Chapter Text
The searing cold crept into every tiny gap it could find in his clothes. The delicate skin on his cheeks and nose turned pink, and his fingers grew number the longer the young man stayed in the sub-zero temperature. Dennis hurried up the slippery stairs, which had obviously frozen quite solidly overnight. His feet slid, his thin fingers barely managing to grab the railing to stop Whitaker from tumbling down and breaking several bones in his body. After a struggle, the young man finally reached the doors of the sports complex, hurrying to take shelter inside from the biting snow. The boy's blue eyes looked around in awe. This was definitely incomparable to the local rink in Nebraska his parents used to take him to when he was younger. Here, you could see recent renovations, new furniture, and, definitely, posters and photos of champions who had trained at this rink, some of whom still practiced here. Whitaker still couldn't quite believe that he would be training here now.
"Young man, can I help you?" The voice of a not particularly friendly-looking security guard came from somewhere to the side.
The young man's huge eyes looked at the man with some fear. Obviously, Dennis hadn't noticed him at first, so now he felt embarrassment creep into his body, seizing his chest and stealing his breath. The young man felt the blood rush to his ears, causing an extra flush of heat in his body. He must have looked so strange from the outside. Like some kind of fanatic, no less. Whitaker moved closer to the men, gradually making out the second guy as well. The first was tall and quite sturdy, wearing a uniform, obviously a security guard. The second was slightly shorter, fuller, but in the uniform of a rink worker.
"Good morning!" The boy gifted the men with a sincere and sunny, albeit slightly embarrassed, smile. "I'm new here, well... I guess you figured that out. A new student in Mr. Robinavitch's team and..."
"Athlete," the shorter guy interrupted him with a mocking smile.
"Excuse me?" Dennis didn't understand, looking at the man.
"Robby doesn't call his charges students; you're his new athlete. A figure skater, if you prefer," the man explained, while the second, the guard, eyed him with a smirk.
"Athlete, right..." Whitaker repeated, nodding. "Could you tell me where the locker room is? My practice starts soon, and I wouldn't want to be late on my very first day..."
"Sure." Maybe the mocking smiles on their faces were an initial omen of trouble, but right now Dennis didn't pay them the necessary attention.
The young man listened carefully to the directions to the men's locker room, memorizing every word and every turn. His sports bag with skates hung from his shoulder, weighing him down, and the excitement of his first practice with a renowned coach spurred him on. The boy sincerely thanked the men before heading further into the complex following their directions. His gaze slid along the walls of the building, absorbing every poster, every signature into his memory. He remembered everything as if he might be here for the last time. As if Coach Robinavitch might actually see Dennis and send him back home across the country. Until now, all the auditions had been conducted by Coach Abbot, who assured him that his decision was also Coach Robinavitch's decision. Was that really true? Should Dennis really not be worrying?
Lost in his own thoughts, Whitaker didn't even notice his feet taking him along the route he'd been told earlier. Dennis saw a door with large symbols indicating a locker room. His thin wrist was already reaching for the door handle, wanting to open it, but someone on the other side was faster. The door opened, and out of the room slipped... a girl? Dennis looked at her in surprise for a moment, genuinely thinking he had made a mistake. Maybe he took a wrong turn somewhere or...
"Can I help you somehow?" The girl looked at him suspiciously, like he was a pervert. Only then did Dennis truly realize how it looked. Him, a grown guy, standing right by the door of what was obviously the women's locker room and... what? Peeping? Eavesdropping? God...
"Uh... the guard at the entrance... said the men's locker room was here," he said slowly, pointing a thumb over his shoulder, as if the guard was standing there, though there was only an empty corridor.
"Ahmed and Donnie at it again?" the girl asked wearily, looking at the frightened and confused guy. "This is the women's locker room. The men's is in the other wing. That's why there are no gender identifiers here. Are you new?"
The blond nodded, looking at the girl. He looked exactly like a lost puppy that had been kicked and thrown out on the street. The female skater in front of him sighed tiredly and glanced at the time on her phone. There were still ten minutes before practice started, so she had plenty of time to walk the guy to the men's locker room. She pursed her lips and, obviously already regretting this waste of her time, motioned forward with her hand.
"Come on, I'll walk you. My name is Samira," she said and immediately walked ahead, not giving the guy a chance to protest her act of kindness. "So you're training here now? Who's your coach? Dana?"
"Oh, no... I was taken on by Coach Robinavitch and Coach Abbot," he said, bewildered, hurrying after the girl.
"Robby takes guys?" Mohan stopped abruptly, looking at the guy with a surprised expression. "That's... unusual."
