warbigbang 2011: fall better part 1
masterpost
Q: Why did you decide to become a figure skater?
A: I remember when I learned how to skate. It just felt… magical, you know? Like flying.
January 1994
It starts like that: Carol and Hannah get ice skates for Christmas and Nate observes them learning how to skate. It looks fun, especially when the older kids do it, because they don’t fall down too much. Falling down hurts a bit. (Nate knows - he checked. Ice is hard, and also really cold.)
So, skating looks really fun, but watching can get boring after some time. Nate looks around - his mother has her back turned to him, talking to some lady working at the rink. He slips down from his chair and tiptoes to the edge of the ice, hovering near the board uncertainly. There is one girl, older than all of the other kids there; she skates in lazy circles around them, finally stopping to start spinning in one place, fast. Nate watches, transfixed. He looks back over his shoulder - his mom still hasn’t noticed him leaving the chair, so he steps on the ice and lets go of the board.
It’s a bit tricky - the ice is really slippery and it takes him a moment to get used to standing on it. He spreads his arms and turns around, slowly at first, then a bit faster. One spin, then another.
“Nate!” his mom exclaims and he loses his footing, landing on his butt (nothing’s changed - the ice is still as hard and cold as before. Somehow it doesn’t seem so important).
Mom looks concerned, pulling him up and brushing frost from his pants. Nate laughs.
His mother smiles down at him.
“Well then, we’ll have to see about getting you a pair of skates too, right?”
---
December 1997
The ice skates are lying on the floor in the corner of the room. Brad stares at them doubtfully.
It’s not that he didn’t want skates, because he did. Well, he didn’t nag, because Brad doesn’t do that, but perhaps he asked his parents for them a few times more than strictly necessary. But. . . Brad really wants to be a hockey player, like the guys he saw on TV, and it’s a really serious wish. It’s not like last year, when he wanted to be an astronaut, because that’s for kids and Brad has grown up from it already. Well, all right, maybe living in a spaceship could be really cool, but that’s not the point. The point is that the skates have toe picks.
Toe picks. Seriously, that’s for girls.
He’s in the middle of wondering if he could find a way to polish the blades to make them look more like the hockey ones when his mom comes into his room.
“Brad? Grandpa asks if you want to go out with him to skate.”
For a second Brad considers saying he’s tired, but his mom uses one hand to tilt his chin up.
“You know, some of the really good hockey players started as figure skaters at first.”
“Seriously?” Brad asks. “But figure skating is so --”
“Seriously. Ask Grandpa if you don’t believe me.”
Brad thinks about it for a moment. Well, if that’s true then maybe he really should learn how to figure skate first. And then he would be an even better hockey player, right? Right.
---
October 1999
“Remember, don’t panic. Even if something goes wrong, it doesn’t mean that it’s over, okay? Even if you --”
“Even if I fall, I have to get up and skate. I know that,” Nate says, looking up. His coach smiles and pats his head. Really, sometimes he thinks she’s more stressed about this than he is.
“Are you comfortable? The boots can’t be tied too tightly.”
“I know.” He nods again, just in case she’s still not entirely convinced. “I’ll be fine.”
“That’s good. And, Nate, it’s just regionals, okay? So don’t --”
Nate huffs a breath.
“It’s not just regionals. It’s a competition. And skaters that place in the top four in regional events advance to the sectionals, and then the best go to the Nationals --”
“Nate,” his coach says, interrupting him. “Do you have the whole rulebook memorized?”
“No,” he answers solemnly. “Not all of it.”
The coach shakes her head. “Well, never mind.” The speaker’s voice booms in the almost empty rink, announcing Nate Fick, representing the Baltimore Figure Skating Club, as the next skater on the ice. “Good luck!”
The novice regionals look nothing like the competitions you see on TV. Except for the judges and the skaters’ parents, there’s almost no audience, so only awkward applause greets him when he skates to the middle of the ice rink. The ice surface is smooth, but the painted lines left after the last hockey game are still visible.
