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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: The competition season begins. "The Regional Championship had the tacky aura of a children's birthday party."
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and tireless betas,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rabidfan and roaringmice.
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
The Century clubhouse had been rented expressly for this event, largely an opportunity to flatter the patrons and give them a chance to wear lovely dresses and meet the stars. The room was dim, with a grand piano, classic cove ceilings, and rather worn oriental carpeting, but it was known for its display of hand-blown art by a noted local artist. A few former champions active in U.S. figure skating made the rounds, shaking hands, arms slung around their shoulders for the flash of photos. Rumor had it that Kyle Fletcher would make a brief appearance; the older skaters would be abandoned the instant Kyle stepped into the room.
Radek glanced over to spy a woman overdressed in a red gown worthy of Marilyn Monroe. She was hard to miss.
Probably a former skater. They weren't held to any sort of fashion standard, unlike the judges. Petr at the Czech Olympic committee had dressed Radek in quirky Paul Smith sweaters and jackets, for the sake of their "image" he explained, and mutual friends had forced Radek to buy more trendy glasses. He had no complaints, although he joked that they needed to invent practical paper clothes since he inevitably spilled something, and someone was forever making him wipe fingerprints off his glasses.
He sipped his wine, deciding it was overly sweet but not bad. The art was far better, if a bit modern for his tastes. Still, he appreciated the whimsy of the rounded teardrop shaped tulips. He took a break from the exhausting friendliness by pretending to study them.
A few meters away, a familiar feminine voice caught Radek's attention. Sonja. He glanced over and realized she was the one in the red gown, blocked partially by the piano. She'd dyed her hair white blond for the occasion.
"Oh, Rodney and I are old friends," Sonja was saying in an undertone implying that it was probably more, one hand toying with her necklace. The man beside her—Radek guessed him to be either press or marketing; he had the cynical air of one who thought himself too clever by half—briefly glanced down her cleavage before turning a smirk up at her. "He's making a comeback, you know."
"McKay's skating again?" the man asked with a brief flicker of surprise, entertained but disbelieving.
"Not exactly," she said with a coquettish smile. "You'll see."
A younger fellow with impeccable hair behind them had heard the conversation, glancing over his shoulder, his manner laconic and spoiled. "Oh, Sonja, don't tease us."
Her gaze swiveled around the room and lighted on Radek. She wiggled her fingers at him, her eyes sparkling. "Well, it's not confirmed yet. But I have it on very good authority that he'll be at your American Sectionals. Mids, in fact."
"I heard he was coaching," said a woman in a sensible suit and white silk blouse. She bit into a strawberry.
"I haven't seen him coaching anyone," the spoiled young fellow said.
"Let me give me you my number," the first man said smoothly, his eyes sharpening on her face now. He had a card in his hand like a magic trick. Definitely media, Radek decided.
Sonja mimed zipping her lip and throwing away the key, tantalizing her audience and brushing the card aside. "I can say nothing more." She left them as they rolled their eyes in frustrated curiosity.
She sidled in next to Radek. "Buy me a drink?" she asked.
It was an open bar.
"What are you doing here?" he muttered to her.
"Everyone with a gold medal is invited, you know that," she said. "What are you doing here?" She flicked her hand gesturing at the rest of the room. "These are American sponsors. You are on the wrong continent."
"I'm visiting old friends; catching up." He glanced at her frank doubt-filled face and admitted with a bashful lean, "He deserves the best chance possible."
"What Rodney doesn't know won't hurt me," she agreed, nodding.
Radek glanced around the room cautiously and took another sip of champagne. "So. Press kits?"
She gave him a sly smile, eyes gleaming with mischief. "If some fan assembles them, who's to stop them?"
"I'll get you the disks." She gave him a bland, uncomprehending smile, taking in the room. "For the photos," he reminded her.
"Ah. Yes," she said, and added cheerfully, "If we are caught, I am blaming you."
"He'll never believe you," Radek assured her, also smiling. After a thoughtful pause, he took a sip and gestured to her with his champagne glass. "You know... you are not as bad as I remember."
"Did we meet before?" Sonja asked, turning to tilt her head at him quizzically.
~*~*~
A cluster of little girls scampered through the front hall of the rink and collided with John's legs. Their hair was up in braids, team jackets zipped and worn with sneakers and skating dresses underneath. They glanced up at him guiltily and dashed off, squeaking and shrill.
The Eastern Great Lakes Regional Championship had the tacky aura of a children's birthday party. A dozen or so vendors crowded the front entry hall above the rink. A little girl in heavy make-up sat primly on a stool while her hair was professionally braided with teal ribbon. Behind her, a display of draped ribbons held enough colors for a paint store. Pink sweatshirts with the words "Girl Power!" and "Skate Great!" printed in glitter were folded on another table where a sewing machine hammered in the background, monogramming T-shirts. A rack of skating dresses on sale separated the vendors from the snack stand; people in line for hot dogs pawed through them. On the far wall, beyond the chaos, hung a trophy case with photos of the local hockey team, frowning and looking merciless in full armament.
John moved easily through shoulder-high groups of giggling teenagers with their hair up, edging past parents to the bulletin board where the skating schedule was posted. He wedged himself between two preteen boys with longish hair who'd leaned against the wall, attempting to look cool and distance themselves from all the girls. They looked up at him in a mixture of relief and gratitude, respectfully stepping aside.
"Nine o'clock tomorrow," John called out to where Rodney was marooned a few meters away in the line to pick up their competition passes.
"Tell me that's a.m.," Rodney complained.
"Not unless I'm back to skating Juveniles," John said.
Rodney understood scheduling the little ones early, it saved everyone headaches, but—"The way these things run over, you won't be skating till ten o'clock!"
John shook his head. "Nah. Detroit's tough about their schedules." He'd skated Eastern Great Lakes before. His own region, Upper Great Lakes, often canceled senior men's altogether. "You're late? Too bad."
"So when's your practice ice?" Rodney asked.
"Tomorrow morning." John smirked, turning to glance over his shoulder at Rodney. "Guess where."
Rodney rolled his eyes in frustration and let his head drop, resigned. "Overflow to another rink?"
"Too noisy here anyway," John said diplomatically and walked over to join him in line. "Buy ice time tonight?" he suggested, rapping on the wall absently with a knuckle.
In Rodney's opinion, the Regional competitions should give precedence to the senior level skaters, but unfortunately, low level competitions were run by local volunteers, most of whom were the parents of younger skaters. They arranged the schedule to suit themselves. "If they've got it, we'd better. Half the point of practice ice is to familiarize yourself with the rink."
The windows across the hall overlooked the ice where the competition was already underway. A little girl in gauzy purple was in the midst of her long program, a small audience huddled in the stands. There was scattered applause as she completed a long spiral sequence, struggling to keep her back leg high.
Her music filtered through the glass, a peppy 1930s jitterbug. Rodney couldn't resist bouncing to Benny Goodman's "Sing, Sing, Sing, with a Swing." John shot him a curious glance.
When the frantic woman behind the counter finally handed them the passes—and more paperwork that no one had bothered to mention; U.S. rinks were terrified of litigation—John dangled them by their alligator clips and said, "Here we go."
Rodney gave in and shimmied in time with the hot jazz. John chuckled.
~*~*~
Of course the ice was completely booked for the weekend, thanks to Rodney's inability to plan ahead (according to John), or thanks to the rink's inability to provide adequate phone coverage so he could book it from Toronto (according to Rodney). They argued comfortably all the way back to the hotel. It shouldn't matter. John was experienced enough not to be spooked by a different rink.
At seven a.m. the next morning they got lost on the way to the overflow rink and had to ask directions, which an apple-cheeked guy in a suit at a Denny's delivered rapid fire, nodding helpfully before he walked away. Still lost, they had to ask two more people, who did the exact same thing. They all did it. Rodney had never thought he'd feel like such a foreigner in the United States.
It did give him an opportunity to tank up on more coffee, however.
No thanks to the locals, they found the rink at last and parked the Honda (despite John's leg room argument, Rodney's gas mileage argument had won). Once inside, Rodney set John to jogging up and down the bleachers. The rink was large and utilitarian with an aluminum roof that gave it the air of a warehouse. Concrete floors and metal seats radiated cold. The bleacher stairs thumped and rang with John's footsteps.
Rodney stretched. He leaned his elbows on the edge of the boards, sipped his coffee absently, and then checked the revised skating schedule. Sometimes the other skater pulled out at the last minute when he discovered there were only two men in the competition, given they'd both move up to Sectionals by default. Those who went to Regionals often used it as a practice run. But he hadn't withdrawn.
As usual, the Novice women's schedule was so overloaded it would take most of the day. In Canada they did qualifying rounds to clear-cut the herd.
"I heard a rumor that you were coming back," a voice behind and to his right said.
Rodney swallowed his coffee and turned. The man gave him a cold smile. Balding sloped forehead, short and stocky, and bundled up like a coach, with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops, he looked both victorious and pissed.
Name, name, Rodney could place the face, but not the name....
Oh, right. That's because Rodney had only really known him by his nickname. One that Rodney himself had given him ten years ago. Ted-something, a former champion who'd become a perennial favorite headlining at Disney's World on Ice, otherwise known as the "Mice Capades," an undignified end to a distinguished career. Rodney as the reigning champion had dubbed him "Mr. Bojangles" when the man briefly returned to competition, and the sports writers had lapped it up. John's footsteps silenced as he paused in his jogging, standing on the steps behind the guy.