"Yes, I also thought I had no chance when I came for the tryouts," the guy nodded, looking at the dark-haired girl. "I was the only guy among dozens of girls..."
"Did Robby himself approve you?" Samira asked carefully, continuing to walk slowly beside him.
"Oh, no... Coach Abbot evaluated me," he answered calmly, seeing the bewilderment on the other's face. "I understand how it looks, and... I'm ready to go home today if necessary."
"Oh, no..." Mohan gathered herself quickly and shook her head. "If you're here, it means Robby and Jack made the decision to accept you together. They don't make unilateral decisions."
The boy's sky-blue eyes looked at the girl with gratitude. Maybe she hadn't completely extinguished the skater's anxiety, but she had definitely tempered the fervor of his thoughts a little, allowing him to relax somewhat. Samira led him to the opposite wing, where a door with the exact same locker room symbols and, likewise, no gender identifiers was visible. Dennis nodded to her once more in thanks.
"To get to the ice, you need to go back to the junction; there will be big double doors there. They lead out to the rink itself. They have a big scoreboard, so you can't miss it," an encouraging final smile, and the dark-haired girl left without even waiting for Dennis's reply.
"Thank you."
The meek gratitude dissolved in the empty corridor before, taking a deep breath, the guy entered the locker room. It was a bit stuffy inside, the windows barely cracked open for ventilation. The guy's gaze slid over the benches near the lockers. Most of them were open and unoccupied, which was obvious, since none of the currently working coaches trained male singles skaters. Well, Dennis was now the exception.
He saw a tall guy, already almost fully ready for practice. In the dark hair and sturdy build, he recognized Frank Langdon, a pairs skater who also trained under Robinavitch. Dennis had seen a few of his programs and was always amazed at how pairs skaters weren't afraid to take responsibility not only for their own safety and health on the ice, but also for the safety and health of their partner. Maybe if they had more time, he would have definitely started a conversation with him now and discussed it all, but time was tight, and Whitaker hurried to change for practice.
He already had a warm tracksuit on; all that was left for the guy to do was put on his skates. He tossed his sports bag onto a bench and hurried to pull out his own skates. Carefully, he placed them on the floor and kicked off his sneakers, rushing to change. The skates looked like they should have ended up in a landfill long ago. The laces had been replaced a hundred times, and the ones on now seemed to be living out their last sessions. Only the blades were attached firmly, and even they seemed close to the end of their life, considering the state of the boot. A whistle from the side distracted Dennis, making his blue eyes look up at Frank.
"You should have changed your skates a long time ago, pal," Langdon stated the obvious, looking at the guy's skates.
"Uh... oh, they're not as bad as they look," the young man defended himself, glancing at the worn-out boot leather. "Really."
"This isn't something to joke about, kid," the older one shook his head, looking judgmental. "One wrong jump and you'll break your legs."
"It's fine, really," the skater defended himself again, standing up in his now-laced skates, which fit snugly on his feet. "I'm Dennis... Dennis Whitaker."
"Robby's new and first singles man skater, yeah," Langdon nodded, shaking the other's hand. "I've heard."
The blond shrank back, pursing his lips. He sincerely hoped the rumors were good, but he couldn't be one hundred percent sure. The skater glanced at the time and his eyes widened, realizing they were already late. Dennis looked frightened at Frank, about to say something, but the latter just motioned with his hand, showing the way to the rink. The unfamiliar territory was still partly frightening, and such "help" now made him wary. The realization that he wasn't being lied to only came when he saw a sign indicating that it was indeed the way to the ice arena.
Dennis had never trained at such a large rink. He was truly amazed by its size, and it even scared him a little. There was plenty of space for all the skaters, but what if he didn't hear something? What if he was too far from the coach? Anxiety whispered too many thoughts in his ear, making him shy away and get frankly lost. His sky-blue gaze latched onto the coaches. Robinavitch and Abbot were by the boards, while on the other side, already on the ice, stood Trinity Santos. Their main hope of recent seasons, the European champion, national champion, and simply an incredibly talented skater. Dennis stared at her until he heard Coach Abbot's voice.
"Whitaker, get on the ice, and let's get acquainted," the voice was almost sobering, making him start.
At that moment, he didn't even think. He was told he had to get on the ice, so he got on. His thin fingers grabbed the boards, and the skate blade lowered onto the ice, or rather... A loud thud echoed through the arena, attracting everyone's attention. Robinavitch's brown eyes stared for a while at the body that had fallen on the ice before he looked at Jack with a questioning gaze.
"The kid got nervous," the man defended him, looking at Michael. "Give him a chance."
