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icarusYou can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "Sometimes you're depressingly American."
A/N: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me, amothea for listening to me whine, and teaphile for her birds eye view.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
John leaned out the car window, the light up menu glowing orange on his face as he scanned it, exhaust steaming around him. "I'll have an Egg McMuffin, hash browns ... you know what? Make that two hash browns. Large OJ." He ducked into the car. "What'll it be, Rodney? Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
"Sometimes you're depressingly American." Rodney folded his arms and refused to participate.
John smiled at the intercom, which was just bizarre because the speaker couldn't see him. "He'll have the same -- only coffee instead of OJ," he added quickly, holding up a hand to forestall Rodney's knee-jerk complaint. "Large coffee. He's cranky." John nodded, beaming. "Maybe we should get him a Happy Meal."
"You do know you're talking to a machine, right?"
"There's a real person on the other end," John said as he drove around to the drive-thru window.
"Fast food employees are not real people. They are illiterate morons whose sole purpose in life is to give you tepid water for your tea, forget the sugar, and yet insist on giving you a little paper cup with a nice deadly slice of lemon."
"I worked for McDonald's once. I used to close for the extra dollar an hour." John grinned as he handed Rodney the warm paper sacks. Rodney rattled through them suspiciously, counting hash browns while John handed over the cash.
"A lifetime of screwed up fast food orders has just been explained. Although no doubt the little paper hat looked sweet."
"I refused to wear the hat after the first day." John didn't wait for Rodney to finish perusing the bags and pulled away.
They were halfway out of the drive-thru about to head for the rink, when Rodney squawked, "Oh, I don't believe it!" He gave an exaggerated sigh, crumpling the bag between his knees. "Where are the napkins? God, these people can't get anything right."
John threw the car in reverse, arm slung over the seat looking over his shoulder as he backed up, fishtailing.
"Wait! You can't go backwards in a drive-thru! You're supposed to pull up to the side where they make you wait for special orders."
"No one's there, Rodney." John swerved a little to get a better angle of approach. "And it figures you'd be one of those assholes with the special orders."
The girl in the window stared, a little startled as they reappeared in reverse. John thumbed over at Rodney. "He needs napkins." He wrinkled his nose and said with a wide smirk, bobbing his head, "Messy eater."
Rodney made an annoyed sound in response. Then held up a forefinger, still staring into the bag. "Catsup," he announced.
~*~*~
Their next skate went reasonably well.
Rodney gave instructions.
John listened, his eyes on the ice, a little quieter than normal, which was bizarre.
He glided out to the center of the rink, his left skate carving him into a gentle turn, and did exactly what he was told, without debate, which left Rodney even more surprised. It was as if John were determined to prove that the other night wouldn't effect his training.
It was having quite the opposite effect. Rodney was beginning to wish that they'd done this sooner, insane risks to Rodney's career notwithstanding. He visualized conversations with John's former coach in his mind, Oh? How did I get him to listen to me? All you have to do is sleep with him and it's surprising how cooperative he becomes. No doubt half his pissiness is pure sexual frustration. Of course, Ed Wilcoxin was straight so it would never have worked for him.
Nevertheless, Rodney set aside their pairs skating for the time being, and he made a point of not touching John the way he would normally, maintaining his focus on simple footwork and stroking, working on subtle shifts in his edges. It conveniently kept him in constant motion and halfway across the rink for the entire session.
Rodney waved his approval from a distance and spun his finger to signal John to repeat the circuit. John gave him a duck of his head and a nod, and continued.
The last thing they needed was to start necking in the middle of the rink. Again.
They didn't mention a thing about the other night until John returned, his hair tousled, face damp, smelling sharply of male sweat. As he wiped down his skates – Rodney was already in his street clothes – John said:
"So. Tonight?"
Rodney paused, heart stopping.
"Sure," he said in a voice that was almost a squeak, much less confident than he would have liked. "My– my place?" he added, cursing himself for sounding like a love-struck teenager.
"Good." John looked up with soft eyes and gave him an endearing relieved smile, and Rodney thought that no one would blame him.
~*~*~
Later that evening, Rodney's neighbors were doing yard work in the bright gold sunset that cast a stark latticework of tree-branch shadows all the way down Rodney's street, the patchy dark gray clouds and puddles edged with color. Their son dragged two large trash cans full of leaves and dead branches to the curb, the surly slump of his shoulders advertising his resentment.
