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icarusGet caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17 (I swear)
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: 'Ever notice how the figure skating community is completely incestuous?'
A/N: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perfica for playing OOB badminton with me, amothea for listening to me whine, teaphile for her birds eye view, and many tolerant readers during a week as frustrating (writing wise) as John's has been (skating wise). Note: I've learned that the Four Continents Championship did not exist yet John and Rodney's time period, so I've invented a new competition, the America Cup. No, there's no such thing.
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
It was a surprise to find John at his little skating rink at six o'clock in the evening hovering over the payphone, the receiver to his ear as he slumped against the white concrete wall. Rodney studied him with amusement, balancing the too-thin paper plate draped over his palm, his pizza pocket steaming. He had his millionth cup of coffee in the other hand, not that it would do him much good after today.
John turned to face the phone, growled and hammered the receiver down. Twice. He leaned on both hands against the wall over the phone, fingers spread, and hung his head. John had developed an intimate relationship with the payphone over the last several days, making a beeline for it before and after every practice.
"Hmm. Last I noticed, you only needed to hang it up once to be effective," Rodney commented, quirking his head at John. "Although I suppose there's nothing wrong with being thorough."
John jolted, pulling away from the wall as he shrank in on himself. "Oh. Hey, Rodney. What are you doing here?"
Rodney held up exhibit A: his vending machine dinner. "The joys of coaching during the school year. They're available either at horrible o'clock in the morning, or from three to eight in the evening, and nothing in between." He hummed a musical little sigh. "I can never seem to nap satisfactorily in the afternoon either, I've never known why." He yawned, stretching and barely catching the pizza pocket before it slid off his plate.
He took a bite of his pizza and then recalled that John wasn't normally around at this hour: he was a five a.m. appointment. He added with his mouth full, "What about you?"
"Um. Trying to score some extra skate time. Not that it matters now." John sighed, folding his arms across his chest as he melted against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
Rodney took a huge bite, holding the last bit as he waved the greasy plate. "Well, I can just as easily eat rink-side. They won't mind you on the ice if I'm around."
On their way down the hollow concrete stairs, John cleared his throat and said in a tight, rather high, strained voice, "I hear Christian Yong Suk's in town." He watched the ground as he said it.
Rodney leaned his back against the doors. After a fourteen hour day they weighed a ton. "Yes, yes." Rodney flapped a hand. "He's going to that Orville Redenbacher 'Reach for the Stars' challenge or whatever it's called in Buffalo. His coach wants to surprise everyone -- they've tweaked his short program yet again in their endless attempts to gild a dandelion."
"Yeah, well, I was pretty surprised," John said, straightening. "Just a cheese-fest, huh?"
"Yep. Then it's off to the America Cup. They're using it as a warm-up."
"Oh," John said in a quiet, disappointed voice. He stopped mid-stair.
"Or at least that's his excuse. Of course the money never has anything to do with it." Rodney rolled his eyes.
"Well, I wouldn't sneeze at twenty grand either," John said, shaking his head as he continued down the steps.
"Thirty, actually," Rodney said.
"Jesus."
"Not that he stands a chance at first prize. Fletcher is going."
"Wait." John stopped cold on the bottom step, his mouth open in disbelief. "Fletcher's blowing off the America Cup, a real competition, for a cheese-fest?"
"At least they're humiliating the sport for a sizeable sum, eh?" Rodney snorted. "Though to be fair, the America Cup has all the prestige of a go-cart race."
"I wouldn't say no to it," John mumbled.
~*~*~
Rodney snapped his fingers impatiently into his hand, rocking back on his heels next to the concierge. The gentle plunking of Japanese koto music mixed with the sound of fountains under the loud chatter and clatter of silverware on china. The place had trendy black marble floors which ruined the acoustics in Rodney's opinion, but the Asiatic was the hottest new restaurant in Toronto. It had been ridiculously difficult to get a reservation.
That would make Sonja happy.
Typically, she was late, but he hoped it was just the twenty-minute "I'm curious but I don't want to seem too interested" wait, rather than the hour-long "You never call and I'm mad at you" version. In that case she'd turn up with a transparent excuse and not a trace of remorse. He was a veteran of the Argentinean skater's many moods.