Shame. Not pain, not fear, not cold. Shame was exactly what Dennis felt lying on the ice. He had completely forgotten to take the guards off his blades, so as soon as he stepped onto the ice, he plopped down like an anchor to the bottom. A chuckle was heard from somewhere to the side before Whitaker allowed himself to open his eyes and look at the ceiling. Standing over him was that very Trinity Santos, offering him her hand. That was it. His figure skating career was over. After such a disgrace, the guy would definitely run away from practice, go back to Nebraska, or somewhere even farther. Somewhere where no one would ever see him again. Dennis would definitely live as a hermit, remembering his shame for the rest of his life.
"Take the guards off him first," Coach Robby's voice came from the side, making Trinity laugh again.
Whitaker, without waiting for the girl to decide to follow the coach's hint, got up abruptly. Not on his feet, but at least into a sitting position, pulling the guards off the blades, and only then fully rising from the ice to his feet, brushing himself off.
"You okay?" the girl asked with a smile on her face, to which the guy just nodded frantically.
"Head intact?" the coach's voice drew attention, and Dennis finally lifted his gaze to Robinavitch, swallowing hard.
"Y-yes, I'm fine," he said in a trembling voice, moving a little closer. He shuddered all over when the man's fingers pulled him closer to the boards, gripping his forearm. Dennis froze completely, having no idea what to do or how to act. No one had ever grabbed him so unceremoniously before. Someone else's fingers slid from his forearm to the back of his head, to the golden curls at the back. Whitaker swallowed hard, feeling the warmth of another's hands, but said nothing. He didn't know what the coach wanted to feel for on his head, but he didn't interfere, afraid to move.
The other's touch disappeared as abruptly as it had appeared. Dennis swallowed hard and moved half a meter away from the boards, trying to understand his feelings. He didn't raise his eyes to the coach, feeling only shame. Well, yeah, Dennis, you couldn't have made a better first impression. The warmth of someone else's hands was still felt on the back of his head, even when the other skaters gathered by the boards, ready to listen to the coach. Dennis looked around, noticing both new and familiar faces. Furthest away stood Frank Langdon, who seemed to have come out definitely later than everyone else. Next to him stood a fair-haired girl the guy hadn't seen before. Not under Robinavitch's tutelage, nor, in principle, at international competitions. A bit closer to Whitaker also stood a brunette whom Dennis might have seen at junior championships last year. I think her name was Joy. And right next to him, almost arm in arm, stood Trinity Santos herself.
"Don't worry, Huckleberry," Trinity said quietly, glancing at the guy out of the corner of her eye. "Half a practice, a few falls by the couple behind you, and everyone will forget about you."
Without thinking at all about tact or any kind of propriety, the guy started to turn around, but was almost immediately pulled back by the girl. Behind them, under the tutelage of Baran Al-Hashimi, a pair of sports dancers was already training. Dennis knew them well from international competitions, but especially well from the girl skating there. Victoria Javadi was a young genius who was predicted to have an incredible career as a skater. Her glide was softer than a butterfly's flutter, and her jumps were so soft, as if the ice was no harder than cotton candy. In Whitaker's humble opinion, her partner, James Ogilvie, only hindered her. Actually, Dennis thought Victoria would be truly successful as a singles skater, but they would never know.
The blade slid over the thin layer of freshly resurfaced ice, while her brown gaze continually scanned the area behind, calculating a spot for the throw. The man's hands precisely gripped her thin waist, while his torso leaned almost by inertia. Inhale, lungs completely filled with oxygen. Exhale, along with it went all fear and doubt in her partner. One second. Javadi pushed off the ice surface, allowing the guy to throw her into the air. Several rotations around her axis in the air and... a loud crash from the impact echoed across the rink. All the skaters turned around at the sound at once, watching as the girl's thin figure lay on the ice, practically touching the boards.
"Remind me every day to thank God I didn't go into pairs," Santos said quietly, yet it was still clearly audible in the silence of their group. She caught a bewildered look from the blonde standing nearby, just shrugging.
"Couldn't find a poor soul capable of putting up with you," Langdon noted quietly under his breath, which was frankly asking for it.
"Changed partners every season, just like you," the girl quipped, tilting her head.
"Basta," Robinavitch said calmly but strictly, looking at his students.
Despite both skaters looking quite headstrong and obviously getting riled up at the drop of a hat, as soon as Robby said "enough," they instantly fell silent, pretending the spat never happened. Trinity's gaze dropped to the ice, nervously sliding her blades, while Frank simply looked away, as if he had nothing to do with it. Robinavitch looked first at one, then the other, to make sure they had calmed down. Only when silence emanated from both skaters did he finally shift his gaze to the new kids, examining each one.