A dusty burgundy Chevy pulled into Rodney's drive, John's loud music thrumming but muted through the car door. The engine cut off into silence, the music with it. After a moment John stepped out, looking freshly scrubbed, hair relatively tamed, clean shaven, his narrow hazel eyes bright as he glanced up at the sky then pulled a daypack from the back seat.
There was a skip to his step as he climbed the stair to Rodney's porch and rang the bell.
~*~*~
At Tech Nine Audio in the mall, a wall of flickering big screen TVs were surrounded by banks of smaller sets that all showed the same commercial advertising Orville Redenbacher popcorn. They flashed to a swooping overhead view of Jamestown Savings Bank Ice Arena just outside of Buffalo, New York.
"Welcome back to the second annual Orville Redenbacher 'Reach For The Stars' Challenge, a who's who of figure skating's champions, plus a glimpse of our brightest rising young stars!"
Behind the two announcers, small, distant skaters warmed up on the ice.
"Yes, Ted. Everyone who's anyone is here today. Isn't it exciting?" gushed a woman with red mittens wrapped around her ABC microphone.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, John listened to the pre-competition commentary, shoulders hunched, looking much like a kid watching Saturday morning cartoons. A little plastic bag with a receipt and coiled extension cord in it slumped in his lap. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced over.
"Come here often?" Rodney stood in the glass doorway of the store, regarding him with a curious eye and warm quirk of a smile. Lazy Saturday shoppers passed behind him with packages and paper bags in hand. Two kids carrying drippy ice cream cones stumbled behind a tired looking woman pushing a stroller.
"Hey, stranger." John dipped his head and edged over to give him space against the carpeted cube he was using as a backrest. Rodney settled next to him, his own shopping bags rustling as dropped them on the floor with twin thumps. He pulled a small spiral bound notepad out of one and rested it on his knee.
"Better reception than my TV at home," John explained, giving the clerk a stray guilty glance. The young guy with glasses didn't look up from his magazine. "I tell them I'm waiting for my wife. Who's shopping." John leaned over conspiratorially. "If you say 'shopping' with just the right attitude, they'll let you stay here as long as you like."
"And I thought I was the only one who did this." Rodney snickered. "Though I usually just buy something portable and expensive and tell them to get lost." He brushed his hands off and snuggled his back more comfortably into their carpeted cube. "A pity we can't find a sports bar that'll show figure skating."
"Yes. Dehydration's a definite danger." John pursed his lips and agreed, bobbing his head mockingly.
"—we have the current National Champion, Kyle Fletcher, here to start us off."
They hushed each other for the celebrity interviews. The cameras switched to Kyle Fletcher, rink-side.
Kyle always looked like a deer caught in headlights in front of cameras, warm brown puppy eyes with long lashes gazing past them with a distant distracted look, lips parted like someone had just woke him up for a surprise interview, although it had to have been scheduled for weeks. He was the sort of guy who could walk around with his shirt half untucked all day and never notice. Everyone in the figure skating community knew that Kyle would rather eat a plate of his own shit than give an interview, but he had to do them all the time.
"So, Kyle, what do you think of your chances of taking the gold here today?"
He shifted uncomfortably, leaned in to the microphone, his shoulders tight, and said in a measured tone, "Uh. Probably pretty good."
"And what do you think of Jeff Kulka? They say he has the best shot at beating you this afternoon."
The microphone returned to Kyle.
"Jeff's a nice guy," he said, an eye tracking the camera with a nervous glance.
The woman from ABC struggled to get interesting answers from the reticent Fletcher, asking tougher questions. She towered over the five foot nine inch, twenty-two year old skater.
"I understand many people are critical of your decision not to attend the America Cup next week."
"To go to a cheese-fest," John supplied for them in an undertone, and Rodney snorted.
"What is your response?"
"Uh."
Rodney shook his head. "If there was ever a kid who needed his mother to still dress him...."
"Now, now," John said. "Try not to bite." Though inwardly he agreed, fully aware that he was mostly seething with jealousy.
Once Kyle had set a new standard for vagueness, ABC thanked him and cut away to rave about his unique style.
They showed clips of Fletcher's performance at Nationals, skating to Duke Ellington's "Caravan," music that was as unusual as his skating. He jumped clockwise instead of counterclockwise, and his jumping technique was weird, had this little flail before he left the ice that should lose him points – but it didn't matter. That extra push launched him incredibly high, high enough that there was the risk of his losing the ice on the way down. But he never did. The hang time meant that each jump was on display, seeming to hit slow motion in the air.