"Rodney!"
Sonja's delighted squeal carried from the doorway, her arms outstretched. She had the leathery tan of too many years in the sun with sharp smile lines and bottle blond hair, gathered him in a bracing hug and held his shoulders at arm's length, then pushed him back as she spread her hands to look him up and down. "Look at you! You are so plump, I could pinch you."
Blinking rapidly, Rodney gave her an awkward, "Hi. You look...." He quickly edited out words like 'older' and 'haggard' and tried, "...mature." Then cringed.
She swatted him. "Ah. You are cruel." She kept walking right past the hostess -- who did a confused double-take -- tossing her coat into Rodney's arms without a backward glance to see if he'd caught it.
"You still have nice legs," he assured her as he followed in her wake. The discomfited young hostess hurried to catch up and show them to their table.
The meal they ordered was breathtakingly expensive – Sonja was never less than mercenary, as every woman who'd skated against her quickly learned – and Rodney silently chanted to himself that it would all be worth it, or else a complete and utter waste of time, but at least this avenue would be explored. Not for the first time he wondered if she was the right choice for John, though the fact remained that she was the only choice. He splurged a little himself and ordered the deep fried kushikatsu. He had to keep her company after all.
"Tsk, tsk. So fattening, Rodney," she chided him, smiling over the straw she'd insisted on for her bubble tea.
"I'm not competing," Rodney said defensively.
"You should be," she pounced.
Rodney rolled his eyes, his expression wan.
"Okay, yes, yes, right now your body is more like a boxer than a skater. You'd land the jumps like an elephant. But I can slim you down. Work on a style that suits you as a grown man, not a little boy." She had that merciless gleam. "I'll get you back on the ice in no time, one year, two years tops. Though if you eat that," she pointed at the menu with a gold nail, "make it three."
"No." Just no. Rodney sighed. "I haven't competed since I was nineteen. Anyway, that's not why I wanted you."
"Mmm, my, my, Rodney." One eyebrow flicked up and she gave him an arch look. "I thought you liked boys."
"That's men, and you're not my type even if I didn't. No offense, but I like to keep my balls attached," Rodney said with sheer earnestness.
"I like you. I promise, I would give them back." She laughed, slapping his knee under the table. She flipped her hair off her shoulder, leaning her elbow on the back of her chair, weighing him with her eyes. "So then. It's this John Sheppard."
Rodney took a breath and held it, squinting before he let it out in a rush. "You heard."
She tilted her head in a guilty shrug. "David told me. He heard it from his coach, who got it from her husband, who heard from the sportscaster, what-is-he, Brett Johnson --"
"—Brett Jordan. That gossip. I should never have gone to the Schmidt center... ever notice how the figure skating community is completely incestuous?" he complained, his voice turning plaintive.
"Yes. So? Everyone wants to know: Are you sleeping with him?"
"What? No!" Rodney spluttered. "And beat around the bush, will you?" he added with wide, shocked blue eyes.
"Pfft." She made a brusque brushing gesture. "No one will just ask. Life would be much simpler that way. Not so much pssst-psst-pssst." She made a talking mouth with her hands.
"God, you people are nosy. I just wanted to see if you'd choreograph him, that's it!" Rodney threw down his napkin. There. He'd said it. He babbled, "I mean, I can do my own programs and certainly I can choreograph a kid's, even a Junior worlds, but as brilliant as I am, this is an elite level and I can't be all things to all people -- though certainly people expect me to pull off miracles and... please, can you do this? You're not half bad. Besides, I can't ask anyone else to work for free," he laughed nervously. "You're pretty much my only shot."
"For money? I will teach a donkey to skate. Or if he's a top talent, sure." She shrugged, then traced the rim of her glass and grew serious for a moment, giving Rodney a piercing look. "He is a beautiful boy. Do you think he has a real chance or do you just want him?"
Rodney opened his mouth as if to be insulted, then leaned back in his chair, deflated. "Between you and me? I ask myself that question every day."