"I welcome you all. My name is Michael Robinavitch, but you can all just call me Robby. For most of you, this is your first practice, both with me and on this ice. We will learn to get used to each other, and you must also get used to the scale of the rink, as many of you haven't trained in sports complexes like this before," the man looked at Dennis, then shifted his gaze to Joy, and finally gave an encouraging look to Mel. "Let's get to know each other, if you don't mind. Does any of the new kids want to talk about themselves?"
"Hi everyone!" Melissa was the first to speak up, quite optimistically and cheerfully, looking at her groupmates. "My name is Melissa King, but you can just call me Mel. I'm twenty-two, I've been skating in pairs for about six years, but before that I was a singles skater. So..."
"Lovely," Trin whispered quietly under her breath, earning a disapproving cough from Robby in her direction. The man's hand pulled her by the elbow closer to the boards and, accordingly, to him, so the girl would keep quiet.
"Dennis Whitaker, eighteen, singles skater," the guy said briefly and sheepishly.
His gaze caught how the man's fingers squeezed Trinity's elbow, and she, in turn, reacted absolutely not at all. Should Whitaker be prepared for his new coach to be tactile? Or was that only with closer athletes he had raised from childhood? Dennis knew Santos had come under the wing of the renowned coach as a tiny junior, barely peeking over the high rink boards. How close were they? Unnecessary thoughts crept into his head, distracting Dennis.
"Joy. Singles skater, seventeen," the third and last newbie in the team said quite dryly.
"Excellent. I think you already know about Trinity and Frank, they don't need to introduce themselves," removing his hand from the singles skater's elbow, Robby clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. "Now I want you to skate the space, warm up, while I watch. Be careful, try not to hit the athletes from the other group."
"Not like there are that many of them," Santos quietly sarcasmed, but still received a light slap on the thigh from the man.
First, pushing off the boards into free skating, went Santos. Her skates, like an extension of their owner's legs, glided across the rink surface, starting to pick up speed. Following her, starting to uncertainly navigate the ice space, Joy began to gain speed. After a few seconds, Dennis joined the warm-up, skating a bit uncertainly closer to the boards, his legs trembling slightly. Robinavitch's brown eyes watched how the laces weren't holding the skater's foot tightly enough in the boot. The man shook his head at his own thoughts, observing the singles skater's movements.
Last to remain near the coaches were Mel and Langdon. Frank carefully offered his hand to his partner, while Mel's thin fingers softly lay in his palm. A half-turn, and the girl ended up with her back near the man's chest. She looked carefully ahead at the ice, and then at their feet. Slow, gliding movements, before they began to establish a common tempo. Frank carefully placed his second hand on the girl's waist, but all movement abruptly stopped. Melissa stopped them, removing the hand from her body.
"Sorry, I..." Langdon tried to justify himself, though he didn't understand what he was guilty of.
The green eyes of the brown-haired girl looked at the man for a while before she sighed and returned to position. Gently, she took his palms, guiding and placing them as she felt them. The palm that rested on her body was exactly on her hip. Not closer to the thigh and not closer to the chest. Exactly in the middle. The second, which held her thin maiden hand, felt a firm grip, before Mel started moving again in the simplest step sequence.
The warmth from Frank's palm spread across her skin, starting from the point of contact and rippling further in waves. It was cool at the rink, but not enough for the girl to focus on it so pointedly. She had partners before, and they often performed even more intimate content, but... getting used to the touch of someone else's hands was almost torture every time. She memorized the size of the brunet's palm, the caution with which he gripped the skin on her hip, and how he was afraid to squeeze a little harder. She felt the tension in his muscles and the attentiveness with which he looked at her, rather than at the ice ahead.
"If you look at me instead of ahead, we might crash into someone," King noted quietly, stopping again. "You're the man; you lead the step sequence. You need to watch the ice."
"Yes... of course," the blue-eyed nodded, trying for now to just be polite.
He had never encountered pairs skaters with experience behaving... like this. Girls coming from singles—yes, but those who had already skated in pairs never... Frank tried to be careful and gentle. Tried to be... tactful. Did the girl have some problem with touch? But then it made no sense that she skated in a pair. Frank had seen her jumps at competitions; she wasn't one of those who left singles due to weak legs. He looked into the skater's lost expression, at how she nervously adjusted his hand on her waist, but hadn't yet resumed the step sequence.
"Mel, Frank, is everything okay?" Robby's voice sounded concerned across the rink, drawing the guy's attention.
"Yes, we're... getting used to each other," Langdon exhaled, looking into the coach's brown eyes across the many meters of ice.