Beautiful. John shook his head, envy evaporating into clear-eyed wonder.
John bent to Rodney and murmured, "I want a free pass," his eyes on the screen like a cat. "If I ever get a chance to do Fletcher...."
"He has a girlfriend," Rodney scoffed.
"I said 'if.'"
Rodney snorted. "I can hardly see why, beyond the natural aphrodisiac of fame." Then smirked. "And, yes, but only if I get the same -- plus torrid photos of your whole affair. Close-ups," he added.
John waved a hand like a priest giving absolution. "You're forgiven, my wayward lamb." And got an elbow in the ribs for what he thought was a pretty good imitation of Obi-wan Kenobi.
The video froze with Fletcher still in mid-air, and the announcers talked about how even skaters who could do it avoided jumping so high because of the danger: it was that much harder to land on a quarter inch edge.
"Kyle's a high risk performer," said the woman with the red mittens.
He was musical, too, went to some kind of art school. But Fletcher only recently started landing his quads, and they didn't have the height and speed of his triple axel. That was the only area where John had him beat.
The television broke for a commercial – more popcorn, they were making John hungry -- then returned to a montage of the women skaters and an interview with Heidi Pauwels, even though the women's event wasn't for another two hours.
The first skater up was Jeff Kulka, skating gracelessly to center ice. The rules were loose at this "competition," with lyrics and even props allowed, the performance aspect coming first. The point was to please the crowd. And sell popcorn.
Kulka simply used his long program from Nationals, though he got a rousing cheer for a back flip he threw in.
John snorted at the cheap thrill. "That's easy."
"Shh," said Rodney, taking notes.
Kulka skated conservatively, seeming bored. Some skaters needed the edge of a real competition to turn them on.
Then after still more popcorn commercials – you never forgot who the sponsor was, now did you? – the cameras abruptly and inexpertly cut to Mark Svick, wearing a purple Prince Valiant costume. He let out a breath and began backward stroking, a little ahead of his music. John couldn't help a small vicious smile at that. He had nothing personal against Mark, they'd been chasing each other's tail winds at various competitions for two years, but after his disappointment over the America Cup, he resented anyone who was going. Though he'd been okay with it before.
He launched into his first combination jump, stepping into a beautiful triple salchow, then dug his toe pick into the ice and sprung into the double toe loop – and over rotated, landing with his skate almost sideways. John winced, a hiss through his teeth. Svick fell on his ass, and bounced back up, stroking to match the pace of his music. But he was already out of the running.
"Oh, that's such a shame...." said the announcer."
Rodney leaned forward, an elbow on his knee. He tapped his lower lip with a forefinger, and then held it up. "Medieval themes are being a tad overused this season but I like the effect."
John glanced at him in surprise, realizing for the first time that Rodney was watching for very different reasons. Rodney's eyes flicked between his notepad and the screen as he took rapid fire notes with incomprehensible arrows and stick figures.
The rest of Mark's program was picture perfect, effortless. John could almost see the pressure come off his thin shoulders as he relaxed into it.
At the end, the crowd cheered, recognizing the great recovery he'd made. Mark's prominent Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, beaming, and took a bow.
"What a wonderful performance," the woman with the red mittens said.
"He may not have won here today but he has certainly won over this crowd," the other announcer said, laughing.
So there was a point to cheese-fests after all.
The next skater was someone from Australia whom John had never heard of – and then a Japanese skater doing his first international performance. They were clearly saving Fletcher for last. Kulka, despite his lame performance, turned out to be in the lead, and the announcers were trying to drum up some excitement that Kulka "--might catch the elusive Fletcher just this once. Can he do it?"
As if Jeff's life goal were to beat Kyle, rather than the more practical aim of winning the fifteen grand slated for second place. John doubted even the television audience bought the phony tension. None of it mattered. All that was on the line was cash, not titles.
The skater right before Fletcher was the Korean-born American, Christian Yong Suk. The cheerful crowd hushed as he entered wearing head-to-toe black, with a black cape and white mask, straightening his leather gloves.
John perked up. He had to admit that the outfit was pretty cool. Everyone liked to play the bad guy. But Rodney had tipped his head in complete disdain, lips pressed together like he had a bad taste in his mouth, which John took to mean he'd shoot down any "cape" ideas in the near future.
The first strains of "O Fortuna" began, accompanied by drums and electric guitar -- John thought this was kick ass -- and Yong Suk took heavy spiraling steps, like a gladiator marching into the arena. Then he worked up his trademark intense speed, blazing around the far curve -- ABC had trouble switching cameras quick enough -- and slowed for his first triple-triple combination.