"Mmm. Do not encourage his false hopes," she sighed, shaking her head. "Don't break his heart but – I looked him up and I printed it at the library." Her eyes sparkled at her technological 'wizardry' as she dug into her purse, found and slapped a sheet of paper on the table between them. Then she turned it around as it was upside down. John's standings. Rodney groaned inwardly as her nail traced the familiar numbers and tapped them. "His personal best was two years ago. Since then he was 13th, this year 9th...."
Rodney cut her off with a tired flicking gesture. "He's in a holding pattern, yes, yes, I know. There was that injury--"
"No. If he were twenty-four maybe it would be just a setback. But he is twenty-eight years old. Next he will be 15th, then 20th... You men don't know when to quit. It's all about the winning for you," said the woman who'd aggressively chased gold for ten years. Rodney pressed his lips together and forced himself not to say anything. "He's good-looking. He should try acting -- or if he's stupid, then modeling. Or get married and have some children, have a nice life." She stabbed a finger at Rodney, brows drawn together. "Now you, you could come back. You have a gold medal, a gold medal, a silver medal. Him? He has never won anything."
"He really wants it," Rodney said.
John had never mentioned anything but he could tell.
"He can have the heart of a champion, but if the body can't do? It can't do." She shrugged, as cold as they came.
The check arrived and Rodney unsuccessfully tried not to wince as he signed on the bottom line. Quick and painless, like pulling off a band aid. At least he'd tried. Maybe little Melanie Weir could choreograph John.
He tapped his fingers on the table as the waitress disappeared, staring blindly at the cloth napkin tossed carelessly on his plate. "Sometimes... I see something in him."
Sonja's chuckle at that was warm and suggestive as her lips closed around her straw again. "Mmmhmm. I bet you do."
"Oh, be serious." Rodney bristled. "Yes, half the time I think he's an utter waste of effort and I want to wring his neck besides, but then, then he'll do something. It'll last for just a moment, but he has it. Maybe he is too old or maybe he's never worked with anyone as great as me but – " Rodney cut off. "I'm telling you, I think he's got something."
Sonja gave him a speculative look, uncharacteristically thoughtful as she lifted her cup. Then she said, after a pause, "I have a flight to San Diego tomorrow morning."
Rodney glanced up. "Wait." He blinked. "Does this mean you'll do it?"
~*~*~
John skated in a listless circle, his gestures careless, head down as he watched the ice rather than where he was going. A teenage girl in black warm-ups and a short bob practiced an inelegant spiral -- back leg extended, her arms out like a swan, or more like a duck in her case -- right into his path. She paused, dropped out of position and glared daggers at John, then circled around him with a continuous dark look when he didn't notice her. John's turns were too small and slightly behind the run of piano music that fell like a soft waterfall.
Sucking his teeth as he watched John, Rodney tried to think of where to even begin on the long list of what was wrong with this picture. Start with a bucket of cold water, perhaps?
He clapped his hands a few times until John shook himself and looked up. "Good morning! Did we not have our Wheaties today?"
John shrugged but skated over, head down, which Rodney chose to take as John hanging on his every word, no matter how unlikely this was.
"Pay attention to what you're doing. Music like this you have to live every note. At the very least finish your gestures." He grabbed John's right arm and pulled it in towards John's chest. "Start from the heart -- here -- then carry it through --" He extended John's arm in an upward sweep. "-- to here -- like you're painting the music in air."
Seeing a blank look on John's face, Rodney heaved a melodramatic sigh.
"Watch me."
Rodney worked up some speed, calling out to John, "Long strokes to match the smooth glide of the music... arch your back...." He curved around the outer edge of the rink, then did the three step turns. "Now bend your head around..." Rodney demonstrated. "...then turn." He let the momentum of his head gesture carry him into a half turn.
"Now reach out with both hands and pull, grab the sky and pull it in to you. Tension, I want tension! Use your whole body, this music is lyrical."
With the build of the music he gathered more speed and stretched his arms up as he faced the stands, legs and arms in an X, skates pointed in opposite directions to carve a sharp edge. "Now open your body up. This circuit is as light as air and twice as open. Skate this as though you were a piece of thistle down caught in the wind."