"Yes, well, excuse me—" Rodney pushed by Bojangles, who was heavier now and a textbook reminder of the chilling inevitability of entropy. "—we have a practice session." He grabbed John by the upper arm and drew him away towards the opposite side of the rink.
"Is everything all right, Rodney?" John asked with an edge of suspicion. He cast a backward glance at the guy, who watched Rodney with steady hatred, and then turned to leave. "You owe a debt to the mob or something?"
"Just an old—" Rodney fumbled. "—friend," he said for lack of a better word, swallowing, his throat tight.
"Yeah, well you better hope your 'friend' didn't bring his brass knuckles," John commented, staring after him as the door closed. His expression turned speculative, creasing into a little frown. "He did look familiar... hey, wait. Wasn't that, whatshisname..." John snapped his fingers a couple times, trying to remember. He lit up. "...Mr. Bojangles?"
"I can't believe he's held onto that for twelve years!" Rodney spluttered.
"What did you do?"
"It wasn't that bad—and wait, why would it be something I did?" Rodney complained. "Get out there on the ice. I want to see choreography. Forget the jumps. No, don't forget them, just—oh, you know what I mean."
By the time John had finished his first lap, Rodney had calmed down enough to finish his tepid coffee. He breathed out a sigh, his breath misting. He tucked his arms around himself and tried to focus on John's skating.
~*~*~
John dropped to the motel bed, stuffing his face into the pillow. He plumped it while Rodney drew the drapes. They'd figured no one would notice their sharing at a family event like the Regionals—that plus driving cut costs—but Rodney was taking no chances now.
John curled on his side, turning flirtatious eyes on Rodney, who sat down on the bed with a sigh. His knee slid over to Rodney, stretching closer.
Rodney shoved it away, then pulled off his boots. Kicking off his own shoes, John burrowed under the blankets. His toes crept over to Rodney, nudging him. John gave him a puffy-eyed pleased smile.
Rodney uncooperatively edged away, saying, "No." His eyes circled up at the ceiling for patience.
"Get rid of the pre-competition jitters," John offered with a shrug, folding his arms behind his head and stretching comfortably.
Rodney pointed at him. "I'll make you sleep in the other bed."
"C'mon," John scoffed with a dry whine. "There's no losing here. It might as well be an exhibition."
"You are far from ready."
John curled over onto his side, tucked his arm under the pillow and—dear God—pouted.
"That's why we're here," Rodney insisted, refusing to give way to that melting sensation which could only presage trouble. "I don't ever want to see you go into a competition overconfident." He got up and moved to the other bed, more to cut off his own temptation than John's. "Or spent."
The pout threatened to turn into a sulk.
"I promise you, you'll thank me later," Rodney said.
John's eyebrows went up then pulled together in a scowl. He peered at Rodney, squinting. "You know, sounding like my dad is deeply unsexy."
~*~*~
They'd had an entire afternoon and most of the evening to kill before John's competition, yet somehow, restless naps aside, the time flew. Rodney did a last check for skates, skate guards, water bottles, tissues, wallet, car keys, hotel key cards, and the rink passes, insisting that John change into his costume at the hotel so they wouldn't forget it (oh, yes, that had happened to Rodney)—
"I'd rather change at the rink."
"It takes longer!"
"It always makes me feel like I'm trick or treating if I go out in costume."
—Rodney won that fight. Outside, John shoved his way into the driver's seat, explaining as he slammed the door, "We need to get there today, grandma."
Then proceeded to drive like a demon. Which fit in with the locals, actually. On the freeway Rodney's breath caught as cars swept around them. "I hate this," John said, breezing across three lanes of traffic. He shifted from 60 to 35 mph on the off-ramp. "Next time, I don't care if you have to sit through a hundred little kids' performances, we're leaving early."
Moments later, he backed into a parking space with unnecessary and inadvisable speed. Rodney braced himself between the car door and the dashboard. Didn't he know that the majority of automobile accidents occurred in parking lots?!
John abandoned Rodney in the car and strode towards the rink, shoulders stiff, radiating irritation. Rodney scrambled to catch up, momentarily distracted by the pale, flesh-colored tights under John's jacket. Huh. His legs did look like Popsicle sticks.
He opted not to mention it. Number one, he couldn't fix it; number two, he was still annoyed about that "grandma" comment.
Fortunately, Rodney's prediction that the competition would run late proved correct, and John sagged in relief. Instead of arriving with barely ten minutes to spare, the senior men's had been pushed back to nine-thirty. They had forty minutes before the warm-up. Alongside the ice below, the other skater, dressed head to toe in a silver jumpsuit, had taken off his skates and paced the sidelines, looking frustrated and impatient.
The Novice women's competition was still underway.
John double-checked the skate order while Rodney smirked through the window at a rather porcine woman who wobbled on a painfully slow spiral, her leg high, like a hippopotamus imitating a swan. Probably not tonight's winner, no. By going slow she'd increased the difficulty nine-fold and wasted her advantage of power. But some skaters were afraid of speed—or, more accurately, falling at speed.
"Mr. McKay?" a swallowed voice asked behind him.
Startled, Rodney spun around to find a stressed-looking woman in barrettes flanked by two children who clung to her legs making whiny noises. One sort of... climbed... dragging on her cardigan. Her eyes pinwheeled, like she was at the end of her rope. Some people weren't cut out to be skating moms.
"Could you....?" She ignored the climber and held out her crumpled skating program, obviously the first thing that had come to hand.
"Sure."
A cluster of fans quickly formed. Rodney beamed as he was asked to sign backpacks, a T-shirt a little girl had just bought—"Better make that indelible ink... ah, the lady behind the counter has a magic marker for us"—as more people realized just who he was. He posed between two teenage girls while their mother took a photo. Another program was handed over the girls' heads.
John laid a palm on Rodney's shoulder.
"Hmm?" Rodney blinked up from the final swoop of his classic 'Y'.
"Why don't we get this show on the road?" John said dryly. "Before we're late again."
"Oh, yes. Yes, of course." Rodney capped the latest pen and found its owner. "Sorry, folks," he said to his fans, dipping his head with a smug little blocking wave. "More will have to wait."
John's hand slid to the back of Rodney's shoulder and pressed him towards the steps to the lockers. As they trundled down the stairs and turned the corner, Rodney sighed with open satisfaction. "Ah, fans... a balm to the battered soul...."
Take that, Bojangles.
John didn't hear him. He tugged on the sleeves of his jacket, revealing the over-sized Hawaiian shirt. He sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, his chin balanced on laced fingers. His eyes focused downward, staring into nothing... his face serious, determined, descending into the competitor's head space.
~*~*~
John stayed on the ice after the warm-up to the short program, the first to skate. By the boards the other skater, a nervous eighteen year old with slicked back hair wearing a silver bodysuit, bent his head to his coach, nodding.
John was a more independent competitor. He didn't want to chat before competitions, just held his hand out absently for the bottled water, drank, capped it, and handed it back.
In the stands behind Rodney, two skating moms nattered about their day. "Her program was perfect, what happened?"
"She forgot the triple. Just clean forgot it."
"Oh my God."
"She's taking it well, but I doubt it's hit her yet."
"All that work...."
Rodney glared at the women but they were impervious to the silencing power of his mind. Beyond them, about thirty or so people in matching blue skating club jackets sipped coffee and nibbled nachos, paying little attention to the ice; likely waiting for the senior women's competition next. At least the very young skaters had gone home. In the front row, teens still in costume leaned forward, slouched, twitched, and whispered to one another, far more keen to watch a senior skater in action.
John's name was called. "Skating on behalf of...."
John kicked himself forward, gliding smoothly out to center ice, his arms upraised, his hands cutting upward in an amused gesture. It struck the right humorous note. Rodney approved.
His legs carved a wide circle at the middle of the rink, the Hawaiian shirt fluttering. John struck the opening pose.
"He must use Nair," one of the teenage girls giggled. Rodney flinched.
Then 'Surf Rider' began, and Rodney's attention zeroed in on John.
~*~*~
There was scattered applause as John took his final bow, smiling. The kids in the front row had liked it, he could tell. There weren't very many of them but they were clapping loudly.
The judges? Well, he wasn't so sure. He kept his spirits up as he skated off the ice with light strokes, looking up at the ceiling. The sudden come down from pre-competition adrenaline made him dizzy.
He cut Rodney off as he slid to a stop at the boards and clipped on his skate guards, "I know, I took an extra step between the two jumps. I was going to blow it. I could feel it, and I did what I had to."
"Please, anyone could see you under-rotated there and weren't going to make it. What I'm concerned about is the fact that you did your entire program in slow motion. They have cameras and software for that. You don't have to do it for them."
"You said 'surfer cool.'"
"There's a difference between 'cool' and 'laconic.' I wanted to slap a jet pack on you! How do you expect--" Rodney lowered his voice suddenly, giving the opposing coach a quick surreptitious glance. "--how do you expect to win like that?"
The opposing team was deep in conference. Then the coach patted the kid's shoulder just before he skated onto the ice. Legs apart and sliding backward with small pushes, the kid tugged at the sleeves of his silver bodysuit.
"Go, Jason!" a woman's voice called out.