He hammered it. Sweet!
John caught the clerk and Rodney staring at him. He realized he might have said that aloud. "Sorry. Good jump."
"No, it wasn't," Rodney sniped.
"He nailed it," John said, turning to Rodney in annoyance.
"His coach shouldn't let him get away with that," Rodney said. "His shoulders hunched before the jump, he telegraphed it a mile beforehand, and then his landing was probably felt in Pittsburgh."
"He got his ass in the air and he was still standing afterward. That's a good jump." John began, a hand out, earnestly trying to explain this to Rodney. "Look. My brother's in the Air Force, right? The way he put it is this: a good landing is one you can walk away from. A great landing is one where you can reuse the plane."
Rodney's knowing chuckle was snide. "First, remind me to never fly with your brother, because the idea of anyone even remotely like you in control of a machine that's capable of a velocity of over four hundred miles per hour is frightening. Second," Rodney said with a smile, "airline travel has no bearing on the artistry of a perfect salchow."
"You have to not worry about how you do it. The more you think, the more likely you are to fuck it up."
"He's down! Christian Yong Suk is down!" the television shouted.
John and Rodney spun to the TV.
They found Yong Suk curled up on the ice, one hand wrapped around his knee, the shaky cameras zooming in as he tried to lever his shoulders off the ice with the other. People were hurrying onto the rink while cameras glided in close. Yong Suk shook his head, brushing them away.
"What happened?" Rodney turned to the clerk.
The young clerk shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, staring in fascination. "I dunno, exactly. It looked pretty silly at first but then he didn't get back up."
"The judges are offering... Yes, if Christian is able to, he will be allowed restart his program," the woman announcer said.
"It is so difficult to perform after a fall like that. You've lost all momentum and it's really hard to put it out of your mind. Let's have a look at what happened."
Eyes wide, John watched as ABC replayed the scene in slow motion. Yong Suk's twizzle steps, spinning on one leg as he swept off the cape. But instead of it fanning out around him, the cape wrapped around an arm--
"He could have recovered there, but then—" the woman announcer began.
In slow motion they watched Yong Suk struggle to shake it off, and the cape dropped to the ground. The slo-mo paused here, the cape in midair, almost at his feet—
"—And that's where it tangled his skate," she ended.
The replay inched forward to when the lump of fabric fell. Yong Suk jerked to a stop and went down like he'd been hit by a middle linebacker, arms out, jaw cracking the ice. The instant replay froze as he curled around his leg.
"Falls are so common in figure skating. You feel yourself start to go then try to control the landing. But here, something like this -- technically, he wasn't even on ice for a moment," the other announcer said in a gruff voice. "This is why props are not allowed in official competitions. One of the many, many, very good reasons."
The camera returned to Yong Suk in the present. He had an arm around his coach's shoulders, standing on the ice, his leg bent like a stork's. Officials and camera crews milled about him, cutting in front of the camera.
"He's not skating today," John said.
"The angle and speed he fell? I'd be worried about a hip fracture," Rodney responded. "They shouldn't be letting him stand on it."
"No. You got so much adrenaline pumping from the program and the fall, you can't feel what's going wrong," John agreed.
The woman broke in, "Well, we have the word now: Christian Yong Suk will not be restarting his program."
"We will have more information—and Kyle Fletcher—after a short commercial break."
"Is he going to be okay?" the clerk asked Rodney.
"The leg is still attached and he was able to stand, so he'll not be joining the society for the halt and lame anytime soon," Rodney said.
"But skating wise...." John broke in.
Rodney nodded. "His season's definitely over."
"Which..." John blinked once, face going blank. "...is a shame." And he was quiet a moment, before he added, "I mean, it--it could be a serious injury that affects him for the long haul. And that would be really bad."
"Yes, it's quite sad," Rodney agreed. Then pointed out, reassuring John, "Although he was walking."
"Yeah. That's... good. Still, uh, I hope he's okay," John said, licking his lips.
"Oh, yes," Rodney said. "Me, too."
They were silent a long, pregnant moment.
Rodney took a deep breath and said in a tight voice, not looking at John, thumbing towards the TV, "You're aware that you're next in line for the America Cup at this point, right?"
"Yep."
"So we can stop pretending now?"
John let out the breath he was holding, face in his hands. "It's the best news all week."
[Previous][Next]
Music:
Therion - O, Fortuna
Duke Ellington - Caravan
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "Sometimes you're depressingly American."