His nerves were actually at their limit. He knew the brown-haired girl next to him was his last chance if he wanted to stay under Robinavitch's guidance. They had discussed it. Frank couldn't just abandon his partners, simply "because they didn't get along." But he did. He did it constantly, and now, with only two seasons left until the next Olympics... He couldn't afford to change three more partners. Couldn't afford to change the coach who had guided him his entire career.
"Frank, I'm serious," Michael's voice sounded stern. Not like a coach's, but like a father's, close to being disappointed in his offspring. "People are already refusing to work with you because they know you're fickle and abandon partners over any little thing. Even your technique and artistry don't make people want to work with you anymore."
"Robby, I..." he interrupted, trying to insert something in his defense.
"Be quiet and listen," stern and rough, the way Robinavitch had last spoken to him when he was sixteen, because he missed a practice before the World Championships due to a horrible hangover. "Melissa King. Twenty-two. Delicate and ideal glide, strong jumps, has almost all triples in her arsenal. This is your last chance, Frank. If it doesn't work out with her, you'll be looking not only for a new partner, but also for a new coach."
The feeling of vile betrayal and anger still sat in the man's chest. This wasn't just ending a partnership. This was a real stab in the back. Robby had guided him since he was twelve, literally replaced his father and was involved in his upbringing. These words, this readiness to sever all the years of working together... They resonated with pain in his body, and in his head—incredible fear. If the man stopped working with him, it would mean the end of his figure skating career altogether. No one else after Robby would work with him, would tolerate him, would be... so close.
"Is everything okay?" King's slightly delayed voice sounded, bringing the skater out of his memories. He looked at her, bewildered, and nodded. He noticed that during his confusion, his hands were no longer holding his partner, and the rink's cold was erasing any phantom touch of warmth from her body.
His blue eyes slid over his partner's face, and he awkwardly extended his hands, but didn't place them in position himself. He allowed a soft smile to touch the girl's face before she herself placed his palms on her hip and in her own hand, returning to where they had left off.
The soft warmth of the woman's hands pleasantly warmed her trembling shoulders. The young girl's brown eyes fearfully slid across the large ice arena, full of already experienced skaters. It wasn't that Emma was stepping onto the ice for the first time, but onto such ice, with such professionals... She felt like an inexperienced lamb realizing she would now be training on the same ice as legends of women's singles like Samira Mohan or Trinity Santos. That... that was scary.
"A new ice and a new level can be scary, but you shouldn't give in to your fear," Dana gently reassured her, patting her thigh with her free hand.
Nolan looked lost at her feet and only then lifted her skate boots, allowing her new coach to take the guards off her. The blonde opened the boards, releasing the lost little lamb onto the ice. The girl carefully stepped with her blade onto the slippery surface, made a few glides forward, before nearly falling as another skater whizzed past at full speed, right next to her. Emma's thin fingers grabbed the boards as she looked fearfully with huge eyes at Coach Evans.
"Trinity!" the woman shouted angrily after the girl, throwing a displeased look at Robby. "You'll scare and plow down all my kids! Little hooligan."
"Sorry, Dana," the dark-haired girl's voice sounded as she sped further away. There was absolutely no guilt in her voice. She picked up even more speed, at full speed circling the frozen Victoria. "Don't sleep, Crash. Since when do geniuses take breaks?"
The "young genius" only looked back with longing. The way Santos was free in her movements, in her skating style. She didn't need to adapt to anyone; she experimented with programs, styles, and could do things others had never dared. Her coach supported all her crazy ideas and... The girl shifted her tired, detached gaze to Ogilvie and Mohan standing by the boards next to their coach. Al-Hashimi was... for traditional figure skating. She was old school, much like Coach Robinavtich. Only he adapted to the times and was ready to move forward, taking risks, while Javadi's coach... Sometimes the girl thought about quitting the sport. Her interest in pairs skating and skating in general... was fading with every competition where she skated uninteresting programs and worked for artistry and components, rather than the high technical value of the programs.
"Victoria, will you join?" Coach Al-Hashimi's voice hit her ears, making Javadi also skate over to the boards.
"Whitaker, come here," Robinovitch's loud voice sounded across the ice arena, summoning the skater. All this time, he had been carefully watching the guy's warm-up, how he oriented himself on the new ice and how he behaved on skates. Now it was time to look at his technique. "Warmed up, or do you need more time?"
"Trinity, warm-up lap, step sequence, cantilever, and approach to the jump. Let's start with triples for now," Coach Abbot's voice interrupted only for a moment, giving their star her task.
Dennis, however, looked at the man with huge eyes. He shook his head frantically, so much so that it was unclear whether he was ready or hadn't warmed up enough. His own pulse echoed deafeningly in his ears, and his thigh muscles burned not so much from physical exertion as from psycho-emotional stress. To Robby, his new student seemed like a lost puppy torn from its mother's den. He looked at the world around him so frightened, yet was ready to enter a fight or go hunting, without thinking. That was a little, but it was endearing.