He let his arms level out as he carried the momentum into a spin, slow and easy, both arms wide as he circled down, wrapping around him as he stopped. "Down, now hold." Rodney held the position. "Don't hurry, now unwind like a spring, following your arm again like it's leading you out." And he did so. "The goal is to enthrall the audience. Therefore, every note counts."
John nodded once, then followed suit, both arms wide -- if too stiff -- as he turned in a broad circle, his edges clean, though the line of his body was too aggressive and about light as a cannonball. Then he spun down to one knee, arms wrapping around himself. He held it this time, and spun back out -- leading with his shoulder instead of his arm.
Rodney sighed and went limp, dispirited. "It's boring. The choreography's wonderful but it fits you like a pig on skates. And I couldn't picture worse music for you if I tried."
"They let me pick the music."
"You picked Mendelssohn?" Rodney's eyebrows raised, astounded.
"It's nice," John said with a blink. "This is my long program from last year."
"That's the trouble. You're listening to it instead of skating. The music's not for you to enjoy. It's for you to perform."
"Yeah, I had my worst finish ever with this -- placed thirteenth. Dumped the program fast after that."
Rodney moved to center ice. John followed with slow strokes, still moping. Rodney finally turned in exasperation. "What is wrong with you today?"
John just tipped his head, noncommittal, barely even a shrug.
"You've been on fire for most of the week and now you have all the enthusiasm of a plate of wet lasagna. You made a modicum of progress, and now we're back at square one. You're moving like a machine again: skate-skate spin, skate-skate turn. Your focus is completely blown."
"Progress?" John said, obviously listening selectively. "You never mentioned anything about any progress." He narrowed his eyes.
"Yes, well, I didn't want to jinx it, and that turns out to have been the right decision because clearly it was an aberration."
"I'm skating fine," John said, frowning at him.
"He's skating fine," Rodney said to the air as he threw up his hands. "Eight months from now, when you're in the middle of the ice with all eyes upon you, who will be handing out the scores? People like you, who'll say you're skating 'just fine' -- give that guy a cookie ? Or people like me who are going to compare you to the top figure skaters in the country?"
John didn't answer.
Rodney snapped his fingers in quick succession. "What have you changed?"
"What?"
"Come on. Have you switched your diet? Stopped eating meat or carbs or something stupid like that?"
"No! What's that got to do with anything?"
"Had a bad break-up maybe? I saw you hammering on that phone the other night. It looked personal." John gave a disdainful roll of his head. "Anything can effect your performance; this is art, not science."
"I've done everything you've told me to, Rodney," John said, measuring his words out carefully. He took a breath, dipped his chin and added, "And then some."
"I'll be the judge of your going the extra mile," Rodney said with a snort. "Okay. You've an extra practice session this evening. I'll sit in."
John froze and looked up sharply, eyes fixed on Rodney, wary.
"I saw you on the schedule, don't look at me like that, I do, in fact, read. I approve of the extra hours, by the way, we'll just have to use them more wisely."
John licked his lips and shifted, wincing. "I may have to cancel that session." He looked away. "Things aren't exactly turning out the way I'd hoped."
"Yes, I'm tired of dragging you around the rink today," Rodney agreed, sagging. "Go home, get your head together. Call your boyfriend and fix whatever's going on. Tell him you either need him to get lost or stay with you forever for the sake of your training."
"I don't have—" John glanced around, then leaned closer and said in an undertone, "I'm not with anybody, Rodney."
"Oh. Too bad. It would have been an easier solution than something being actually wrong with your training. You need consistency. Eight months may seem like next year to you, but it's really not much time to work the near-miraculous changes you need. Learn to practice as if your next competition were only a month away."
John had bent his head. He seemed to be listening for a change. "A month? What about a week?"
"No, no. Everyone practices shitty the week before a competition. You either over train or work on the wrong aspects."
Why yes, there's music. Mendelssohn - Soung Without Words in E Major
[Previous][Next]
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17 (I swear)
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: 'Ever notice how the figure skating community is completely incestuous?'