A/N: Thank you to
perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me, amothea for listening to me whine, and teaphile for her birds eye view. 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. After John gave up on making it to the America Cup this season, their teasing friendship developed into much more.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
John leaned out the car window, the light up menu glowing orange on his face as he scanned it, exhaust steaming around him. "I'll have an Egg McMuffin, hash browns ... you know what? Make that two hash browns. Large OJ." He ducked into the car. "What'll it be, Rodney? Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
"Sometimes you're depressingly American." Rodney folded his arms and refused to participate.
John smiled at the intercom, which was just bizarre because the speaker couldn't see him. "He'll have the same -- only coffee instead of OJ," he added quickly, holding up a hand to forestall Rodney's knee-jerk complaint. "Large coffee. He's cranky." John nodded, beaming. "Maybe we should get him a Happy Meal."
"You do know you're talking to a machine, right?"
"There's a real person on the other end," John said as he drove around to the drive-thru window.
"Fast food employees are not real people. They are illiterate morons whose sole purpose in life is to give you tepid water for your tea, forget the sugar, and yet insist on giving you a little paper cup with a nice deadly slice of lemon."
"I worked for McDonald's once. I used to close for the extra dollar an hour." John grinned as he handed Rodney the warm paper sacks. Rodney rattled through them suspiciously, counting hash browns while John handed over the cash.
"A lifetime of screwed up fast food orders has just been explained. Although no doubt the little paper hat looked sweet."
"I refused to wear the hat after the first day." John didn't wait for Rodney to finish perusing the bags and pulled away.
They were halfway out of the drive-thru about to head for the rink, when Rodney squawked, "Oh, I don't believe it!" He gave an exaggerated sigh, crumpling the bag between his knees. "Where are the napkins? God, these people can't get anything right."
John threw the car in reverse, arm slung over the seat looking over his shoulder as he backed up, fishtailing.
"Wait! You can't go backwards in a drive-thru! You're supposed to pull up to the side where they make you wait for special orders."
"No one's there, Rodney." John swerved a little to get a better angle of approach. "And it figures you'd be one of those assholes with the special orders."
The girl in the window stared, a little startled as they reappeared in reverse. John thumbed over at Rodney. "He needs napkins." He wrinkled his nose and said with a wide smirk, bobbing his head, "Messy eater."
Rodney made an annoyed sound in response. Then held up a forefinger, still staring into the bag. "Catsup," he announced.
Their next skate went reasonably well.
Rodney gave instructions.
John listened, his eyes on the ice, a little quieter than normal, which was bizarre.
He glided out to the center of the rink, his left skate carving him into a gentle turn, and did exactly what he was told, without debate, which left Rodney even more surprised. It was as if John were determined to prove that the other night wouldn't effect his training.
It was having quite the opposite effect. Rodney was beginning to wish that they'd done this sooner, insane risks to Rodney's career notwithstanding. He visualized conversations with John's former coach in his mind, Oh? How did I get him to listen to me? All you have to do is sleep with him and it's surprising how cooperative he becomes. No doubt half his pissiness is pure sexual frustration. Of course, Ed Wilcoxin was straight so it would never have worked for him.
Nevertheless, Rodney set aside their pairs skating for the time being, and he made a point of not touching John the way he would normally, maintaining his focus on simple footwork and stroking, working on subtle shifts in his edges. It conveniently kept him in constant motion and halfway across the rink for the entire session.
Rodney waved his approval from a distance and spun his finger to signal John to repeat the circuit. John gave him a duck of his head and a nod, and continued.
The last thing they needed was to start necking in the middle of the rink. Again.
They didn't mention a thing about the other night until John returned, his hair tousled, face damp, smelling sharply of male sweat. As he wiped down his skates – Rodney was already in his street clothes – John said:
"So. Tonight?"
Rodney paused, heart stopping.
"Sure," he said in a voice that was almost a squeak, much less confident than he would have liked. "My– my place?" he added, cursing himself for sounding like a love-struck teenager.
"Good." John looked up with soft eyes and gave him an endearing relieved smile, and Rodney thought that no one would blame him.
Later that evening, Rodney's neighbors were doing yard work in the bright gold sunset that cast a stark latticework of tree-branch shadows all the way down Rodney's street, the patchy dark gray clouds and puddles edged with color. Their son dragged two large trash cans full of leaves and dead branches to the curb, the surly slump of his shoulders advertising his resentment.