None of it matters, though, when he hears the first notes of the music. It really feels like he’s alone, the skates on his feet and the ice under the only real things around him. During those few minutes, he can fly.
This feeling stays with him when he’s standing on the podium, the gold medal a pleasant weight against his chest.
---
October 1999
Brad is forced to admit that figure skating is not so bad. All right, those outfits are ridiculous and he’d sooner give up his Marvel comics collection than agree to wearing something like that voluntarily. But apart from that, skating can be cool. Last night he snuck down to the living room when his parents were asleep and watched the World Championship re-runs. The parts where people were skating in pairs were boring, because they either didn’t jump at all or the jumps were less complicated and what’s the point in that. Also, all those lifts looked really stupid, especially when the girl was lifting the guy. That was just awkward.
But the single skaters were another matter entirely. There was one guy - Wynn or something - and he was really good. The commentators were talking a lot about one of the jumps he did, an axel, which was apparently really difficult, and that guy did it really well. It did look impressive.
Brad Googled it later. There were diagrams.
Which is exactly the reason why he finds himself here, in an almost deserted skating rink, fifteen minutes before the closing time, skates on his feet.
He’s been skating pretty regularly since last winter and by now the rink staff knows him well enough, so they won’t mind him staying a bit longer. He can hold himself upright with no problem. He even got the hang of skating backwards, but jumping will be tricky. Still, he saw that skating class last week and if a six year old girl can pull off a jump, he shouldn’t have a problem with it either.
He concentrates on what the book said - take off from the forward outside edge, landing on the back outside edge of the opposite foot, okay, he can do it. He starts out slowly, gaining speed as he moves across the rink. Just don’t hit the boards and it will be fine. He skates backwards, turning around at the last moment, pulls his right leg up and -- whoops, ow. Right, so maybe he should start with only a half-revolution, the triples will come later. In fact, maybe he should start standing on the floor, without skates. This sounds like a pretty good idea.
He turns around and goes back to sit on a bench, tugs his boots off. There’s a free space just outside the rink boards and it should make a nice training area. He jumps in place a few times before deciding he’s ready to try something more difficult and takes a run-up, jumping in the air and landing on both feet. His balance is a little off and he tumbles to the floor.
No, this won’t do.
He thinks again about the skater he watched on TV - he always did the same thing with his arms when he jumped, pulled them in and crossed on his chest, spreading them out on the landing. Maybe that’s the trick.
He stands up and brushes himself off, resolved on getting it right this time. He jumps up in the air, brings his arms closer to this body and this time something really feels different. He lands on one leg and extends the other one reflexively, jumping in place a few times to regain his balance.
“Oh.” He’s so astounded to find himself back on his feet again that he nearly falls over, but manages to stay upright. That felt good. Maybe he can try it on the ice now.
“What are you doing here alone?” A voice interrupts his thoughts. “Where is your coach?”
A man stands near the entrance and he’s frowning at Brad. He’s wearing a grey hoodie with the skating club logo on it and Brad thinks he noticed him here a few times before. He shrugs.
“I don’t have a coach. This was just for fun,” he adds defensively.
“Hm.” The man looks at him more closely now. “And you never learned how to do that before?”
“Not really. I just looked at some websites and stuff.”
“Indeed. But you know you can’t really learn skating from a website, right?”
“I already know how to skate!” Brad protests indignantly, trotting to the bench and pulling his skates on. “I can show you,” he says and before the man has a chance to answer, he descends a few steps leading to the ice surface and skates off to the opposite edge. The man watches him, intrigued.
“Nice. Can you skate backwards as well?”
Brad nods and turns around, starting a lap around the rink.
“Don’t pump your back so much,” the man instructs. Brad slows down, unsure. “Hold your upper body steady, that’s right. And bend your knees a bit more, very good! Now stop.”
Brad stops, doing a little spin on one leg.
“Showoff,” the man admonishes. “But you’re good. What’s your name?”