A/N: Thank you to
perfica for playing OOB badminton with me, amothea for listening to me whine, teaphile for her birds eye view, and many tolerant readers during a week as frustrating (writing wise) as John's has been (skating wise). Note: I've learned that the Four Continents Championship did not exist yet John and Rodney's time period, so I've invented a new competition, the America Cup. No, there's no such thing.Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hired ex-skating champion and 'artiste' Rodney McKay to be his coach. A teasing friendship (perhaps more?) developed between them, but John just learned that skating's gold medalist has pulled out of a competition: he might get that phone call inviting him to compete. Well, as long as the 2nd, 3rd, 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th place skaters ahead of him remain injured/on honeymoon/retired. Bad news. While practicing his jumps behind Rodney's back, John spots the 5th place Christian Yong Suk ... not injured at all.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
It was a surprise to find John at his little skating rink at six o'clock in the evening hovering over the payphone, the receiver to his ear as he slumped against the white concrete wall. Rodney studied him with amusement, balancing the too-thin paper plate draped over his palm, his pizza pocket steaming. He had his millionth cup of coffee in the other hand, not that it would do him much good after today.
John turned to face the phone, growled and hammered the receiver down. Twice. He leaned on both hands against the wall over the phone, fingers spread, and hung his head. John had developed an intimate relationship with the payphone over the last several days, making a beeline for it before and after every practice.
"Hmm. Last I noticed, you only needed to hang it up once to be effective," Rodney commented, quirking his head at John. "Although I suppose there's nothing wrong with being thorough."
John jolted, pulling away from the wall as he shrank in on himself. "Oh. Hey, Rodney. What are you doing here?"
Rodney held up exhibit A: his vending machine dinner. "The joys of coaching during the school year. They're available either at horrible o'clock in the morning, or from three to eight in the evening, and nothing in between." He hummed a musical little sigh. "I can never seem to nap satisfactorily in the afternoon either, I've never known why." He yawned, stretching and barely catching the pizza pocket before it slid off his plate.
He took a bite of his pizza and then recalled that John wasn't normally around at this hour: he was a five a.m. appointment. He added with his mouth full, "What about you?"
"Um. Trying to score some extra skate time. Not that it matters now." John sighed, folding his arms across his chest as he melted against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
Rodney took a huge bite, holding the last bit as he waved the greasy plate. "Well, I can just as easily eat rink-side. They won't mind you on the ice if I'm around."
On their way down the hollow concrete stairs, John cleared his throat and said in a tight, rather high, strained voice, "I hear Christian Yong Suk's in town." He watched the ground as he said it.
Rodney leaned his back against the doors. After a fourteen hour day they weighed a ton. "Yes, yes." Rodney flapped a hand. "He's going to that Orville Redenbacher 'Reach for the Stars' challenge or whatever it's called in Buffalo. His coach wants to surprise everyone -- they've tweaked his short program yet again in their endless attempts to gild a dandelion."
"Yeah, well, I was pretty surprised," John said, straightening. "Just a cheese-fest, huh?"
"Yep. Then it's off to the America Cup. They're using it as a warm-up."
"Oh," John said in a quiet, disappointed voice. He stopped mid-stair.
"Or at least that's his excuse. Of course the money never has anything to do with it." Rodney rolled his eyes.
"Well, I wouldn't sneeze at twenty grand either," John said, shaking his head as he continued down the steps.
"Thirty, actually," Rodney said.
"Jesus."
"Not that he stands a chance at first prize. Fletcher is going."
"Wait." John stopped cold on the bottom step, his mouth open in disbelief. "Fletcher's blowing off the America Cup, a real competition, for a cheese-fest?"
"At least they're humiliating the sport for a sizeable sum, eh?" Rodney snorted. "Though to be fair, the America Cup has all the prestige of a go-cart race."
"I wouldn't say no to it," John mumbled.
Rodney snapped his fingers impatiently into his hand, rocking back on his heels next to the concierge. The gentle plunking of Japanese koto music mixed with the sound of fountains under the loud chatter and clatter of silverware on china. The place had trendy black marble floors which ruined the acoustics in Rodney's opinion, but the Asiatic was the hottest new restaurant in Toronto. It had been ridiculously difficult to get a reservation.