A dusty burgundy Chevy pulled into Rodney's drive, John's loud music thrumming but muted through the car door. The engine cut off into silence, the music with it. After a moment John stepped out, looking freshly scrubbed, hair relatively tamed, clean shaven, his narrow hazel eyes bright as he glanced up at the sky then pulled a daypack from the back seat.
There was a skip to his step as he climbed the stair to Rodney's porch and rang the bell.
At Tech Nine Audio in the mall, a wall of flickering big screen TVs were surrounded by banks of smaller sets that all showed the same commercial advertising Orville Redenbacher popcorn. They flashed to a swooping overhead view of Jamestown Savings Bank Ice Arena just outside of Buffalo, New York.
"Welcome back to the second annual Orville Redenbacher 'Reach For The Stars' Challenge, a who's who of figure skating's champions, plus a glimpse of our brightest rising young stars!"
Behind the two announcers, small, distant skaters warmed up on the ice.
"Yes, Ted. Everyone who's anyone is here today. Isn't it exciting?" gushed a woman with red mittens wrapped around her ABC microphone.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, John listened to the pre-competition commentary, shoulders hunched, looking much like a kid watching Saturday morning cartoons. A little plastic bag with a receipt and coiled extension cord in it slumped in his lap. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced over.
"Come here often?" Rodney stood in the glass doorway of the store, regarding him with a curious eye and warm quirk of a smile. Lazy Saturday shoppers passed behind him with packages and paper bags in hand. Two kids carrying drippy ice cream cones stumbled behind a tired looking woman pushing a stroller.
"Hey, stranger." John dipped his head and edged over to give him space against the carpeted cube he was using as a backrest. Rodney settled next to him, his own shopping bags rustling as dropped them on the floor with twin thumps. He pulled a small spiral bound notepad out of one and rested it on his knee.
"Better reception than my TV at home," John explained, giving the clerk a stray guilty glance. The young guy with glasses didn't look up from his magazine. "I tell them I'm waiting for my wife. Who's shopping." John leaned over conspiratorially. "If you say 'shopping' with just the right attitude, they'll let you stay here as long as you like."
"And I thought I was the only one who did this." Rodney snickered. "Though I usually just buy something portable and expensive and tell them to get lost." He brushed his hands off and snuggled his back more comfortably into their carpeted cube. "A pity we can't find a sports bar that'll show figure skating."
"Yes. Dehydration's a definite danger." John pursed his lips and agreed, bobbing his head mockingly.
"—we have the current National Champion, Kyle Fletcher, here to start us off."
They hushed each other for the celebrity interviews. The cameras switched to Kyle Fletcher, rink-side.
Kyle always looked like a deer caught in headlights in front of cameras, warm brown puppy eyes with long lashes gazing past them with a distant distracted look, lips parted like someone had just woke him up for a surprise interview, although it had to have been scheduled for weeks. He was the sort of guy who could walk around with his shirt half untucked all day and never notice. Everyone in the figure skating community knew that Kyle would rather eat a plate of his own shit than give an interview, but he had to do them all the time.
"So, Kyle, what do you think of your chances of taking the gold here today?"
He shifted uncomfortably, leaned in to the microphone, his shoulders tight, and said in a measured tone, "Uh. Probably pretty good."
"And what do you think of Jeff Kulka? They say he has the best shot at beating you this afternoon."
The microphone returned to Kyle.
"Jeff's a nice guy," he said, an eye tracking the camera with a nervous glance.
The woman from ABC struggled to get interesting answers from the reticent Fletcher, asking tougher questions. She towered over the five foot nine inch, twenty-two year old skater.
"I understand many people are critical of your decision not to attend the America Cup next week."
"To go to a cheese-fest," John supplied for them in an undertone, and Rodney snorted.
"What is your response?"
"Uh."
Rodney shook his head. "If there was ever a kid who needed his mother to still dress him...."
"Now, now," John said. "Try not to bite." Though inwardly he agreed, fully aware that he was mostly seething with jealousy.
Once Kyle had set a new standard for vagueness, ABC thanked him and cut away to rave about his unique style.
They showed clips of Fletcher's performance at Nationals, skating to Duke Ellington's "Caravan," music that was as unusual as his skating. He jumped clockwise instead of counterclockwise, and his jumping technique was weird, had this little flail before he left the ice that should lose him points – but it didn't matter. That extra push launched him incredibly high, high enough that there was the risk of his losing the ice on the way down. But he never did. The hang time meant that each jump was on display, seeming to hit slow motion in the air.