Brad tilts his head and considers the pros and cons of answering the question. There is a rule about not talking to strangers, but the guy has a nametag with David on it, so Brad supposes technically it doesn’t make him a complete stranger. Just an almost-stranger.
“Brad,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, Brad. I’m David. So, tell me, you never thought about skating professionally?”
“What, like in competitions?” Brad asks. “Dunno, I never really thought about it.”
“I think you could. Well, unless you’re scared you’re not good enough.”
Brad shots him a quick look.
“I can be better than this!”
“Really? But you’d need a coach, wouldn’t you?”
“I guess,” Brad says, digging his toe pick into the ice. He looks up suddenly. “I want to be a hockey player.”
David smiles. “Funny you should say that. I wanted to play hockey once, too.”
“So why don’t you?”
“Because figure skating turned out to be more fun that I thought it would be. You know, you have to be tough to be any good. And when you win, your success is only yours.”
All right, that does sound good. Good enough that Brad is almost convinced.
“And, you know, it really is pretty ninja.”
“Okay,” says Brad.
---
January 2001
“He’s a jerk.”
“Who, the new guy?”
“Yeah, I tried talking to him earlier and he just ignored me. Thinks he’s better than everyone here.”
“Maybe he just wants to stay focused. Heard he’s training with Emerson. He’s big on that staying in the bubble and tuning the world out bullshit.”
“Nah, I’m telling you he’s a douche. How old is he anyway? Like fourteen? He’s not a freaking Godfather, he ain’t gonna win the champs now.”
Nate shuts his locker with a bit more force than strictly necessary. His coach always tells him to ignore the gossip, but sometimes it’s hard to do when everyone keeps droning on and on about it.
“You don’t even know him,” he says. One of the boys - Joe, fifteen, never won a medal yet - turns to him with a vicious look in his eyes.
“Aw, baby got offended? You gonna be best friends with him now, Nate?”
“Well, he’s bound to be more intelligent than some people here,” Nate mutters under his breath, toeing off his shoes.
“What did you say?” Joe comes closer, looking at him with narrowed eyes.
“Nothing,” Nate answers, kneeling on the floor to dig out his skate from under the bench.
“Go back to preschool, kid.”
Nate looks up and raises his eyebrows.
“Maybe you should think about it, too.” He grabs his bag and goes to the exit. “Your laces are untied,” he says, shutting the door after himself.
His coach is waiting for him at the rink. “Something’s bothering you,” she says as soon as she notices him approaching.
“I’m fine,” Nate says, shrugging his shoulders.
She makes a disapproving noise and puts a hand on his back.
“Nate. You know you can talk to me about it.”
He bites his lower lip and shakes his head slightly. “It’s just -- Joe was being stupid.”
“And why were you paying attention to Joe?”
“He’s loud. It’s hard to ignore him when he starts talking.”
“So? What did Joe say?”
“I -- Nothing. I’m ready, we can start now.”
“No, we can’t, not until you tell me what it was exactly that upset you.”
Nate sighs, picking on his sleeve absent-mindedly. “Maybe I shouldn’t compete here yet.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she scoffs. “Nate, listen to me. You qualified for this, right? So whatever it takes to be here, you have this. You’ll do fine, I assure you.”
“Yes, coach.”
“And I told you to call me Jennifer,” she mock-admonishes him.
“Yes, coach.” He grins.
“Smartypants,” she laughs, ruffling his hair. “All right, let’s start with some laps.”
---
Everybody complains about the waiting. Competitions always look like that - a few minutes of skating the programs and a lot of waiting. Waiting before the draw, waiting before the warm-up, waiting, waiting, waiting, cramped up in a tiny space with all the other skaters. Brad doesn’t mind it so much, though sometimes he wishes he could sneak out somewhere to be alone, even if it’s just for a few minutes. Maybe he’ll try. It doesn’t look like they’re going to need him here anytime soon.
The kid standing next to him keeps stealing glances at him when he thinks Brad isn’t looking. Finally, Brad turns to stare him down. The kid doesn’t avert his eyes.
“Hi,” he says.