The entire skating club in the blue jackets stirred. Uh-oh. Rodney recognized the signs of a local boy. Of course, the judges weren't local so it wasn't a genuine issue, but it could be potentially demoralizing for John as the outsider.
The kid struck his pose. Straightened his back. Melodramatic synthesizers began. He raised his arms left then right in an arrow-like slicing gesture, dropping and bouncing them back up, robot-like, in time with the music.
"Oh, cool, Street Fighter," John observed. He leaned his chin on his arms on the side of the rink.
"What's that? Some Japanese anime?" Rodney asked. It had that tinny Japanimation feel to it.
"Video game," John said.
Rodney gave the kid a flat disbelieving stare. "I've now officially seen everything."
The kid edged his back leg out, starting backwards, a difficult entrance. He turned with quick footwork and stroked forward, picking up the robot arm gestures again as he followed the edge of the rink. Good sense of the music, if not quite enough flow. Rodney nodded cautiously.
He threw an easy double Lutz -- and bobbled the landing, swaying and almost falling face-first. John and Rodney jolted forward as if to catch him, but he made it without their imaginary help, barely holding on. They glanced around, embarrassed, if a little proud of themselves. Although every skater in the rink had done the same.
The kid had lost all speed and pumped to catch up to his music. The crowd clapped and hooted.
He proceeded to collapse sideways in a sit-spin, something Rodney had never seen before. The kid pushed himself off the ice with one hand and swung back up, salvaging his spin sequence, his outstretched leg dipping in an off-balance camel.
John and Rodney exchanged a look. The crowd cheered again encouragingly as the kid fumbled yet another jump.
Rodney licked his lips. "Never mind. Skate as slow as you like."
~*~*~
Since John was in first, he had skated last for the freeskate.
The small crowd clapped as he took his final bow and took circling strokes to the edge of the rink. It was tiring to "skate pretty" when you were already wiped, but every minute the judges saw you perform counted. Stepping off the ice, John mopped at his face with a towel Rodney handed him, still trying to catch his breath.
"That fast enough for you?" John breathed at last.
"That'll do for today," Rodney said. John took that as high praise. "But don't think that makes up for Surf Rider, not by a long shot, and we're going to have a talk about arm movement."
A few feet away, he caught the open look of dismay on the other skater's face. John looked up at the ceiling of the rink, glad to be back competing. He almost even felt sorry for the guy.
Almost.
~*~*~
The day following the freeskate, John looked down at his hands, smirking as he unlocked the car door. The ribbon of his gold medal dangled out of the back pocket of his jeans. "Yeah, the competition isn't exactly steep at this level."
"I remember working a lot harder at Regionals," Rodney complained. "I even lost once."
He'd been knocked out for an entire season. It was a bitter memory. He'd slammed doors and been gloomy all the way past Christmas. Only watching the guy who'd beaten him get utterly, completely trounced at Nationals had improved his mood.
John shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe it is. Winter sports are a lot more popular in Canada." He opened the car door, then seemed to think the better of it. "You want to take the wheel?"
"Huh? Uh, sure."
John settled into the passenger side and reclined the seat all the way back. He massaged his right knee with a sigh while Rodney pulled out of the parking space, hunched over the steering wheel and still complaining. "I'm not sure I'd have kept competing if it were that easy."
"I told you. Radek told you," John said. "Don't worry. Sectionals are the real thing."
"At least we shook out the flaws in your programs." Rodney glanced at him with clear blue eyes and pointed, stabbing a forefinger in his direction. "And by 'flaws' I mean you sleeping through 'Surf Rider.' And just what happened to all the arm movement in the freeskate today?"
"I was focusing on the footwork...." John whined, arms cupped around his knee.
~*~*~
The suitcases sat side by side in the hall, nothing unpacked except the toothbrushes and John's costumes. Rodney's answering machine had more messages than he cared to contemplate. He'd promised himself he'd check them from the road but never had.
It was always vaguely disconcerting to return from a competition, only to find everything the same, if slightly messier than you remembered. There ought to be ticker tape or some disaster that proved that the world couldn't do without you for a week.
They'd changed into sweats and curled up on the coach, shoes scattered on the floor around them. The blanket had fallen off. John slumped, limp as a dishrag, with his back leaned against the arm of the coach, one knee up, the other leg stretched out, toes nearly touching the ticklish spot on Rodney's side. Rodney's legs were bracketed by John's, and his foot had found a home by John's crotch. John had folded his arms, his mouth soft, lips slightly parted. His chest rose and fell in a slow exhausted rhythm. A sliver of his eyes glimmered under lowered lashes. Rodney knew from experience that John sometimes slept with his eyes open, which was creepy, but no worse than snoring.
Rodney paused the recording of his students' local competition, taking a break.
John snuffled and stirred, eyes blinking closed, then open again. His gaze settled on the television. "What you watching...?" he asked in a thick voice.
"Work. Now go back to sleep."
For once, John complied.
~*~*~
"Oh my God...." Rodney complained at the television, reaching for the remote to rewind.
He jostled John, who'd shifted around to lay with his cheek on Rodney's thigh.
"How could Melanie blow ... she never has trouble with her spins, she has pretty spins, it's the jumps that—ooookay," he interrupted himself. "That was about as terrible a jump I've seen ... Get up, get up, you don't get points for sitting on the ice... hell, how is she going to make up the time?"
Rodney stood, letting John's head drop to the cushion. John grabbed a throw pillow and resolutely tried for more sleep.
He tried to ignore the sound of Rodney in the kitchen, but it was like trying to ignore a freight train steaming by your window. Just no dice. He got up and aimed an unfocused glare in Rodney's direction. He filled a glass of water from the tap.
Rodney held up a finger for silence as he listened intently to the phone. "You get one, exactly one day to recover," he told John, "and that largely because I need it, too, so you'd better take full advantage."
"My pillow walked off," John said.
"Damn it!"
Startled, John choked on some water. Rodney slammed down the receiver.
"A complete and total meltdown. She crumbled! Melanie is in no way, shape or form ready to compete—yes, she has most of the basics down and she can perform her little heart out—yet mentally?" He made a cringing face. "Do they listen? Noooo, her mother has to have her to compete at Regionals, never mind what I think."
"I thought you said Melanie could go to Regionals," John puzzled.
"No. I never said that."
John's eyes narrowed as he tilted his head, fox-like. "I distinctly heard you on the phone at the rink...."
"These people want to see progress!" Rodney declared with flinging gestures. "They want to see competitions and medals and trophies or else they fire you or talk about you behind your back, humiliating you to every coach in town!"
"I'm not seeing too many medals here."
"Yes! That's right! Exactly! They've got a good dose of reality now haven't they?! At this point the Weirs can either go back to my program and my pace, or hurry up and fire me." Rodney slumped, looking dismal. "And Elizabeth's taking her sweet time about it, too. If she wanted to wait till the end of the season? Then, fine. The season's over."
John fell conspicuously silent.
"What?" Rodney snapped defensively.
"I'm guess I'm just glad that I'm not nine years old," John said with a vague shrug and a shake of his head.
"Oh!" Rodney spluttered. "You want to deal with parents' unrealistic expectations that far outstrip their little darlings' talent -- or in this case, utter lack of competitive spirit -- then go right ahead! You have the job offer. Enjoy!"
"I'm not a coach," John growled.
~*~*~
The suite had a somewhat organic decor and was decorated in autumn colors. The lampshades had Rhododendron leaves pressed into them to cast leafy, comforting shadows, while the brown metal lamp bases twined in the shape of vines. The art was blandly modern, with reds and browns in a suggestion of swirling leaves and wind, the couch cushions plump and soft. Rather than a typical closet, they had an old-fashioned wardrobe. Radek hung up his garment bag, appreciating the solid oak as he shut the door. His assistant had done well. One could almost forget one was in downtown Chicago.
Radek contacted the front desk and requested a wake-up call, then wandered his suite, postponing work. He stripped off his tie, dropping cufflinks on the dresser. Then he ruffled his hair and wandered into the bathroom to start the shower.
His cell phone twittered. He fished it out of his trouser pocket, shutting off the water, accidentally getting his watch wet.
"Hello? Maggie?" He listened, nodding. "Ah, yes. Tell them I can't make it. I've an appointment this evening—business or pleasure?" His tone turned sardonic. "Yes, Maggie, I have a date with a very bald, very fat old man."
He sat down on the loveseat and toed off his loafers. He chuckled. "No, no, an ex-skater, very important in U. S. figure skating—although they're just as bad as ex-skiers, it is true. You should see my friend Rodney. He's gained at least two stone in five years."
His breath hissed through his teeth. "Viktor-?" Radek winced sympathetically. "He's done for. I watched him train last weekend. His qualification jump was the worst I have ever seen from him, and it was no aberration, of that I am certain." He leaned forward, adjusting his glasses back up his nose. "I suspect it's due to nerves from his last crash—"
Radek shook his head definitively. "No, no, no. I doubt it. He will not recover. Nerve, that is all a ski jumper has. It takes a special sort of crazy to do this. If they lose their nerve, that means they have become, well... sane. And just like one cannot be cured of being healthy, one cannot be cured of sanity. He is finished."
He sagged back in the overstuffed loveseat. The gas fireplace flickered behind the grate, casting soft dancing shadows. "Oh. Yes. By all means, keep him on the team. There is no replacement and it would depress the rest if he were removed for no reason. But barring a miracle, this is his last year."