Beautiful. John shook his head, envy evaporating into clear-eyed wonder.
John bent to Rodney and murmured, "I want a free pass," his eyes on the screen like a cat. "If I ever get a chance to do Fletcher...."
"He has a girlfriend," Rodney scoffed.
"I said 'if.'"
Rodney snorted. "I can hardly see why, beyond the natural aphrodisiac of fame." Then smirked. "And, yes, but only if I get the same -- plus torrid photos of your whole affair. Close-ups," he added.
John waved a hand like a priest giving absolution. "You're forgiven, my wayward lamb." And got an elbow in the ribs for what he thought was a pretty good imitation of Obi-wan Kenobi.
The video froze with Fletcher still in mid-air, and the announcers talked about how even skaters who could do it avoided jumping so high because of the danger: it was that much harder to land on a quarter inch edge.
"Kyle's a high risk performer," said the woman with the red mittens.
He was musical, too, went to some kind of art school. But Fletcher only recently started landing his quads, and they didn't have the height and speed of his triple axel. That was the only area where John had him beat.
The television broke for a commercial – more popcorn, they were making John hungry -- then returned to a montage of the women skaters and an interview with Heidi Pauwels, even though the women's event wasn't for another two hours.
The first skater up was Jeff Kulka, skating gracelessly to center ice. The rules were loose at this "competition," with lyrics and even props allowed, the performance aspect coming first. The point was to please the crowd. And sell popcorn.
Kulka simply used his long program from Nationals, though he got a rousing cheer for a back flip he threw in.
John snorted at the cheap thrill. "That's easy."
"Shh," said Rodney, taking notes.
Kulka skated conservatively, seeming bored. Some skaters needed the edge of a real competition to turn them on.
Then after still more popcorn commercials – you never forgot who the sponsor was, now did you? – the cameras abruptly and inexpertly cut to Mark Svick, wearing a purple Prince Valiant costume. He let out a breath and began backward stroking, a little ahead of his music. John couldn't help a small vicious smile at that. He had nothing personal against Mark, they'd been chasing each other's tail winds at various competitions for two years, but after his disappointment over the America Cup, he resented anyone who was going. Though he'd been okay with it before.
He launched into his first combination jump, stepping into a beautiful triple salchow, then dug his toe pick into the ice and sprung into the double toe loop – and over rotated, landing with his skate almost sideways. John winced, a hiss through his teeth. Svick fell on his ass, and bounced back up, stroking to match the pace of his music. But he was already out of the running.
"Oh, that's such a shame...." said the announcer."
Rodney leaned forward, an elbow on his knee. He tapped his lower lip with a forefinger, and then held it up. "Medieval themes are being a tad overused this season but I like the effect."
John glanced at him in surprise, realizing for the first time that Rodney was watching for very different reasons. Rodney's eyes flicked between his notepad and the screen as he took rapid fire notes with incomprehensible arrows and stick figures.
The rest of Mark's program was picture perfect, effortless. John could almost see the pressure come off his thin shoulders as he relaxed into it.
At the end, the crowd cheered, recognizing the great recovery he'd made. Mark's prominent Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, beaming, and took a bow.
"What a wonderful performance," the woman with the red mittens said.
"He may not have won here today but he has certainly won over this crowd," the other announcer said, laughing.
So there was a point to cheese-fests after all.
The next skater was someone from Australia whom John had never heard of – and then a Japanese skater doing his first international performance. They were clearly saving Fletcher for last. Kulka, despite his lame performance, turned out to be in the lead, and the announcers were trying to drum up some excitement that Kulka "--might catch the elusive Fletcher just this once. Can he do it?"
As if Jeff's life goal were to beat Kyle, rather than the more practical aim of winning the fifteen grand slated for second place. John doubted even the television audience bought the phony tension. None of it mattered. All that was on the line was cash, not titles.
The skater right before Fletcher was the Korean-born American, Christian Yong Suk. The cheerful crowd hushed as he entered wearing head-to-toe black, with a black cape and white mask, straightening his leather gloves.
John perked up. He had to admit that the outfit was pretty cool. Everyone liked to play the bad guy. But Rodney had tipped his head in complete disdain, lips pressed together like he had a bad taste in his mouth, which John took to mean he'd shoot down any "cape" ideas in the near future.
The first strains of "O Fortuna" began, accompanied by drums and electric guitar -- John thought this was kick ass -- and Yong Suk took heavy spiraling steps, like a gladiator marching into the arena. Then he worked up his trademark intense speed, blazing around the far curve -- ABC had trouble switching cameras quick enough -- and slowed for his first triple-triple combination.