Brad remembers him from the short program yesterday, he was skating to some music Brad didn’t really recognize, but it sounded nice. And his outfit was nice, too, no extra sequins nor ruffles in sight (say whatever you want, but Brad still thinks most of the costumes are ugly as hell). Oh, and apparently he’s some sort of a prodigy child and he’s younger than everyone else here. He does look like he’s seven.
“I’m Nate,” the kid - no, Nate - introduces himself.
“Brad,” says Brad.
Nate observes him intently for a moment. Brad fervently hopes he doesn’t say something along the lines of “I liked your program yesterday” or “I hope you skate well tonight”, or whatever is considered appropriate small talk in these circumstances, because it’s still a competition and no one in their right mind would say that to their rival.
“So,” Nate says, “I’d wish you luck, but I kind of don’t, not really, you know?”
Oh, Brad thinks. He likes this kid.
“Well, I’d return the sentiment, but I don’t really want to, either.”
Nate nods and smiles, as if Brad just passed some kind of a test. And somehow Brad finds himself thinking that maybe, maybe he wouldn’t really mind if Nate did have good luck today.
---
The young and the promising of US figure skating
By Susan Johnson • Photos by Jason Lilley
The time for Junior World Championships is approaching fast and we can take a look at the top contenders for the medal. Team USA is particularly strong this year, especially the men’s single skaters. Nate Fick and Brad Colbert are both considered one of the favorites for the gold.
It’s already been a golden year for Fick. He pulled off a major victory after winning the men’s title at the Junior Grand Prix Final. Finishing on the podium at Worlds would be a wonderful end of the season for him. Brad Colbert went through a coaching change and trains now with Stephen Ferrando. This change seems to have been beneficial for him and he’s said to be in better form than ever.
The third slot originally belonged to Ray Person, who was forced to withdraw after an unfortunate injury to his leg. John Christeson will take his place, competing at Junior World Championships for the first time in his career.
(read more on page 8)
---
November 2006
The skating rink is almost completely empty, his steps echoing in the space. Nate is running through his practice schedule in his head - he’ll start with a warm up session, followed by a quick program run-through. Then he’ll focus on perfecting the technical elements and he’ll finish the session with another -- hopefully clean -- repetition of both his programs. The same way he’s been doing it for the past few years. He sighs.
He’s a little early and his coach isn’t waiting for him yet, so he drops his skates on the floor and stands near the board, propping his left foot on the top and bending forward, stretching the muscles in his legs. He stays in this position for a while and his back twinges a little, but it’s a welcome kind of pain - after so many years of skating sometimes his whole body feels like a one big twinge.
He continues stretching until every muscle in his body feels soft and warm. When he’s finally satisfied he makes his way to the few steps leading to the ice surface, sitting down to take off his shoes. The elastic band on his ankle slipped a little, so he pulls it up. His toes are already covered with Band Aids and he puts a wad of cotton wool over his foot arch, securing it with duct tape. He slips the skates on, taking the guards off, dumping them unceremoniously on the floor next to him. They have a military camouflage pattern, a gift from one of his sisters.
“Oh good, you’re already here,” Jennifer says. “I got stuck in traffic. I’m terribly sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he replies, turning around to look at her. “I’ve warmed up already.”
“All right.” She smiles. “Go ahead, then.”
He steps on the ice. It’s smooth - it always feels great, to be the first person to skate on the surface, just after the zamboni machine left. For a while he lets himself enjoy the peace, when the only sound he can hear is coming from his blades cutting through the ice. On an impulse he turns around, digging the toe pick into the ice and launching himself into a triple toe loop.
“Nate,” his coach says disapprovingly. “Save the jumps for later. But it was a good one.” He doesn’t respond.
He keeps getting distracted with little things all the time, though, and he frowns. Usually he doesn’t have trouble with isolating his thoughts while he’s skating, but today he’s really having a hard time focusing properly. It’s not a good mindset to have just before the World Championships.