The hotel phone jangled. "Oh. Um. One moment." He put the cell on mute and crossed the room to answer. "Yes? ... Ah, yes. I appreciate it."
He returned to his other call. "I must go, Maggie. My guest is early. Wish me luck? ... What? You can't wish me luck without knowing what it's-- thank you."
~*~*~
Radek peered into the murmuring hotel bar and brushed at his trousers. Trevor had a large head and had always seemed to chew his words. He greeted Radek with an affable smile, waving to the barstool beside him. His face usually turned pinker as he drank and, based on his color, Radek suspected he was at least a round ahead. No, he didn't mind if Radek smoked.
"Are you still involved in figure skating?" Radek asked. It was a little coy of him perhaps, but it was best not to be obvious.
"If you mean that it's taking every waking hour, you bet," Trevor laughed.
Radek nodded knowingly. "Sports do that." And they traded complaints they both knew at heart were insincere. No one became so deeply involved if they didn't love their sport.
"My kids had an argument over whether I had straight or curly hair." Trevor shook his head.
"I think my dog believes my housekeeper is his owner," Radek chuckled.
"Get a cat. An angora—smart bastards. They're like raccoons; open doors, get into everything."
As mutual friends had told him, Trevor had moved up from judging, taking a more "active role" as they put it, in the U.S. Figure Skating Association. It wasn't difficult to shift the topic of conversation to the promotional side of figure skating.
"Fletcher's good, useful—hell, he's a star. That's always good. Plus he's got 'lost puppy' appeal. But there's also this mamma's boy vibe that's turning some people off. We're playing up the art school angle to offset it."
"What about the other skaters? I hear Rodney McKay is coaching some Americans...." Radek suggested, wincing inwardly.
"God." Trevor head dropped, hands cupped around his drink. "I'd kill for a Rodney McKay right now. The Canadians had it good. Smart, articulate—funny. Loved the cameras. So quotable, the sportswriters followed him around like bees. I tell you, if he'd won Olympic gold as expected, McKay would have written a lot of people's meal tickets."
"They were upset?"
"Pissed beyond belief."
"McKay's back," Radek said, taking a sip of his mostly untouched drink.
"Really?" Trevor turned with cheerful disbelief. "Skating?"
Radek shook his head. "He's coaching now."
"Who?"
"Oh, a number of young Canadian skaters. But one American. John Sheppard?" Radek said.
"Never heard—oh, wait. Tall, skinny guy, a perennial at Nationals. McKay came out of the woodwork for that guy?"
"Must be something to him." Radek carefully hid his face behind the glass, taking another sip, to make sure he appeared only mildly interested.
"I'll say."
Trevor was quiet a long minute, chewing this over. He frowned. "He's getting up there though, isn't he? I mean, he's twenty-six if he's a day."
Radek shrugged one shoulder.
Trevor turned and planted his elbows back on the bar, his drink in his hand, amber liquid swirling. "Still, he'd be great for the brand." He tapped his glass with his fingertips. "Masculine. Athletic-looking—I remember that. Hmm." His eyes unfocused for a moment, then he snapped to the present. "He got a girlfriend?"
Radek spread his hands.
"Because you have no idea how hard it is to fight the Tinkerbell image...." And Radek braced himself for the corporate sponsorship rant that he had heard many times before.
~*~*~
"All right, now watch me."
Rodney took John's starting pose without the music and moved into the initial spin, his back blade scraping the ice.
"You learned my whole program?"
"Yes, and it doesn't suit me one bit," Rodney said with a grunt. He landed a single instead of John's triple axel, then sketched out the choreography in silence as he shifted into the footwork sequence. "I need you to be observant now. What am I doing that you're not?"
"Well, for one thing, that jump? Really needed a lot more height," John said, one hand on his hip as he lounged against the boards. He gave Rodney a tight, naughty smirk.
Rodney sighed, shoulders slumping as he dropped the program mid-way. He put his hands on his hips and curved back around towards John, carving a sharper stop than his usual. That program was inspirational. Almost a "John mind-map." Sonja was a genius.
Well, a flawed genius. Rodney's mouth slanted in a frown.
"Okay," John finally gave in and answered. "You were more..." He looked for a word. "...flowery than me."
"Because...?" Rodney circled one hand, prompting him impatiently.
"You were moving your hands more. I've heard of this... I think it's called upper body movement." John didn't quite roll his eyes but it was a near thing. "Rodney, don't put me back in kindergarten. It's insulting. We've been through all this before."
"Hmm." Rodney quirked his head. "Okay, since you know everything, tell me: what happened at Regionals?"
"I won."
"That wasn't winning, that was a mercy killing. With any luck that kid will take up macramé and save us all from ever having to watch him again."
"You were one of the mean rink rats, weren't you?" John said with a sharp glint in his eyes. "Snickering at people when they fell, bitching about the kid who cheats his jumps...."
Rodney pulled his hands in to his chest like little paws. "Maybe?"
John shook his head and handed Rodney his water bottle. Rodney took a sip and handed it back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Look, all I'm saying is that, when we first met? You didn't have the foggiest notion what was wrong with your skating. You wanted to add 'some Art' like it's chocolate sprinkles." Rodney snorted. "If you want to wear the big boy pants now, then you've got to prove you know better. Give me a little self-diagnosis."
"I self-diagnose all the time, Rodney."
"Let see it."
"All right. It was my first run with the long program and I really wanted to skate it clean." John rubbed at his hair. "Things hadn't gone too well with Surf Rider. I'd focused on the... chocolate sprinkles...." He gestured to Rodney with a dip of his chin, crediting him for the term. "...and dropped the ball on the basics. So I was maybe a little tight going into the LP, kept making stupid mistakes, the wrong edge into the Lutz, that transition—"
"There was a chasm between those elements," Rodney agreed.
"I needed to sharpen up and pay attention, just get through it without any more mistakes."
"No! Never, ever 'just get through' your program." Rodney jumped on this, cutting his arms out like an umpire calling a strike. "You're program's not going well? Give more, not less. The great skaters, such as myself—and everyone agrees that I am—reach deep and turn their worst performances into their best." He wagged his finger in the air as he thought out loud, eyes scanning the ceiling. "When you skate this next run-through, I want you to treat a mistake as a—a trigger. Give me too much. Don't leave anything for the rest of the practice. Pretend it is the last time you're ever going to skate."
He turned a bright eye on John. "You just treated a performance like a rehearsal. Now treat your rehearsals like performances. Because, really, do you know for certain you're going to skate again? Maybe not. Most people's careers end without warning and their friends have to tell them its been over for two years."
John swallowed. He uncomfortably adjusted his collar and looked away. "Yeah... I wish you wouldn't say things like that."
~*~*~
"Oh, crap," Rodney said, his jaw still hanging open.
Ice Magazine had been sitting on his desk for weeks. He'd only skimmed it out of boredom while, admittedly, procrastinating on his billing.
The accompanying photo was at least ten years out of date, one of what his sister called his "pinup" shots: shirt unbuttoned to his navel -- and who knew a person could have that much mousse in their hair?
John apparently had heard him. He sauntered into the den, one hand trailing along the door. He sat on the edge of the desk to peer over the magazine, then glanced at Rodney with a naughty smirk. "Who's the twink?"
"Shut up, you know that's me."
John just grinned and tossed an orange from hand to hand like a slow motion juggler. "An old magazine escape the burn pile? I have matches."
"No," Rodney said, closing it. His nostrils flared. "I'm going to kill Sonja. That isn't even what happened!"
John made a loose-fingered gesture with a nod at the magazine. "So tell those people. Set 'em straight."
"That burn pile." Rodney turned in his seat, arms folded across his chest. "Do you know how many retractions were in there?"
Slow understanding dawned across John's face.
"If there's one thing I know: once it's out there, there's nothing you can do about it." He clicked Quicken again, glancing back at his notes to check his figures. "Thus, the imminent demise of your choreographer. My condolences."
"It was nice while it lasted."
[Previous][Next]
Music!
Regionals: Sing, Sing, Sing (With a Swing)- Benny Goodman
Just in case you don't know the Bojangles Rodney means: Mr. Bojangles - Jerry Jeff Walker
Men's Short Program: Vega's Stage - Street Fighter
Radek at his hotel: Theme From Amelie - Yann Tierson
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: The competition season begins. "The Regional Championship had the tacky aura of a children's birthday party."
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and tireless betas,
rabidfan and roaringmice.Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hires ex-skating champion and "artiste" Rodney McKay to be his coach. Their teasing friendship warms into something more. After John's injury, an intense summer training, new choreography, and (unfortunately) dreadful costumes, the competition season begins.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
The Century clubhouse had been rented expressly for this event, largely an opportunity to flatter the patrons and give them a chance to wear lovely dresses and meet the stars. The room was dim, with a grand piano, classic cove ceilings, and rather worn oriental carpeting, but it was known for its display of hand-blown art by a noted local artist. A few former champions active in U.S. figure skating made the rounds, shaking hands, arms slung around their shoulders for the flash of photos. Rumor had it that Kyle Fletcher would make a brief appearance; the older skaters would be abandoned the instant Kyle stepped into the room.
Radek glanced over to spy a woman overdressed in a red gown worthy of Marilyn Monroe. She was hard to miss.