That would make Sonja happy.
Typically, she was late, but he hoped it was just the twenty-minute "I'm curious but I don't want to seem too interested" wait, rather than the hour-long "You never call and I'm mad at you" version. In that case she'd turn up with a transparent excuse and not a trace of remorse. He was a veteran of the Argentinean skater's many moods.
"Rodney!"
Sonja's delighted squeal carried from the doorway, her arms outstretched. She had the leathery tan of too many years in the sun with sharp smile lines and bottle blond hair, gathered him in a bracing hug and held his shoulders at arm's length, then pushed him back as she spread her hands to look him up and down. "Look at you! You are so plump, I could pinch you."
Blinking rapidly, Rodney gave her an awkward, "Hi. You look...." He quickly edited out words like 'older' and 'haggard' and tried, "...mature." Then cringed.
She swatted him. "Ah. You are cruel." She kept walking right past the hostess -- who did a confused double-take -- tossing her coat into Rodney's arms without a backward glance to see if he'd caught it.
"You still have nice legs," he assured her as he followed in her wake. The discomfited young hostess hurried to catch up and show them to their table.
The meal they ordered was breathtakingly expensive – Sonja was never less than mercenary, as every woman who'd skated against her quickly learned – and Rodney silently chanted to himself that it would all be worth it, or else a complete and utter waste of time, but at least this avenue would be explored. Not for the first time he wondered if she was the right choice for John, though the fact remained that she was the only choice. He splurged a little himself and ordered the deep fried kushikatsu. He had to keep her company after all.
"Tsk, tsk. So fattening, Rodney," she chided him, smiling over the straw she'd insisted on for her bubble tea.
"I'm not competing," Rodney said defensively.
"You should be," she pounced.
Rodney rolled his eyes, his expression wan.
"Okay, yes, yes, right now your body is more like a boxer than a skater. You'd land the jumps like an elephant. But I can slim you down. Work on a style that suits you as a grown man, not a little boy." She had that merciless gleam. "I'll get you back on the ice in no time, one year, two years tops. Though if you eat that," she pointed at the menu with a gold nail, "make it three."
"No." Just no. Rodney sighed. "I haven't competed since I was nineteen. Anyway, that's not why I wanted you."
"Mmm, my, my, Rodney." One eyebrow flicked up and she gave him an arch look. "I thought you liked boys."
"That's men, and you're not my type even if I didn't. No offense, but I like to keep my balls attached," Rodney said with sheer earnestness.
"I like you. I promise, I would give them back." She laughed, slapping his knee under the table. She flipped her hair off her shoulder, leaning her elbow on the back of her chair, weighing him with her eyes. "So then. It's this John Sheppard."
Rodney took a breath and held it, squinting before he let it out in a rush. "You heard."
She tilted her head in a guilty shrug. "David told me. He heard it from his coach, who got it from her husband, who heard from the sportscaster, what-is-he, Brett Johnson --"
"—Brett Jordan. That gossip. I should never have gone to the Schmidt center... ever notice how the figure skating community is completely incestuous?" he complained, his voice turning plaintive.
"Yes. So? Everyone wants to know: Are you sleeping with him?"
"What? No!" Rodney spluttered. "And beat around the bush, will you?" he added with wide, shocked blue eyes.
"Pfft." She made a brusque brushing gesture. "No one will just ask. Life would be much simpler that way. Not so much pssst-psst-pssst." She made a talking mouth with her hands.
"God, you people are nosy. I just wanted to see if you'd choreograph him, that's it!" Rodney threw down his napkin. There. He'd said it. He babbled, "I mean, I can do my own programs and certainly I can choreograph a kid's, even a Junior worlds, but as brilliant as I am, this is an elite level and I can't be all things to all people -- though certainly people expect me to pull off miracles and... please, can you do this? You're not half bad. Besides, I can't ask anyone else to work for free," he laughed nervously. "You're pretty much my only shot."
"For money? I will teach a donkey to skate. Or if he's a top talent, sure." She shrugged, then traced the rim of her glass and grew serious for a moment, giving Rodney a piercing look. "He is a beautiful boy. Do you think he has a real chance or do you just want him?"