“Focus, Nate!” Jennifer shouts across the rink. She’s already put on her skates and joined him on the ice. No shit, he thinks. “Your edges are sloppy. What’s wrong? Come on, don’t give up.” She comes a little close, dropping her voice down. “Nate. I know you need a break, I understand, and it’s okay. But it’s a very short period left and you can do it, I know you can. Don’t give up on yourself that easily.”
“I know!” he snaps, “I don’t need a fucking pep talk!” And great, now he’s taking out his frustrations on her. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t --”
She pats him on the back.
“It’s all right. How about this, give me a clean run through the short program and then we’ll talk.”
“Yeah, okay.”
He stands in the middle of the rink, head bowed, one arm bent at the elbow, the hand touching his shoulder lightly. The music starts and he makes a sweeping motion with his hand, his body following the movement. Jennifer stays quiet for the whole program and he manages to lose himself in the melody once again, all the steps already ingrained in his memory.
He nails it for the first time today.
They have the talk later - well, he supposes it’s been a long time coming, but it’s still somewhat of a shock when Jennifer calmly announces that she feels their cooperation is no more productive or beneficial for his career.
“What?” he asks, dumbfounded. “Are you kidding? But the Worlds are in three weeks and now -”
“No, no, Nate, relax,” she protests vehemently. “I’m telling you now because I think it might actually help you if you know what’s going on. I’m not leaving you now, but I think, after the Worlds - maybe we should look for a different coach for you.”
“Oh. Okay, if you think so…”
“No, I -- Jesus. I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I?” she says, shaking her head. “All right, let me start over. You are a great skater, Nate, and you really have so much potential, that sometimes I feel I’m just not good enough for you anymore, you know?”
“So, you’re saying it’s not me, it’s you,” he states dryly after a moment of silence. “You totally just dumped me.”
She laughs. “Yes, I cannot continue being in this relationship with a clear conscience anymore.” She looks at him softly and says, “C’mere.” He lets her hug him with one arm, leaning into her side and they sit in silence for a while.
“Just don’t let it go to your head,” she adds. “You still need to work.”
“Yes, I’ve been assured of this,” he informs her, smiling openly now.
“Good.” She nods. “So get to work, what are you waiting for? A special invite? I want to see two clean programs today, so better get moving!”
He lets her hustle him out of the locker room, back on the ice.
---
November 2006
“Braaad, this fucking sucks!” Ray moans. He sits down on a step and stretches his leg in front of him. It’s covered in plaster from foot to thigh.
“Don’t be a pussy, Ray,” Brad says.
“Fuck, homes, I’d like to see you like this,” Ray retorts, adding as an afterthought. “Oh, right, I forgot. You’re the Iceman, you’d probably skate with two legs broken. We can’t all be superheroes like you, Brad.”
“Don’t sit on the ground Ray. You’ll freeze your ass to the pavement,” Brad says, grabbing Ray’s crutch and holding it out to him. Ray stands up slowly, wincing a little, and takes it without comment. Brad observes him closely.
“You all right?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah, I’m fucking all right,” Ray replies. Brad looks at him doubtfully. “Seriously, homes. It’s fine.”
Brad sighs. Getting a confession form Ray on a serious matter is sometimes harder than holding a decent conversation with a wall. “You’ve been to the doctor?”
Ray looks like he’s not going to answer the question, but eventually he makes up his mind.
“Yeah. They said my leg’s probably fucked for good.”
Brad doesn’t comment, because what would he say? That he’s sorry, that he knows how Ray must feel? He doesn’t; he hopes he never will. He just nods instead and Ray seems to get it.
“I think I’m gonna finish school,” Ray adds after a moment. “And then maybe go to college.”
The idea of Ray in college really isn’t so crazy, because Ray’s not stupid, but Brad still snorts in disbelief, for tradition’s sake. “And what, you’re going to turn into a wine-sipping communist dick-suck?”
“No, I’ll be a sports commentator,” Ray says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Brad already fears for whatever TV station would employ him. “Which means I will be offering my invaluable insights into figure skating, so you totally need to work on getting into my good graces.”
“Ray.”