Probably a former skater. They weren't held to any sort of fashion standard, unlike the judges. Petr at the Czech Olympic committee had dressed Radek in quirky Paul Smith sweaters and jackets, for the sake of their "image" he explained, and mutual friends had forced Radek to buy more trendy glasses. He had no complaints, although he joked that they needed to invent practical paper clothes since he inevitably spilled something, and someone was forever making him wipe fingerprints off his glasses.
He sipped his wine, deciding it was overly sweet but not bad. The art was far better, if a bit modern for his tastes. Still, he appreciated the whimsy of the rounded teardrop shaped tulips. He took a break from the exhausting friendliness by pretending to study them.
A few meters away, a familiar feminine voice caught Radek's attention. Sonja. He glanced over and realized she was the one in the red gown, blocked partially by the piano. She'd dyed her hair white blond for the occasion.
"Oh, Rodney and I are old friends," Sonja was saying in an undertone implying that it was probably more, one hand toying with her necklace. The man beside her—Radek guessed him to be either press or marketing; he had the cynical air of one who thought himself too clever by half—briefly glanced down her cleavage before turning a smirk up at her. "He's making a comeback, you know."
"McKay's skating again?" the man asked with a brief flicker of surprise, entertained but disbelieving.
"Not exactly," she said with a coquettish smile. "You'll see."
A younger fellow with impeccable hair behind them had heard the conversation, glancing over his shoulder, his manner laconic and spoiled. "Oh, Sonja, don't tease us."
Her gaze swiveled around the room and lighted on Radek. She wiggled her fingers at him, her eyes sparkling. "Well, it's not confirmed yet. But I have it on very good authority that he'll be at your American Sectionals. Mids, in fact."
"I heard he was coaching," said a woman in a sensible suit and white silk blouse. She bit into a strawberry.
"I haven't seen him coaching anyone," the spoiled young fellow said.
"Let me give me you my number," the first man said smoothly, his eyes sharpening on her face now. He had a card in his hand like a magic trick. Definitely media, Radek decided.
Sonja mimed zipping her lip and throwing away the key, tantalizing her audience and brushing the card aside. "I can say nothing more." She left them as they rolled their eyes in frustrated curiosity.
She sidled in next to Radek. "Buy me a drink?" she asked.
It was an open bar.
"What are you doing here?" he muttered to her.
"Everyone with a gold medal is invited, you know that," she said. "What are you doing here?" She flicked her hand gesturing at the rest of the room. "These are American sponsors. You are on the wrong continent."
"I'm visiting old friends; catching up." He glanced at her frank doubt-filled face and admitted with a bashful lean, "He deserves the best chance possible."
"What Rodney doesn't know won't hurt me," she agreed, nodding.
Radek glanced around the room cautiously and took another sip of champagne. "So. Press kits?"
She gave him a sly smile, eyes gleaming with mischief. "If some fan assembles them, who's to stop them?"
"I'll get you the disks." She gave him a bland, uncomprehending smile, taking in the room. "For the photos," he reminded her.
"Ah. Yes," she said, and added cheerfully, "If we are caught, I am blaming you."
"He'll never believe you," Radek assured her, also smiling. After a thoughtful pause, he took a sip and gestured to her with his champagne glass. "You know... you are not as bad as I remember."
"Did we meet before?" Sonja asked, turning to tilt her head at him quizzically.
A cluster of little girls scampered through the front hall of the rink and collided with John's legs. Their hair was up in braids, team jackets zipped and worn with sneakers and skating dresses underneath. They glanced up at him guiltily and dashed off, squeaking and shrill.
The Eastern Great Lakes Regional Championship had the tacky aura of a children's birthday party. A dozen or so vendors crowded the front entry hall above the rink. A little girl in heavy make-up sat primly on a stool while her hair was professionally braided with teal ribbon. Behind her, a display of draped ribbons held enough colors for a paint store. Pink sweatshirts with the words "Girl Power!" and "Skate Great!" printed in glitter were folded on another table where a sewing machine hammered in the background, monogramming T-shirts. A rack of skating dresses on sale separated the vendors from the snack stand; people in line for hot dogs pawed through them. On the far wall, beyond the chaos, hung a trophy case with photos of the local hockey team, frowning and looking merciless in full armament.
John moved easily through shoulder-high groups of giggling teenagers with their hair up, edging past parents to the bulletin board where the skating schedule was posted. He wedged himself between two preteen boys with longish hair who'd leaned against the wall, attempting to look cool and distance themselves from all the girls. They looked up at him in a mixture of relief and gratitude, respectfully stepping aside.
"Nine o'clock tomorrow," John called out to where Rodney was marooned a few meters away in the line to pick up their competition passes.
"Tell me that's a.m.," Rodney complained.
"Not unless I'm back to skating Juveniles," John said.
Rodney understood scheduling the little ones early, it saved everyone headaches, but—"The way these things run over, you won't be skating till ten o'clock!"
John shook his head. "Nah. Detroit's tough about their schedules." He'd skated Eastern Great Lakes before. His own region, Upper Great Lakes, often canceled senior men's altogether. "You're late? Too bad."
"So when's your practice ice?" Rodney asked.
"Tomorrow morning." John smirked, turning to glance over his shoulder at Rodney. "Guess where."
Rodney rolled his eyes in frustration and let his head drop, resigned. "Overflow to another rink?"
"Too noisy here anyway," John said diplomatically and walked over to join him in line. "Buy ice time tonight?" he suggested, rapping on the wall absently with a knuckle.
In Rodney's opinion, the Regional competitions should give precedence to the senior level skaters, but unfortunately, low level competitions were run by local volunteers, most of whom were the parents of younger skaters. They arranged the schedule to suit themselves. "If they've got it, we'd better. Half the point of practice ice is to familiarize yourself with the rink."
The windows across the hall overlooked the ice where the competition was already underway. A little girl in gauzy purple was in the midst of her long program, a small audience huddled in the stands. There was scattered applause as she completed a long spiral sequence, struggling to keep her back leg high.
Her music filtered through the glass, a peppy 1930s jitterbug. Rodney couldn't resist bouncing to Benny Goodman's "Sing, Sing, Sing, with a Swing." John shot him a curious glance.
When the frantic woman behind the counter finally handed them the passes—and more paperwork that no one had bothered to mention; U.S. rinks were terrified of litigation—John dangled them by their alligator clips and said, "Here we go."
Rodney gave in and shimmied in time with the hot jazz. John chuckled.
Of course the ice was completely booked for the weekend, thanks to Rodney's inability to plan ahead (according to John), or thanks to the rink's inability to provide adequate phone coverage so he could book it from Toronto (according to Rodney). They argued comfortably all the way back to the hotel. It shouldn't matter. John was experienced enough not to be spooked by a different rink.
At seven a.m. the next morning they got lost on the way to the overflow rink and had to ask directions, which an apple-cheeked guy in a suit at a Denny's delivered rapid fire, nodding helpfully before he walked away. Still lost, they had to ask two more people, who did the exact same thing. They all did it. Rodney had never thought he'd feel like such a foreigner in the United States.
It did give him an opportunity to tank up on more coffee, however.
No thanks to the locals, they found the rink at last and parked the Honda (despite John's leg room argument, Rodney's gas mileage argument had won). Once inside, Rodney set John to jogging up and down the bleachers. The rink was large and utilitarian with an aluminum roof that gave it the air of a warehouse. Concrete floors and metal seats radiated cold. The bleacher stairs thumped and rang with John's footsteps.
Rodney stretched. He leaned his elbows on the edge of the boards, sipped his coffee absently, and then checked the revised skating schedule. Sometimes the other skater pulled out at the last minute when he discovered there were only two men in the competition, given they'd both move up to Sectionals by default. Those who went to Regionals often used it as a practice run. But he hadn't withdrawn.
As usual, the Novice women's schedule was so overloaded it would take most of the day. In Canada they did qualifying rounds to clear-cut the herd.
"I heard a rumor that you were coming back," a voice behind and to his right said.
Rodney swallowed his coffee and turned. The man gave him a cold smile. Balding sloped forehead, short and stocky, and bundled up like a coach, with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops, he looked both victorious and pissed.
Name, name, Rodney could place the face, but not the name....
Oh, right. That's because Rodney had only really known him by his nickname. One that Rodney himself had given him ten years ago. Ted-something, a former champion who'd become a perennial favorite headlining at Disney's World on Ice, otherwise known as the "Mice Capades," an undignified end to a distinguished career. Rodney as the reigning champion had dubbed him "Mr. Bojangles" when the man briefly returned to competition, and the sports writers had lapped it up. John's footsteps silenced as he paused in his jogging, standing on the steps behind the guy.
"Yes, well, excuse me—" Rodney pushed by Bojangles, who was heavier now and a textbook reminder of the chilling inevitability of entropy. "—we have a practice session." He grabbed John by the upper arm and drew him away towards the opposite side of the rink.
"Is everything all right, Rodney?" John asked with an edge of suspicion. He cast a backward glance at the guy, who watched Rodney with steady hatred, and then turned to leave. "You owe a debt to the mob or something?"
"Just an old—" Rodney fumbled. "—friend," he said for lack of a better word, swallowing, his throat tight.
"Yeah, well you better hope your 'friend' didn't bring his brass knuckles," John commented, staring after him as the door closed. His expression turned speculative, creasing into a little frown. "He did look familiar... hey, wait. Wasn't that, whatshisname..." John snapped his fingers a couple times, trying to remember. He lit up. "...Mr. Bojangles?"