Rodney opened his mouth as if to be insulted, then leaned back in his chair, deflated. "Between you and me? I ask myself that question every day."
"Mmm. Do not encourage his false hopes," she sighed, shaking her head. "Don't break his heart but – I looked him up and I printed it at the library." Her eyes sparkled at her technological 'wizardry' as she dug into her purse, found and slapped a sheet of paper on the table between them. Then she turned it around as it was upside down. John's standings. Rodney groaned inwardly as her nail traced the familiar numbers and tapped them. "His personal best was two years ago. Since then he was 13th, this year 9th...."
Rodney cut her off with a tired flicking gesture. "He's in a holding pattern, yes, yes, I know. There was that injury--"
"No. If he were twenty-four maybe it would be just a setback. But he is twenty-eight years old. Next he will be 15th, then 20th... You men don't know when to quit. It's all about the winning for you," said the woman who'd aggressively chased gold for ten years. Rodney pressed his lips together and forced himself not to say anything. "He's good-looking. He should try acting -- or if he's stupid, then modeling. Or get married and have some children, have a nice life." She stabbed a finger at Rodney, brows drawn together. "Now you, you could come back. You have a gold medal, a gold medal, a silver medal. Him? He has never won anything."
"He really wants it," Rodney said.
John had never mentioned anything but he could tell.
"He can have the heart of a champion, but if the body can't do? It can't do." She shrugged, as cold as they came.
The check arrived and Rodney unsuccessfully tried not to wince as he signed on the bottom line. Quick and painless, like pulling off a band aid. At least he'd tried. Maybe little Melanie Weir could choreograph John.
He tapped his fingers on the table as the waitress disappeared, staring blindly at the cloth napkin tossed carelessly on his plate. "Sometimes... I see something in him."
Sonja's chuckle at that was warm and suggestive as her lips closed around her straw again. "Mmmhmm. I bet you do."
"Oh, be serious." Rodney bristled. "Yes, half the time I think he's an utter waste of effort and I want to wring his neck besides, but then, then he'll do something. It'll last for just a moment, but he has it. Maybe he is too old or maybe he's never worked with anyone as great as me but – " Rodney cut off. "I'm telling you, I think he's got something."
Sonja gave him a speculative look, uncharacteristically thoughtful as she lifted her cup. Then she said, after a pause, "I have a flight to San Diego tomorrow morning."
Rodney glanced up. "Wait." He blinked. "Does this mean you'll do it?"
John skated in a listless circle, his gestures careless, head down as he watched the ice rather than where he was going. A teenage girl in black warm-ups and a short bob practiced an inelegant spiral -- back leg extended, her arms out like a swan, or more like a duck in her case -- right into his path. She paused, dropped out of position and glared daggers at John, then circled around him with a continuous dark look when he didn't notice her. John's turns were too small and slightly behind the run of piano music that fell like a soft waterfall.
Sucking his teeth as he watched John, Rodney tried to think of where to even begin on the long list of what was wrong with this picture. Start with a bucket of cold water, perhaps?
He clapped his hands a few times until John shook himself and looked up. "Good morning! Did we not have our Wheaties today?"
John shrugged but skated over, head down, which Rodney chose to take as John hanging on his every word, no matter how unlikely this was.
"Pay attention to what you're doing. Music like this you have to live every note. At the very least finish your gestures." He grabbed John's right arm and pulled it in towards John's chest. "Start from the heart -- here -- then carry it through --" He extended John's arm in an upward sweep. "-- to here -- like you're painting the music in air."
Seeing a blank look on John's face, Rodney heaved a melodramatic sigh.
"Watch me."
Rodney worked up some speed, calling out to John, "Long strokes to match the smooth glide of the music... arch your back...." He curved around the outer edge of the rink, then did the three step turns. "Now bend your head around..." Rodney demonstrated. "...then turn." He let the momentum of his head gesture carry him into a half turn.
"Now reach out with both hands and pull, grab the sky and pull it in to you. Tension, I want tension! Use your whole body, this music is lyrical."