"I'm ready," the guy said in a trembling voice, stammering slightly. Robby nodded, watching only him.
"Accelerate, inside edge spiral, approach for a double toe loop, exit, arc, accelerate, and a triple salchow-double toe loop combination," Robinavitch recited the combination, tracking the emotions on the fair-haired young man's face. He watched how the guy processed the given combination and nodded. Tried to understand what exactly was depicted in the light sky-blue eyes. Fear? Uncertainty? A desire to prove himself? Robinavitch clapped his hands, signaling to the guy it was time to start. "If you understand, what are we waiting for?"
A sharp shake of his head, and the blades of his dark skates slid closer to the middle of the ice, where the guy could freely perform the combination. His chest constricted with nerves, and his legs barely held him on the blades. Dennis was definitely terrified. This was his first chance to show Coach Robby that he deserved to be here. On this ice, under his gaze. Whitaker could almost physically feel the man's heavy gaze on the back of his neck. He was watching only him, following his every move. Amidst the nervous thoughts and frantic excitement, the skater momentarily forgot the given combination. He tried frantically to remember and repeated the other's words under his breath.
"Accelerate, inside edge spiral... approach for a double toe loop, exit, arc, accelerate, and the combination," he whispered, starting with the easiest part. Accelerate.
He scanned the ice, beginning to pick up speed. He felt the heavy gazes on his body, how not only the coaches but also the other skaters were watching him. His body bent, his torso stretched slightly back, his arms twisting in smooth movements, while his feet turned the opposite way, gliding on an inside edge. Subsequent acceleration, exiting the glide, a turn, and the guy pushed off from the pick of his left foot into the air, completing exactly two rotations before landing on his right foot, extending his left back. He didn't look at the coach's face, just continued the given sequence. In his own head, he replayed the executed jump, thinking too much. He literally drowned himself out with his own thoughts, didn't hear the slide of metal on the cold surface, didn't feel the flow of wind in his ears from the speed. Only heard his own pressure, how his blood pulsed, and the artery in his neck bulged from the strain. This guy would definitely drive himself to an early grave from stress, rather than from an injury.
The movements his body performed between jumps on autopilot didn't even register in his memory. All attention focused on the subsequent combination. Dennis approached the jump from a backward-inside arc, concentrating more on the movement of his torso than on the position of the blade's edges. He pushed off with his left foot, leaping upwards, and rotated around his axis. Landing on the outside edge of his skate, his knee bent slightly, but Dennis managed to save the landing. Without stopping for a moment, he made a half-turn and pushed off again with the pick of his left foot, thrusting from the ice. He couldn't say exactly what went wrong during the landing, but the guy opened up early in the air, performing a "butterfly." He landed on both feet, almost immediately bending his torso towards his knees. He breathed heavily, while thoughts frantically beat in alarm. He had botched the simplest combination, hadn't even delivered the minimum of his capabilities. The fair-haired guy covered his face with his gloved palms, slowly skating to the boards where his coaches were watching him.
"Soft and beautiful glide, but terrible technique. Unclear edge on the salchow; if it were a competition, they'd deduct several points on review immediately," calmly, without strictness, Robby simply stated the facts. "Soft knee on the double toe loop landing, they'd nullify the combination entirely. At most, they'd give you a couple of points for sad eyes."
"Coach Robinavitch means your overall skating is decent, but the technique is lacking," Abbot tried to smooth things over, glancing at his friend. He saw the guy was already on the verge of tears. A couple more comments from Robby, and he'd definitely start crying right there.
"Yeah, he'd need to train on the ice for days just to fix it a bit for regionals," the man chuckled under his breath, watching Trinity's perfect jump exit. "Jack claimed you have quads in your arsenal, but with technique like that, they're pointless."
"Am I hopeless?" the quiet question escaped Dennis's lips as he finally drew the gaze of the cold brown eyes to his face.
"There's work to be done," the man said, folding his arms over his chest. "Do the exact same combination again. Don't you dare stop until you give me a clean combination."
Swallowing the accumulated saliva with difficulty, Dennis nodded, looking at Robinavitch with complete trust and devotion. In his head, he repeated over and over that he would have to train on the ice for days. However, he was ready if that was one of the prices for skating here, under the gaze of those brown eyes.
XXX
"Hey, Crash," Trinity's cheerful voice drew Javadi's attention, who had just sat down at the lunch table with the new skaters. A cardboard package of bruise ointment landed next to her tray. Javadi's lost gaze looked at the gel's name before the young skater pursed her lips. "You've got a whole day ahead of you; with a partner like that, it'll come in handy."