He hammered it. Sweet!
John caught the clerk and Rodney staring at him. He realized he might have said that aloud. "Sorry. Good jump."
"No, it wasn't," Rodney sniped.
"He nailed it," John said, turning to Rodney in annoyance.
"His coach shouldn't let him get away with that," Rodney said. "His shoulders hunched before the jump, he telegraphed it a mile beforehand, and then his landing was probably felt in Pittsburgh."
"He got his ass in the air and he was still standing afterward. That's a good jump." John began, a hand out, earnestly trying to explain this to Rodney. "Look. My brother's in the Air Force, right? The way he put it is this: a good landing is one you can walk away from. A great landing is one where you can reuse the plane."
Rodney's knowing chuckle was snide. "First, remind me to never fly with your brother, because the idea of anyone even remotely like you in control of a machine that's capable of a velocity of over four hundred miles per hour is frightening. Second," Rodney said with a smile, "airline travel has no bearing on the artistry of a perfect salchow."
"You have to not worry about how you do it. The more you think, the more likely you are to fuck it up."
"He's down! Christian Yong Suk is down!" the television shouted.
John and Rodney spun to the TV.
They found Yong Suk curled up on the ice, one hand wrapped around his knee, the shaky cameras zooming in as he tried to lever his shoulders off the ice with the other. People were hurrying onto the rink while cameras glided in close. Yong Suk shook his head, brushing them away.
"What happened?" Rodney turned to the clerk.
The young clerk shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, staring in fascination. "I dunno, exactly. It looked pretty silly at first but then he didn't get back up."
"The judges are offering... Yes, if Christian is able to, he will be allowed restart his program," the woman announcer said.
"It is so difficult to perform after a fall like that. You've lost all momentum and it's really hard to put it out of your mind. Let's have a look at what happened."
Eyes wide, John watched as ABC replayed the scene in slow motion. Yong Suk's twizzle steps, spinning on one leg as he swept off the cape. But instead of it fanning out around him, the cape wrapped around an arm--
"He could have recovered there, but then—" the woman announcer began.
In slow motion they watched Yong Suk struggle to shake it off, and the cape dropped to the ground. The slo-mo paused here, the cape in midair, almost at his feet—
"—And that's where it tangled his skate," she ended.
The replay inched forward to when the lump of fabric fell. Yong Suk jerked to a stop and went down like he'd been hit by a middle linebacker, arms out, jaw cracking the ice. The instant replay froze as he curled around his leg.
"Falls are so common in figure skating. You feel yourself start to go then try to control the landing. But here, something like this -- technically, he wasn't even on ice for a moment," the other announcer said in a gruff voice. "This is why props are not allowed in official competitions. One of the many, many, very good reasons."
The camera returned to Yong Suk in the present. He had an arm around his coach's shoulders, standing on the ice, his leg bent like a stork's. Officials and camera crews milled about him, cutting in front of the camera.
"He's not skating today," John said.
"The angle and speed he fell? I'd be worried about a hip fracture," Rodney responded. "They shouldn't be letting him stand on it."
"No. You got so much adrenaline pumping from the program and the fall, you can't feel what's going wrong," John agreed.
The woman broke in, "Well, we have the word now: Christian Yong Suk will not be restarting his program."
"We will have more information—and Kyle Fletcher—after a short commercial break."
"Is he going to be okay?" the clerk asked Rodney.
"The leg is still attached and he was able to stand, so he'll not be joining the society for the halt and lame anytime soon," Rodney said.
"But skating wise...." John broke in.
Rodney nodded. "His season's definitely over."
"Which..." John blinked once, face going blank. "...is a shame." And he was quiet a moment, before he added, "I mean, it--it could be a serious injury that affects him for the long haul. And that would be really bad."
"Yes, it's quite sad," Rodney agreed. Then pointed out, reassuring John, "Although he was walking."
"Yeah. That's... good. Still, uh, I hope he's okay," John said, licking his lips.
"Oh, yes," Rodney said. "Me, too."
They were silent a long, pregnant moment.
Rodney took a deep breath and said in a tight voice, not looking at John, thumbing towards the TV, "You're aware that you're next in line for the America Cup at this point, right?"
"Yep."
"So we can stop pretending now?"
John let out the breath he was holding, face in his hands. "It's the best news all week."
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Music:
Therion - O, Fortuna
Duke Ellington - Caravan