With the build of the music he gathered more speed and stretched his arms up as he faced the stands, legs and arms in an X, skates pointed in opposite directions to carve a sharp edge. "Now open your body up. This circuit is as light as air and twice as open. Skate this as though you were a piece of thistle down caught in the wind."
He let his arms level out as he carried the momentum into a spin, slow and easy, both arms wide as he circled down, wrapping around him as he stopped. "Down, now hold." Rodney held the position. "Don't hurry, now unwind like a spring, following your arm again like it's leading you out." And he did so. "The goal is to enthrall the audience. Therefore, every note counts."
John nodded once, then followed suit, both arms wide -- if too stiff -- as he turned in a broad circle, his edges clean, though the line of his body was too aggressive and about light as a cannonball. Then he spun down to one knee, arms wrapping around himself. He held it this time, and spun back out -- leading with his shoulder instead of his arm.
Rodney sighed and went limp, dispirited. "It's boring. The choreography's wonderful but it fits you like a pig on skates. And I couldn't picture worse music for you if I tried."
"They let me pick the music."
"You picked Mendelssohn?" Rodney's eyebrows raised, astounded.
"It's nice," John said with a blink. "This is my long program from last year."
"That's the trouble. You're listening to it instead of skating. The music's not for you to enjoy. It's for you to perform."
"Yeah, I had my worst finish ever with this -- placed thirteenth. Dumped the program fast after that."
Rodney moved to center ice. John followed with slow strokes, still moping. Rodney finally turned in exasperation. "What is wrong with you today?"
John just tipped his head, noncommittal, barely even a shrug.
"You've been on fire for most of the week and now you have all the enthusiasm of a plate of wet lasagna. You made a modicum of progress, and now we're back at square one. You're moving like a machine again: skate-skate spin, skate-skate turn. Your focus is completely blown."
"Progress?" John said, obviously listening selectively. "You never mentioned anything about any progress." He narrowed his eyes.
"Yes, well, I didn't want to jinx it, and that turns out to have been the right decision because clearly it was an aberration."
"I'm skating fine," John said, frowning at him.
"He's skating fine," Rodney said to the air as he threw up his hands. "Eight months from now, when you're in the middle of the ice with all eyes upon you, who will be handing out the scores? People like you, who'll say you're skating 'just fine' -- give that guy a cookie ? Or people like me who are going to compare you to the top figure skaters in the country?"
John didn't answer.
Rodney snapped his fingers in quick succession. "What have you changed?"
"What?"
"Come on. Have you switched your diet? Stopped eating meat or carbs or something stupid like that?"
"No! What's that got to do with anything?"
"Had a bad break-up maybe? I saw you hammering on that phone the other night. It looked personal." John gave a disdainful roll of his head. "Anything can effect your performance; this is art, not science."
"I've done everything you've told me to, Rodney," John said, measuring his words out carefully. He took a breath, dipped his chin and added, "And then some."
"I'll be the judge of your going the extra mile," Rodney said with a snort. "Okay. You've an extra practice session this evening. I'll sit in."
John froze and looked up sharply, eyes fixed on Rodney, wary.
"I saw you on the schedule, don't look at me like that, I do, in fact, read. I approve of the extra hours, by the way, we'll just have to use them more wisely."
John licked his lips and shifted, wincing. "I may have to cancel that session." He looked away. "Things aren't exactly turning out the way I'd hoped."
"Yes, I'm tired of dragging you around the rink today," Rodney agreed, sagging. "Go home, get your head together. Call your boyfriend and fix whatever's going on. Tell him you either need him to get lost or stay with you forever for the sake of your training."
"I don't have—" John glanced around, then leaned closer and said in an undertone, "I'm not with anybody, Rodney."
"Oh. Too bad. It would have been an easier solution than something being actually wrong with your training. You need consistency. Eight months may seem like next year to you, but it's really not much time to work the near-miraculous changes you need. Learn to practice as if your next competition were only a month away."
John had bent his head. He seemed to be listening for a change. "A month? What about a week?"
"No, no. Everyone practices shitty the week before a competition. You either over train or work on the wrong aspects."
Why yes, there's music. Mendelssohn - Soung Without Words in E Major
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