"I can't believe he's held onto that for twelve years!" Rodney spluttered.
"What did you do?"
"It wasn't that bad—and wait, why would it be something I did?" Rodney complained. "Get out there on the ice. I want to see choreography. Forget the jumps. No, don't forget them, just—oh, you know what I mean."
By the time John had finished his first lap, Rodney had calmed down enough to finish his tepid coffee. He breathed out a sigh, his breath misting. He tucked his arms around himself and tried to focus on John's skating.
John dropped to the motel bed, stuffing his face into the pillow. He plumped it while Rodney drew the drapes. They'd figured no one would notice their sharing at a family event like the Regionals—that plus driving cut costs—but Rodney was taking no chances now.
John curled on his side, turning flirtatious eyes on Rodney, who sat down on the bed with a sigh. His knee slid over to Rodney, stretching closer.
Rodney shoved it away, then pulled off his boots. Kicking off his own shoes, John burrowed under the blankets. His toes crept over to Rodney, nudging him. John gave him a puffy-eyed pleased smile.
Rodney uncooperatively edged away, saying, "No." His eyes circled up at the ceiling for patience.
"Get rid of the pre-competition jitters," John offered with a shrug, folding his arms behind his head and stretching comfortably.
Rodney pointed at him. "I'll make you sleep in the other bed."
"C'mon," John scoffed with a dry whine. "There's no losing here. It might as well be an exhibition."
"You are far from ready."
John curled over onto his side, tucked his arm under the pillow and—dear God—pouted.
"That's why we're here," Rodney insisted, refusing to give way to that melting sensation which could only presage trouble. "I don't ever want to see you go into a competition overconfident." He got up and moved to the other bed, more to cut off his own temptation than John's. "Or spent."
The pout threatened to turn into a sulk.
"I promise you, you'll thank me later," Rodney said.
John's eyebrows went up then pulled together in a scowl. He peered at Rodney, squinting. "You know, sounding like my dad is deeply unsexy."
They'd had an entire afternoon and most of the evening to kill before John's competition, yet somehow, restless naps aside, the time flew. Rodney did a last check for skates, skate guards, water bottles, tissues, wallet, car keys, hotel key cards, and the rink passes, insisting that John change into his costume at the hotel so they wouldn't forget it (oh, yes, that had happened to Rodney)—
"I'd rather change at the rink."
"It takes longer!"
"It always makes me feel like I'm trick or treating if I go out in costume."
—Rodney won that fight. Outside, John shoved his way into the driver's seat, explaining as he slammed the door, "We need to get there today, grandma."
Then proceeded to drive like a demon. Which fit in with the locals, actually. On the freeway Rodney's breath caught as cars swept around them. "I hate this," John said, breezing across three lanes of traffic. He shifted from 60 to 35 mph on the off-ramp. "Next time, I don't care if you have to sit through a hundred little kids' performances, we're leaving early."
Moments later, he backed into a parking space with unnecessary and inadvisable speed. Rodney braced himself between the car door and the dashboard. Didn't he know that the majority of automobile accidents occurred in parking lots?!
John abandoned Rodney in the car and strode towards the rink, shoulders stiff, radiating irritation. Rodney scrambled to catch up, momentarily distracted by the pale, flesh-colored tights under John's jacket. Huh. His legs did look like Popsicle sticks.
He opted not to mention it. Number one, he couldn't fix it; number two, he was still annoyed about that "grandma" comment.
Fortunately, Rodney's prediction that the competition would run late proved correct, and John sagged in relief. Instead of arriving with barely ten minutes to spare, the senior men's had been pushed back to nine-thirty. They had forty minutes before the warm-up. Alongside the ice below, the other skater, dressed head to toe in a silver jumpsuit, had taken off his skates and paced the sidelines, looking frustrated and impatient.
The Novice women's competition was still underway.
John double-checked the skate order while Rodney smirked through the window at a rather porcine woman who wobbled on a painfully slow spiral, her leg high, like a hippopotamus imitating a swan. Probably not tonight's winner, no. By going slow she'd increased the difficulty nine-fold and wasted her advantage of power. But some skaters were afraid of speed—or, more accurately, falling at speed.
"Mr. McKay?" a swallowed voice asked behind him.
Startled, Rodney spun around to find a stressed-looking woman in barrettes flanked by two children who clung to her legs making whiny noises. One sort of... climbed... dragging on her cardigan. Her eyes pinwheeled, like she was at the end of her rope. Some people weren't cut out to be skating moms.
"Could you....?" She ignored the climber and held out her crumpled skating program, obviously the first thing that had come to hand.
"Sure."
A cluster of fans quickly formed. Rodney beamed as he was asked to sign backpacks, a T-shirt a little girl had just bought—"Better make that indelible ink... ah, the lady behind the counter has a magic marker for us"—as more people realized just who he was. He posed between two teenage girls while their mother took a photo. Another program was handed over the girls' heads.
John laid a palm on Rodney's shoulder.
"Hmm?" Rodney blinked up from the final swoop of his classic 'Y'.
"Why don't we get this show on the road?" John said dryly. "Before we're late again."
"Oh, yes. Yes, of course." Rodney capped the latest pen and found its owner. "Sorry, folks," he said to his fans, dipping his head with a smug little blocking wave. "More will have to wait."
John's hand slid to the back of Rodney's shoulder and pressed him towards the steps to the lockers. As they trundled down the stairs and turned the corner, Rodney sighed with open satisfaction. "Ah, fans... a balm to the battered soul...."
Take that, Bojangles.
John didn't hear him. He tugged on the sleeves of his jacket, revealing the over-sized Hawaiian shirt. He sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, his chin balanced on laced fingers. His eyes focused downward, staring into nothing... his face serious, determined, descending into the competitor's head space.
John stayed on the ice after the warm-up to the short program, the first to skate. By the boards the other skater, a nervous eighteen year old with slicked back hair wearing a silver bodysuit, bent his head to his coach, nodding.
John was a more independent competitor. He didn't want to chat before competitions, just held his hand out absently for the bottled water, drank, capped it, and handed it back.
In the stands behind Rodney, two skating moms nattered about their day. "Her program was perfect, what happened?"
"She forgot the triple. Just clean forgot it."
"Oh my God."
"She's taking it well, but I doubt it's hit her yet."
"All that work...."
Rodney glared at the women but they were impervious to the silencing power of his mind. Beyond them, about thirty or so people in matching blue skating club jackets sipped coffee and nibbled nachos, paying little attention to the ice; likely waiting for the senior women's competition next. At least the very young skaters had gone home. In the front row, teens still in costume leaned forward, slouched, twitched, and whispered to one another, far more keen to watch a senior skater in action.
John's name was called. "Skating on behalf of...."
John kicked himself forward, gliding smoothly out to center ice, his arms upraised, his hands cutting upward in an amused gesture. It struck the right humorous note. Rodney approved.
His legs carved a wide circle at the middle of the rink, the Hawaiian shirt fluttering. John struck the opening pose.
"He must use Nair," one of the teenage girls giggled. Rodney flinched.
Then 'Surf Rider' began, and Rodney's attention zeroed in on John.
There was scattered applause as John took his final bow, smiling. The kids in the front row had liked it, he could tell. There weren't very many of them but they were clapping loudly.
The judges? Well, he wasn't so sure. He kept his spirits up as he skated off the ice with light strokes, looking up at the ceiling. The sudden come down from pre-competition adrenaline made him dizzy.
He cut Rodney off as he slid to a stop at the boards and clipped on his skate guards, "I know, I took an extra step between the two jumps. I was going to blow it. I could feel it, and I did what I had to."
"Please, anyone could see you under-rotated there and weren't going to make it. What I'm concerned about is the fact that you did your entire program in slow motion. They have cameras and software for that. You don't have to do it for them."
"You said 'surfer cool.'"
"There's a difference between 'cool' and 'laconic.' I wanted to slap a jet pack on you! How do you expect--" Rodney lowered his voice suddenly, giving the opposing coach a quick surreptitious glance. "--how do you expect to win like that?"
The opposing team was deep in conference. Then the coach patted the kid's shoulder just before he skated onto the ice. Legs apart and sliding backward with small pushes, the kid tugged at the sleeves of his silver bodysuit.
"Go, Jason!" a woman's voice called out.
The entire skating club in the blue jackets stirred. Uh-oh. Rodney recognized the signs of a local boy. Of course, the judges weren't local so it wasn't a genuine issue, but it could be potentially demoralizing for John as the outsider.
The kid struck his pose. Straightened his back. Melodramatic synthesizers began. He raised his arms left then right in an arrow-like slicing gesture, dropping and bouncing them back up, robot-like, in time with the music.
"Oh, cool, Street Fighter," John observed. He leaned his chin on his arms on the side of the rink.
"What's that? Some Japanese anime?" Rodney asked. It had that tinny Japanimation feel to it.
"Video game," John said.
Rodney gave the kid a flat disbelieving stare. "I've now officially seen everything."
The kid edged his back leg out, starting backwards, a difficult entrance. He turned with quick footwork and stroked forward, picking up the robot arm gestures again as he followed the edge of the rink. Good sense of the music, if not quite enough flow. Rodney nodded cautiously.
He threw an easy double Lutz -- and bobbled the landing, swaying and almost falling face-first. John and Rodney jolted forward as if to catch him, but he made it without their imaginary help, barely holding on. They glanced around, embarrassed, if a little proud of themselves. Although every skater in the rink had done the same.
