretty sure that’s not how figure skating works. Unfortunately. So I sit on my hands and literally bite my tongue—sometimes the insides of my cheeks—to keep from saying anything.

Skater after skater goes, and I keep holding my breath, waiting for Maisy to get knocked out. I don’t want her to. I’m far from an expert in figure skating, but even I know that what she did was a huge risk. I want it to pay off. It’s got nothing to do with me, but somehow I can’t help feeling that if taking this chance pays off, she might be more willing to take chances with me, too.

The last three skaters are the worst, and I can only imagine what Maisy must be going through if I feel as if the anxiety is going to rip out of my body. They’re the last three people on earth who could stand between Maisy and a medal. I don’t want to be an asshole, but I kinda hope all of them bite it. Not in way that will injure them, just, you know, leave a Maisy-shaped hole on the podium for her to slip on into. Not slip. That makes it sound like she didn’t put in any effort, and hoo-boy did she. More like punch and kick, head-butt, and goddamn backflip her way onto the podium. She’s incredible.

The third-to-last skater nails her program, bumps Maisy down to second in the standings, and my heart is in my throat. Watching this is worse than waiting for my own results, I swear. Partly because if I screw up my races, yeah, it frigging sucks, but I also still have for better or for worse, my hair, my magazine shoots, my notoriety. This is all Maisy has, and goddammit, I want her to hold onto it.

Little Miss second-to-last gets up, and she’s this ridiculous Russian skater, who I swear to god isn’t even real. She’s that good. Even not knowing jackshit about the sport, I can tell she’s phenomenal, and she’s got a jam-packed program that she executes flawlessly. Bully for her, but shit fuck and damn for Maisy. Except the judges must’ve seen something I didn’t, because her score comes up, and she and Maisy are now tied. Motherfucking tied.

Gold, two silvers. That’s it. No room for a bronze. But unless something truly bizarre happens—always a possibility at the SIGs—Maisy’s getting a medal. It remains to be seen whether it’s silver or bronze, but she won’t be going home empty-handed.

It almost doesn’t matter to me how the last skater does, but because it apparently matters to other people I try to keep my excitement to myself. It’s not easy. I feel like a balloon, filled, filled, filled until I’m about to pop. If this South Korean could get her stuff over with, that’d be great. Then I can start breathing again. And composing my text. A lot of it would be the same, but not all of it. Besides, my fingers are all twisted up in the edge of my sweater, and I can’t pry them off the yarn to type anything into my phone.

It’s three minutes into her program, and I can tell from the sounds in the arena that even though it looks pretty damn perfect to me, the woman on the ice hasn’t been flawless. And then, in a second that’s hard to miss, she falls. Fucks up her landing on a jump maybe she shouldn’t have been doing so late in the program—see, Maisy, Idolisten when you talk about figure skating.If I’d paid more attention, I might know if that’s good enough to take her out of contention for a silver, bumping Maisy and the Russian down to a tie for bronze. Unless I’m completely off base, no way is this program grounds for a gold.

The South Korean woman finishes up her program, and then we all have to wait while the judges tally up their shit. This is why I like going to races. Unless it’s short track or unless something really frigging weird happens, you know right away. I don’t think my heart can take this. But eventually the numbers flash on the screen, and I know what my girl’s got.

That shiny silver is going to look phenomenal on her, but not as good as that smile when she’d finished her program, not even knowing the score.

Maisy

Silver.

I’m getting a silver medal. It’s . . . I’m not going to say unbelievable. That’s unkind to myself. Unexpected, yes, but . . . It’s all I can do to keep from pumping a fist in the air and shouting, pointing at my coach, and FaceTiming my parents to tell them to suck it. Which would be rude and ungrateful, and I’m not either of those things, but still. A little behind the scenes I-told-you-so never hurt anyone.

There’s a whirlwind of press and staff and I don’t even know who, talking at me, shoving microphones in my face, and wanting to ask me questions. It happens in a blur, and when I finally find a second to go to the bathroom, I tug my phone out of my pocket while sitting in the stall. Not classy, but it’s the only place I can reasonably escape from all the hubbub. Of course there’s a voicemail from my parents, saying god knows what. Instead, I opt to click on my texts, hoping the message blinking on it is from Blaze.

And because she’s Blaze, and she doesn’t get so tied up and twisted by these things, of course it is.

\o/

This is a drawing. It could be a lot of things. For example, it could be:

1. The silver medal that’s going around your neck at the medal ceremony later. You’re so fucking awesome, Mais. That’s what I was talking about. You were fantastic out there, and even if my approval doesn’t mean anything to you (and there’s no reason it should), I’m going to say it anyway. I am so proud of you. Not for winning the medal, which of course is cool, but for taking a chance and skating the way you wanted to. You knocked me out.

2. Me celebrating exactly how badass you are—in the privacy of. . . . . . well, to be completely honest, I only managed to make it out of the arena before I made a scene but not that much farther. So, if you heard a person cheering like whoa outside, that was probably me. Don’t worry, I didn’t say your name. Even though I wanted to. Because you are awesomesauce.

3. My head between your legs because we’ve still got a few more days and I’d really like it if you would forgive me. I know I screwed up and I apologize and will apologize some more, and it might take you some time to decide because you’re not as impulsive as I am, but it would make me the happiest girl on earth if we could have these last few days together. And if you’re not sure yet, how about you can think about it while I go down on you? I’ve heard ladyhead is super helpful with tough decisions like whether or not you want to forgive the idiot girl who’s completely infatuated with you and would like to give you many, many orgasms.

\o/

Oh my god. I should probably delete this, because if anyone found it, it’d be mortifying. But it’s just so Blaze, and so adorable, and so—

My screen flashes, taking away her delightfully ludicrous text message. Yes, right, parents. They’d probably like to speak with me. I would rather not right now, but I suspect they don’t give a shit.

“Hi.”

“Maisy.”

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