“Sorry. Nothing.” I skate to the edge of the ice and grab my blade covers. “Hey, Egg, can we stop at the twenty-four-hour Walmart on the way home?”
“Sure. Why?” Egg slides his sweatshirt over his head.
’Cause I’m calling a Code Peach.
“Tampons. I need tampons,” I say instead.
“Oh, okay. Do I have to go in with you?”
“No. I’m going to skate this one solo.”
“Good.”
* * *
An hour later, I’m home, showered, and reeking of Tiger Balm. I wanted to use one of the four TENS units we own but Mom has them all attached to her back. I adjust the bag of frozen peas on my hip and tuck the blankets around my loosely bandaged feet. I grab my phone and text Dad.
Finally landed a 3S-2T-2T again. Called a Code Peach on myself. Wish you were here to share these with me. Not quite the same thing but it’ll do for now. Love you. Night.
I dig out a small cloud of cotton candy and take a selfie with it for him.
The cotton candy is halfway gone by the time my ancient Nintendo DS boots up. I hum along to the familiar music and choose my favorite character, Princess Peach. Dad is always Luigi.
“Not a word to your mother,” Dad says as we enter Chuck E. Cheese. “If she asks, we went to see Sandy for massages.”
“Got it. This is so much better than massages.”
“Agreed.” Dad pulls a couple of twenties out of his wallet. He hands me one. “I’ll order the pizza. You get the tokens. You owe me a rematch from last time.”
“You got it, Luigi.” I give Dad a quick hug. We have the whole place to ourselves, because who else over the age of four goes to Chuck E. Cheese at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning during the school year? “Can we get cotton candy?”
“Pfft. Duh,” Dad says. “If you’re not gonna do it at a hundred percent, then why bother?”
I race off into the blur of lights and loud music. I hear my name. I look back over my shoulder. It isn’t Dad who follows after me with a piping hot cheese pizza. It’s Jonah, and he’s holding a plate of piping hot hotteok. I step into Jonah, and he wraps his free arm around my waist. And though it’s probably not appropriate for eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning in the middle of a Chuck E. Cheese with your dad in the building somewhere, I pull Jonah into me until our bodies are pressed up against the video game machine. Jonah drops the plate of hotteok as we engage in PDA that would definitely get us kicked out of any Chuck E. Cheese.
A loud thunk interrupts my make-out session with Jonah. My eyelids flutter open. I wipe the drool from the side of my mouth and find my DS on the floor. Worst of all, the tingling all over my body disappears as the pain creeps back in. I turn off the game and chuck the empty container of cotton candy toward the trash can. It misses. Just like everything else today. I flop back onto my pillows with a groan and put the half-melted bag of peas back on my hip. Even my normal isn’t normal anymore.
I remember our last Code Peach now. It was near the middle of last season. Nothing was going right. The gossip had already started. Why was the USFSA wasting training money on a team that clearly was not ready for Olympic-level competition? When we got home, Mom informed me that Alexei was going to be our new coach and that he wanted to scrap everything and start over. My heart cracks open. It’s probably too late to talk to Jonah, but I wipe my eyes on my pajama sleeve and text him anyway.
I miss you.
I miss you too. And again I’m sorry.
*Shrugs* Spending some quality time tonight with someone special. I send Jonah a picture of the frozen peas.
Me too. A second later, he sends me back a picture of his version of frozen peas, the non-broke-ass version. The kind that doesn’t actually use … peas.
How was your practice today?
Brutal. Yours?
Same. I finally landed the triple-doubledouble, but the ice gods took their payment for it out of my hip. Owwww.
Awww, I’m sorry. Also, pretending I know what a triple-double-double is. Sounds impressive tho.
Triple salchow–double toe loop–double toe loop.
*Crickets* Will Google that later. Got to get some sleep.
Night, Ice Prince.
*Gives you hotteok-flavored kiss* Night
Chapter 18
I skate better after eight hours of sleep, but I lose the triple-double-double again. I’m back to hitting the ice every time.
“Damn it, damn it, damn iiiiiiiit!” I bang on the ice with my fists.
“Let it go, Livy.” Egg reaches his hand down to me. “We need to move on. Jumps are fine, but Olympians on Ice is looking for artistry—the one thing that cost us big at Nationals.”
Like I needed that reminder. “No, I’m pretty sure it was the jacked-up throw triple lutz.”
“It wasn’t the jacked-up throw triple lutz.”
“It was.”
“It wasn’t. And you’re lucky it was only your pride that was hurt. Even if we had nailed the jump, we still wouldn’t have had enough points to make the podium.”
“We had a shot.”
“No, Olivia, we didn’t. Sorry to burst your bubble about that, but we didn’t. We were nowhere close.” When I open my mouth to argue, Egg cuts me off. “Look, I’m not paying you the big bucks to rehash past skates. I’m paying you to make me look good right now. So, as your boss, the triple-double-double is now officially a double salchow–double toe loop. And if you don’t land your next throw triple lutz, I’m taking it out and using old footage instead. Understood? If you can’t follow directions, I want a refund so I can hire Crystal. I know she hasn’t skated as a pair for a while, but I’m getting desperate. Sorry to be such a hard-ass about this, but I’m on the clock, and I need a professional skater for this job.”
“Any other changes in the choreography you would like me to make, Mr. Trout?”
“No.” Egg wipes his sweaty bangs out of his eyes. “Thank you for being an adult about it.”
I chug from my water bottle, trying to put out the indignant fire raging in my empty stomach. Egg has the good sense not to talk to me right now.
If you’re not gonna do it at 100 percent, then why bother?
You might be corps material, Stuart Trout, but I plan to go all the way to the top. And that means I will start looking for a new partner for real, come Monday. Stuart Trout is not gold medal material. It’s time to cut him loose.
“Okay, once more from the top.” Egg pushes Record on his phone and skates out to the center of the rink.
We go over the Frankensteined phoenix number to the boss’s specifications until Ernie—who has already hand-filled all the holes in the ice created by our toe picks this morning—threatens to run us over with the Zamboni if we don’t get off the ice.
“You have the choreography down, but it still lacks something.” Egg looks at some of the rough footage on his phone.
“What are you talking about?” I fall into Table #1 across from Egg. “I finally got the throw triple lutz. Okay, that last one was a little sloppy, but I’ll have it consistently tomorrow. I promise.”
“You still don’t get it. It’s not about the jumps.” Egg collapses over the table. He bangs his head several times before looking up again. “It’s that you still skate like a little girl. Why can’t you skate like a woman?”