"You know, keep it," Victoria smiled sweetly at her, looking with the most innocent gaze. "Maybe it'll help patch up your skull when you fall on a quadruple Rittberger."
"Oh, that was good," Joy chuckled, immediately grasping the dynamic between these two. She caught Trinity's gaze, which was practically burning a hole through her, and just shrugged. "Everyone knows your quadruple Rittberger is shaky."
"Better to fall on a quadruple Rittberger and have a quadruple toe loop, flip, and salchow in your program arsenal, than to have one unstable toe loop for the whole program," the girl quipped, sitting down with her tray next to Javadi.
"What if I don't have any quads in my arsenal?" Emma said worriedly, looking frightened at the brunette.
"Then you can try to pull your programs with beautiful glide and perfect technique, but you won't catch up to the technical scores of skaters with quads, even if they're not entirely clean," Melissa chimed into the conversation, but without malice, just naively stating a fact. "You can always switch to pairs; women don't need quads there!"
"Yeah, fall into the hands of some genius like Ogilvie, who'll wipe the ice with you," Santos laughed and shifted her gaze to Victoria. "Don't worry, Crash, there's always a way out. One bad hit with the toe pick during a lift, and you'll shed dozens of extra kilos right on the ice."
"Harsh," Emma said, frightened, while Joy just snorted.
"Rational."
"The only chance to get to Coach Robinavitch for singles," the young skater summed up sadly, looking towards the table where the guys were sitting. "My mother will never let me out of this slavery."
"She's, like, afraid you won't make it?" Trin didn't understand, scooping protein pudding from its container. "You're petite, hips and chest haven't widened, you rotate jumps perfectly. You've got all the parameters for a good singles skater."
"Wow, can I take that as a compliment?" Javadi joked, looking at the blue-eyed girl.
"If you want my recognition that badly," Santos tilted her head, smirking.
A soft smile touched Victoria's lips as she looked at her own plate. Trinity... their communication was strange, sarcastic, sometimes toxic, but it was the only semblance of friendship she could get in this sport. None of the pairs girls had ever been friends with her; there was only competition. With Trinity, it was... different. She wasn't a rival.
"Isn't there another girl skating here?" King asked, lost, drawing the skaters' attention to the fact that someone was missing.
"Samira. Since she switched to Coach Al-Hashimi, she's rarely seen at lunch," Victoria shrugged, looking around the cafeteria.
A thin wrist wiped saliva and breakfast remnants from the corner of her mouth. Brown eyes looked hopelessly at the water washing away her crime against her own body. A few curly strands had escaped from her bun. Samira made sure she had wiped the corners of her lips completely before leaving the stall. In the mirror, she saw... Samira Mohan. A skater already not young enough for singles. Her eyes had become more tired, dark circles had settled as permanent residents in her eye sockets. Her hands trembled as she washed her fingers from her own saliva.
"Coach Robinavitch isn't a woman after all; it's harder for him to monitor the physical condition of his female athletes," Al-Hashimi's voice sounded in her head like a harsh siren, pounding at her temples and reminding her once again why Mohan was doing this.
"I... don't quite understand."
"Weight also plays a significant role in the cleanliness of jump execution," the cold and steel in the other's phrase made the skater's chest falter.
Not perfect enough. Not thin enough. Not petite enough. Not young enough. That's what revolved, thought after thought, in her head. That's what made her remind herself every time why Samira switched coaches. Robby couldn't give her prize-winning places with what was happening to her body now. He couldn't give her anything at all since Trinity came out of juniors. Was Trinity to blame for Samira's failure? No, probably not. She was... a catalyst. It had always been like that; younger and stronger skaters came out of juniors and eclipsed those who had occupied the podium before. Just, maybe, Samira wasn't ready for it to happen so soon. Wasn't ready for the encouraging hands of her coach to hold another skater's shoulders in the kiss and cry zone while she watched her own failure.
The bathroom door opened, drawing Mohan's anxious attention. She frantically washed her face with ice-cold water before stepping away from the sink. She gave a soft smile to Perla, who had come in to throw away bags of overflowing trash, and fled the scene of her crime. The place that was gradually becoming her downfall.
XXX
That day... it had definitely drained every last ounce of energy from Dennis. He had never trained on the ice for so long, never pushed himself so hard in off-ice training. It... at some point, Whitaker felt like it was all more than he was capable of. More than his body could handle. Though, was it his body? He was strong, athletic, and had legs strong enough for jumps. That's what Coach Abbot had told him when he accepted him into the group. Maybe Dennis was weak psychologically? Maybe this level wasn't for him from the start and... He needed to train for days.