The kid had lost all speed and pumped to catch up to his music. The crowd clapped and hooted.
He proceeded to collapse sideways in a sit-spin, something Rodney had never seen before. The kid pushed himself off the ice with one hand and swung back up, salvaging his spin sequence, his outstretched leg dipping in an off-balance camel.
John and Rodney exchanged a look. The crowd cheered again encouragingly as the kid fumbled yet another jump.
Rodney licked his lips. "Never mind. Skate as slow as you like."
Since John was in first, he had skated last for the freeskate.
The small crowd clapped as he took his final bow and took circling strokes to the edge of the rink. It was tiring to "skate pretty" when you were already wiped, but every minute the judges saw you perform counted. Stepping off the ice, John mopped at his face with a towel Rodney handed him, still trying to catch his breath.
"That fast enough for you?" John breathed at last.
"That'll do for today," Rodney said. John took that as high praise. "But don't think that makes up for Surf Rider, not by a long shot, and we're going to have a talk about arm movement."
A few feet away, he caught the open look of dismay on the other skater's face. John looked up at the ceiling of the rink, glad to be back competing. He almost even felt sorry for the guy.
Almost.
The day following the freeskate, John looked down at his hands, smirking as he unlocked the car door. The ribbon of his gold medal dangled out of the back pocket of his jeans. "Yeah, the competition isn't exactly steep at this level."
"I remember working a lot harder at Regionals," Rodney complained. "I even lost once."
He'd been knocked out for an entire season. It was a bitter memory. He'd slammed doors and been gloomy all the way past Christmas. Only watching the guy who'd beaten him get utterly, completely trounced at Nationals had improved his mood.
John shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe it is. Winter sports are a lot more popular in Canada." He opened the car door, then seemed to think the better of it. "You want to take the wheel?"
"Huh? Uh, sure."
John settled into the passenger side and reclined the seat all the way back. He massaged his right knee with a sigh while Rodney pulled out of the parking space, hunched over the steering wheel and still complaining. "I'm not sure I'd have kept competing if it were that easy."
"I told you. Radek told you," John said. "Don't worry. Sectionals are the real thing."
"At least we shook out the flaws in your programs." Rodney glanced at him with clear blue eyes and pointed, stabbing a forefinger in his direction. "And by 'flaws' I mean you sleeping through 'Surf Rider.' And just what happened to all the arm movement in the freeskate today?"
"I was focusing on the footwork...." John whined, arms cupped around his knee.
The suitcases sat side by side in the hall, nothing unpacked except the toothbrushes and John's costumes. Rodney's answering machine had more messages than he cared to contemplate. He'd promised himself he'd check them from the road but never had.
It was always vaguely disconcerting to return from a competition, only to find everything the same, if slightly messier than you remembered. There ought to be ticker tape or some disaster that proved that the world couldn't do without you for a week.
They'd changed into sweats and curled up on the coach, shoes scattered on the floor around them. The blanket had fallen off. John slumped, limp as a dishrag, with his back leaned against the arm of the coach, one knee up, the other leg stretched out, toes nearly touching the ticklish spot on Rodney's side. Rodney's legs were bracketed by John's, and his foot had found a home by John's crotch. John had folded his arms, his mouth soft, lips slightly parted. His chest rose and fell in a slow exhausted rhythm. A sliver of his eyes glimmered under lowered lashes. Rodney knew from experience that John sometimes slept with his eyes open, which was creepy, but no worse than snoring.
Rodney paused the recording of his students' local competition, taking a break.
John snuffled and stirred, eyes blinking closed, then open again. His gaze settled on the television. "What you watching...?" he asked in a thick voice.
"Work. Now go back to sleep."
For once, John complied.
"Oh my God...." Rodney complained at the television, reaching for the remote to rewind.
He jostled John, who'd shifted around to lay with his cheek on Rodney's thigh.
"How could Melanie blow ... she never has trouble with her spins, she has pretty spins, it's the jumps that—ooookay," he interrupted himself. "That was about as terrible a jump I've seen ... Get up, get up, you don't get points for sitting on the ice... hell, how is she going to make up the time?"
Rodney stood, letting John's head drop to the cushion. John grabbed a throw pillow and resolutely tried for more sleep.
He tried to ignore the sound of Rodney in the kitchen, but it was like trying to ignore a freight train steaming by your window. Just no dice. He got up and aimed an unfocused glare in Rodney's direction. He filled a glass of water from the tap.
Rodney held up a finger for silence as he listened intently to the phone. "You get one, exactly one day to recover," he told John, "and that largely because I need it, too, so you'd better take full advantage."
"My pillow walked off," John said.
"Damn it!"
Startled, John choked on some water. Rodney slammed down the receiver.
"A complete and total meltdown. She crumbled! Melanie is in no way, shape or form ready to compete—yes, she has most of the basics down and she can perform her little heart out—yet mentally?" He made a cringing face. "Do they listen? Noooo, her mother has to have her to compete at Regionals, never mind what I think."
"I thought you said Melanie could go to Regionals," John puzzled.
"No. I never said that."
John's eyes narrowed as he tilted his head, fox-like. "I distinctly heard you on the phone at the rink...."
"These people want to see progress!" Rodney declared with flinging gestures. "They want to see competitions and medals and trophies or else they fire you or talk about you behind your back, humiliating you to every coach in town!"
"I'm not seeing too many medals here."
"Yes! That's right! Exactly! They've got a good dose of reality now haven't they?! At this point the Weirs can either go back to my program and my pace, or hurry up and fire me." Rodney slumped, looking dismal. "And Elizabeth's taking her sweet time about it, too. If she wanted to wait till the end of the season? Then, fine. The season's over."
John fell conspicuously silent.
"What?" Rodney snapped defensively.
"I'm guess I'm just glad that I'm not nine years old," John said with a vague shrug and a shake of his head.
"Oh!" Rodney spluttered. "You want to deal with parents' unrealistic expectations that far outstrip their little darlings' talent -- or in this case, utter lack of competitive spirit -- then go right ahead! You have the job offer. Enjoy!"
"I'm not a coach," John growled.
The suite had a somewhat organic decor and was decorated in autumn colors. The lampshades had Rhododendron leaves pressed into them to cast leafy, comforting shadows, while the brown metal lamp bases twined in the shape of vines. The art was blandly modern, with reds and browns in a suggestion of swirling leaves and wind, the couch cushions plump and soft. Rather than a typical closet, they had an old-fashioned wardrobe. Radek hung up his garment bag, appreciating the solid oak as he shut the door. His assistant had done well. One could almost forget one was in downtown Chicago.
Radek contacted the front desk and requested a wake-up call, then wandered his suite, postponing work. He stripped off his tie, dropping cufflinks on the dresser. Then he ruffled his hair and wandered into the bathroom to start the shower.
His cell phone twittered. He fished it out of his trouser pocket, shutting off the water, accidentally getting his watch wet.
"Hello? Maggie?" He listened, nodding. "Ah, yes. Tell them I can't make it. I've an appointment this evening—business or pleasure?" His tone turned sardonic. "Yes, Maggie, I have a date with a very bald, very fat old man."
He sat down on the loveseat and toed off his loafers. He chuckled. "No, no, an ex-skater, very important in U. S. figure skating—although they're just as bad as ex-skiers, it is true. You should see my friend Rodney. He's gained at least two stone in five years."
His breath hissed through his teeth. "Viktor-?" Radek winced sympathetically. "He's done for. I watched him train last weekend. His qualification jump was the worst I have ever seen from him, and it was no aberration, of that I am certain." He leaned forward, adjusting his glasses back up his nose. "I suspect it's due to nerves from his last crash—"
Radek shook his head definitively. "No, no, no. I doubt it. He will not recover. Nerve, that is all a ski jumper has. It takes a special sort of crazy to do this. If they lose their nerve, that means they have become, well... sane. And just like one cannot be cured of being healthy, one cannot be cured of sanity. He is finished."
He sagged back in the overstuffed loveseat. The gas fireplace flickered behind the grate, casting soft dancing shadows. "Oh. Yes. By all means, keep him on the team. There is no replacement and it would depress the rest if he were removed for no reason. But barring a miracle, this is his last year."
The hotel phone jangled. "Oh. Um. One moment." He put the cell on mute and crossed the room to answer. "Yes? ... Ah, yes. I appreciate it."
He returned to his other call. "I must go, Maggie. My guest is early. Wish me luck? ... What? You can't wish me luck without knowing what it's-- thank you."
Radek peered into the murmuring hotel bar and brushed at his trousers. Trevor had a large head and had always seemed to chew his words. He greeted Radek with an affable smile, waving to the barstool beside him. His face usually turned pinker as he drank and, based on his color, Radek suspected he was at least a round ahead. No, he didn't mind if Radek smoked.
"Are you still involved in figure skating?" Radek asked. It was a little coy of him perhaps, but it was best not to be obvious.
"If you mean that it's taking every waking hour, you bet," Trevor laughed.
Radek nodded knowingly. "Sports do that." And they traded complaints they both knew at heart were insincere. No one became so deeply involved if they didn't love their sport.
"My kids had an argument over whether I had straight or curly hair." Trevor shook his head.
"I think my dog believes my housekeeper is his owner," Radek chuckled.