"Hey, Huckleberry, need a ride?" Trinity Santos's voice made him surface from his own thoughts, looking at the skater with lost eyes.
He needed to train for days.
"I... no, I think I forgot my sneakers and tracksuit in the locker room," the fair-haired guy said, pointing somewhere behind him. "It's this time and... but thanks for the offer!"
Trinity's gaze looked at him with incomprehension, but the girl decided that after a tough day, she definitely didn't want to deal with this too. It was his choice to be a freak. She just shrugged and hoisted her sports bag more comfortably before finally leaving that damn rink. Dennis, however... he returned to the locker room. His muscles ached and throbbed, and his head was absolute chaos, but this was what he needed right now. What his career needed.
The ringtone of a phone call echoed through the dark room. It pounded right into his temples, forcing the man to come to. The smartphone screen showed midnight. Robby had to be at the sports complex from early morning to discuss the technical part of the new programs with Garcia... God, Michael would definitely kill whoever disturbed his sleep. The contact showed the name of their night security guard, which was even more irritating. Why couldn't they just leave him alone at least for the night?
"Michael Robinavitch, speaking," he answered the call, feeling irritation boil in his chest. The coolness from the slightly open window didn't even begin to quell the fire kindled by his anger. "What? Got it, I'll be right there..."
The thought that he now had to leave his warm bed and go out. God, he would never trust Jack Abbot with anything ever again. Never in his damn life. His feet touched the cool floor as the blanket was thrown aside. Robby, hating the whole world right now, got up from bed, still sleepily grabbing warm clothes. Oh, the person responsible for him interrupting his sleep was definitely not going to be in for a pleasant time. With a quick motion, the man turned off the TV noise and left the room. He still had the drive to the sports complex ahead.
The rustle of blades on the ice surface had accompanied Robinavitch his whole life. He heard it as a youngster, first stepping onto the ice. He heard it as a teenager, going to his first championships. He heard it as almost an Olympic champion. He heard it now, as a coach. The time was twelve thirty-five. A time when definitely no one should be at the rink, but... Michael entered the ice from the upper stands. His heavy gaze followed every movement of the guy, how he moved on the ice, abusing his body.
Squinting, Robby watched as the guy repeated, yet again, the very first combination he had been given that morning. There he glides in an arc, then swings and pushes off with an edge, grouping and rotating three times. On landing, his knee buckled, his thigh muscles couldn't handle the fatigue accumulated during the day, and the skater's body collapsed onto the wet, slippery surface, causing the guy to slide several meters on his hip. It looked quite unpleasant. By tomorrow, a bruise would probably bloom on his hip.
"Are you done wiping the ice with yourself, or should I give you a few more minutes?" the coach's voice echoed across the ice arena, making the guy jump, frightenedly lifting his gaze to the stands.
"Coach Robby," Dennis responded, lost, barely getting to his aching feet.
The man, with a heavy sigh, descended to the boards. He took a sip of the scalding and disgusting coffee from the vending machine and waited for the guy to skate closer. He looked with an unreadable gaze and tilted his head, examining the skater's wet clothes. He looked worn out. Definitely, he should have been like this after a tough training day. And he should have been in bed at home, but not at the rink.
"Tell me, what's stopping me right now from kicking you out of the group for breaking discipline? Why should I get up at midnight and come back to work to drag you off the ice by the ears?" the man asked calmly, looking into the sky-blue eyes.
"I... I have to train for days to fix my technique for regionals," the guy tried to say something in his defense.
"If you take every word of mine literally, your regionals will be in a psychiatric ward," Robinavitch chuckled, taking another sip of coffee. "Pack up, I'll drive you home."
"Will you drop me?" Whitaker's frightened voice stopped Robby mid-turn. The silence that stretched for a few seconds felt like an eternity to Dennis, squeezing his heart.
"If I wanted to drop you, I'd have just told Ahmed to throw you out of the rink and never let you back in," Robinavitch said tiredly, turning back to the guy. "I came here in person to make sure my athlete goes home to sleep, not to go jump quads on the nearest frozen lake."
Dennis felt that any moment now, his own heart would pierce his ribs and jump out onto the ice, leaving ugly red streaks. It would still beat, slowly freezing on the heartless rink, while the skater's unconscious body dissolved into atoms. His athlete. Dennis Whitaker was Michael Robinovitch's athlete.
"Are we going to stand here much longer? Where do you live, kid?" he asked, looking at the skater coming off the rink.
The sky-blue eyes looked up at his coach fearfully when he finally understood the full scope of the situation he was in. He was completely, utterly done for.