"Get a cat. An angora—smart bastards. They're like raccoons; open doors, get into everything."
As mutual friends had told him, Trevor had moved up from judging, taking a more "active role" as they put it, in the U.S. Figure Skating Association. It wasn't difficult to shift the topic of conversation to the promotional side of figure skating.
"Fletcher's good, useful—hell, he's a star. That's always good. Plus he's got 'lost puppy' appeal. But there's also this mamma's boy vibe that's turning some people off. We're playing up the art school angle to offset it."
"What about the other skaters? I hear Rodney McKay is coaching some Americans...." Radek suggested, wincing inwardly.
"God." Trevor head dropped, hands cupped around his drink. "I'd kill for a Rodney McKay right now. The Canadians had it good. Smart, articulate—funny. Loved the cameras. So quotable, the sportswriters followed him around like bees. I tell you, if he'd won Olympic gold as expected, McKay would have written a lot of people's meal tickets."
"They were upset?"
"Pissed beyond belief."
"McKay's back," Radek said, taking a sip of his mostly untouched drink.
"Really?" Trevor turned with cheerful disbelief. "Skating?"
Radek shook his head. "He's coaching now."
"Who?"
"Oh, a number of young Canadian skaters. But one American. John Sheppard?" Radek said.
"Never heard—oh, wait. Tall, skinny guy, a perennial at Nationals. McKay came out of the woodwork for that guy?"
"Must be something to him." Radek carefully hid his face behind the glass, taking another sip, to make sure he appeared only mildly interested.
"I'll say."
Trevor was quiet a long minute, chewing this over. He frowned. "He's getting up there though, isn't he? I mean, he's twenty-six if he's a day."
Radek shrugged one shoulder.
Trevor turned and planted his elbows back on the bar, his drink in his hand, amber liquid swirling. "Still, he'd be great for the brand." He tapped his glass with his fingertips. "Masculine. Athletic-looking—I remember that. Hmm." His eyes unfocused for a moment, then he snapped to the present. "He got a girlfriend?"
Radek spread his hands.
"Because you have no idea how hard it is to fight the Tinkerbell image...." And Radek braced himself for the corporate sponsorship rant that he had heard many times before.
"All right, now watch me."
Rodney took John's starting pose without the music and moved into the initial spin, his back blade scraping the ice.
"You learned my whole program?"
"Yes, and it doesn't suit me one bit," Rodney said with a grunt. He landed a single instead of John's triple axel, then sketched out the choreography in silence as he shifted into the footwork sequence. "I need you to be observant now. What am I doing that you're not?"
"Well, for one thing, that jump? Really needed a lot more height," John said, one hand on his hip as he lounged against the boards. He gave Rodney a tight, naughty smirk.
Rodney sighed, shoulders slumping as he dropped the program mid-way. He put his hands on his hips and curved back around towards John, carving a sharper stop than his usual. That program was inspirational. Almost a "John mind-map." Sonja was a genius.
Well, a flawed genius. Rodney's mouth slanted in a frown.
"Okay," John finally gave in and answered. "You were more..." He looked for a word. "...flowery than me."
"Because...?" Rodney circled one hand, prompting him impatiently.
"You were moving your hands more. I've heard of this... I think it's called upper body movement." John didn't quite roll his eyes but it was a near thing. "Rodney, don't put me back in kindergarten. It's insulting. We've been through all this before."
"Hmm." Rodney quirked his head. "Okay, since you know everything, tell me: what happened at Regionals?"
"I won."
"That wasn't winning, that was a mercy killing. With any luck that kid will take up macramé and save us all from ever having to watch him again."
"You were one of the mean rink rats, weren't you?" John said with a sharp glint in his eyes. "Snickering at people when they fell, bitching about the kid who cheats his jumps...."
Rodney pulled his hands in to his chest like little paws. "Maybe?"
John shook his head and handed Rodney his water bottle. Rodney took a sip and handed it back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Look, all I'm saying is that, when we first met? You didn't have the foggiest notion what was wrong with your skating. You wanted to add 'some Art' like it's chocolate sprinkles." Rodney snorted. "If you want to wear the big boy pants now, then you've got to prove you know better. Give me a little self-diagnosis."
"I self-diagnose all the time, Rodney."
"Let see it."
"All right. It was my first run with the long program and I really wanted to skate it clean." John rubbed at his hair. "Things hadn't gone too well with Surf Rider. I'd focused on the... chocolate sprinkles...." He gestured to Rodney with a dip of his chin, crediting him for the term. "...and dropped the ball on the basics. So I was maybe a little tight going into the LP, kept making stupid mistakes, the wrong edge into the Lutz, that transition—"
"There was a chasm between those elements," Rodney agreed.
"I needed to sharpen up and pay attention, just get through it without any more mistakes."
"No! Never, ever 'just get through' your program." Rodney jumped on this, cutting his arms out like an umpire calling a strike. "You're program's not going well? Give more, not less. The great skaters, such as myself—and everyone agrees that I am—reach deep and turn their worst performances into their best." He wagged his finger in the air as he thought out loud, eyes scanning the ceiling. "When you skate this next run-through, I want you to treat a mistake as a—a trigger. Give me too much. Don't leave anything for the rest of the practice. Pretend it is the last time you're ever going to skate."
He turned a bright eye on John. "You just treated a performance like a rehearsal. Now treat your rehearsals like performances. Because, really, do you know for certain you're going to skate again? Maybe not. Most people's careers end without warning and their friends have to tell them its been over for two years."
John swallowed. He uncomfortably adjusted his collar and looked away. "Yeah... I wish you wouldn't say things like that."
He's Baaaack!
Skating's most famous hermit returns to the ice.
The year was 1986. All of Canada's gold medal hopes were pinned on a rising young star, three-time World Champion, Rodney McKay. He skated clean and pristine in the compulsories. His short program, while not his best, still had him within striking distance of his first Olympic gold after meteoric success on the international circuit.
As he stepped out onto the ice for his freeskate, Canadians collectively held their breath. Rodney need only to turn in his usual crowd pleasing performance to make that his step to the top of the podium.
Then tragedy struck. With an over rotated triple Lutz and a devastating fall, Rodney struggled throughout his program, a pale shadow of his usual flamboyant self. He came in fifth overall.
There were rumors of personality conflicts with his coaching staff that led to what was to be Rodney's final performance. He fled the Olympic village for Amsterdam only three days before the freeskate. His father met him in the Netherlands and was later quoted as saying, "I regret not being there for Rodney at the Olympics." Sure enough, Rodney's long-time coach, Marc Goodrich, was dismissed shortly after the games.
Rodney returned home without the gold, Canada's hopes once again dashed. He never competed again. Was this the end of Rodney McKay?
The comeback.
"I always assumed he'd left the sport and opened a string of Dairy Queens," says Denise LaFontane, 1992 Olympic gold medalist. But Torontonians knew that Rodney started coaching at an undisclosed location in suburban Toronto. Those close to him say that today, he's training the next generation of champions.
While McKay himself remains elusive Ice Magazine caught up with a few of his skaters at a recent competition. "He's a great coach, a little cranky sometimes," explains nine-year-old Melinda Weir who is due to compete at her first Regionals. "But mom says he's just like that."
Rodney's students protect his hermit-like privacy. "What? Why are you asking about Mr. McKay?" asks skating dynamo Bethany Morris, 13, who has clocked four Regional wins. "Yes, he's a good coach. Why wouldn't he be?"
Sources tell Ice Magazine that Rodney spends most of his time grooming his elite skaters, especially current American hopeful, John Sheppard. "Watch that one," they say. Sheppard is expected to compete at the U.S. Midwestern Sectional Championships November 15th. With Rodney behind the wheel, he has a head start to victory.
Former champion Rodney McKay demonstrates for all of us that there is, in fact, more than one route to gold.
"Oh, crap," Rodney said, his jaw still hanging open.
Ice Magazine had been sitting on his desk for weeks. He'd only skimmed it out of boredom while, admittedly, procrastinating on his billing.
The accompanying photo was at least ten years out of date, one of what his sister called his "pinup" shots: shirt unbuttoned to his navel -- and who knew a person could have that much mousse in their hair?
John apparently had heard him. He sauntered into the den, one hand trailing along the door. He sat on the edge of the desk to peer over the magazine, then glanced at Rodney with a naughty smirk. "Who's the twink?"
"Shut up, you know that's me."
John just grinned and tossed an orange from hand to hand like a slow motion juggler. "An old magazine escape the burn pile? I have matches."
"No," Rodney said, closing it. His nostrils flared. "I'm going to kill Sonja. That isn't even what happened!"
John made a loose-fingered gesture with a nod at the magazine. "So tell those people. Set 'em straight."
"That burn pile." Rodney turned in his seat, arms folded across his chest. "Do you know how many retractions were in there?"
Slow understanding dawned across John's face.
"If there's one thing I know: once it's out there, there's nothing you can do about it." He clicked Quicken again, glancing back at his notes to check his figures. "Thus, the imminent demise of your choreographer. My condolences."
"It was nice while it lasted."
[Previous][Next]
Music!
Regionals: Sing, Sing, Sing (With a Swing)- Benny Goodman
Just in case you don't know the Bojangles Rodney means: Mr. Bojangles - Jerry Jeff Walker
Men's Short Program: Vega's Stage - Street Fighter
Radek at his hotel: Theme From Amelie - Yann Tierson