“I’m serious, homes. Do you have any idea how much dirt I have on you now? I’m sure the audience would love to hear it, like that one time when you -”
“Ray. Shut up.”
“That’s not nice, Brad!” Ray shouts indignantly. “Definitely not going to earn any points in your favor.”
“Ray. Shut up, please,” Brad deadpans.
Ray throws his hands up, mock-offended. “Fucking Iceman. A man just can’t win,” he adds good-naturedly. “And speaking of ice-related things, don’t you have a training in the morning or something?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Godfather demanded his presence for a four hours practice session at 6am, since the world championships were less than two weeks from now. Evenings like this one were a rarity now. “And I really better get going, wouldn’t want Sixta to chew me out for not looking my best in the morning.”
“Oh man, that guy’s still so obsessed with that? Colbert!” Ray barks in a perfect imitation of Brad’s assistant coach. “What is you some kind of goddamn hippie faggot? Fuck is this? Why the fuck is your shirt out of regulation?” Brad shakes his head in amusement. Ray continues in his normal voice. “Remember, Brad, maintaining a proper grooming standard is a priority. You skate with your shirt untucked, you get tangled in it during a spin and then you fall down.”
“Yes, Ray. Thank you very much for the invaluable input.”
“Always at your service, Brad.”
---
Fick goes for gold
Junior World Championships came to an end
By Evan Wright, special to theinsideedge.com
(12/02/2006) Junior World Championships in Seoul ended in a success for Nate Fick. The 16 year old from Baltimore will return home with a gold medal around his neck.
“Nate was in great form during the whole season,” his coach, Jennifer Browning, said when asked for an opinion. “I’m very proud of him.”
“It was an amazing experience,” commented the young medalist.
Although he already earned the champion title, Nate knows there’s still room for improvement. “I just wanted to skate my best and I’m glad that I managed to do that, but I know that I can be better. I’m always trying to challenge myself.”
The United States led the medal count with five, while Russia finished with four. Brad Colbert grabbed the silver, finishing just behind his teammate. In ice dance, Tony Espera and Gina Alvarez finished in the first place […]
---
December 2006
“Nate? Are you going to sleep?” his mom asks, standing the doorway.
“Mhm, in a minute,” Nate replies, not looking up from his textbook. He’s got a history essay due tomorrow and he really needs to finish it soon. Usually he’s a sucker for everything WWII --especially battles fought by marines, because they are seriously badass -- but right now he’s not a big fan of even the Battle of Iwo Jima.
His mom sighs and steps closer to his chair, setting a mug of coffee on top of some papers strewn around the desk. Nate hastily picks it up and moves it to the surface not covered by anything that could turn out to be his half-finished assignment.
“Just don’t stay up too late,” she says, ruffling his hair.
“I won’t,” he promises. Well, maybe that’s not exactly true - but in Los Angeles it’s still early, right? It’s all relative.
He starts a new page, writing on it in a neat script. There are many things that can be said about being a junior world champion, but it certainly doesn’t make the teachers go easy on him. It’s not that he really minds - he won’t be a figure skater forever and school is important. Maybe he’ll go to college after he retires, but to do that he needs to graduate from high school first and that requires finishing the history essay, among other things.
He goes to sleep late, long after his parents and sisters. He sets the alarm clock for 6am and buries his head under the covers.
The buzzing sound wakes him up in the morning and he reaches out to turn it off, accidentally knocking the clock down to the floor. At least it stops making noise. He sits up, rubbing his hand over his eyes tiredly.
In the kitchen downstairs his mom sends him a disapproving glance when he forgoes breakfast in favor of coffee.
“I’ll eat a sandwich on the first break, promise,” he says, shrugging into his coat and running out the door. “See you later!”
With the championships over, going to school like a normal person still feels a bit surreal. He never thought he’d get used to the almost constant attention from sports journalists and fans during the skating season, but somehow he did, so being able to get on the bus without anybody asking him for an autograph is a bit of a novelty right now. It’s nice.
He’s forced to reconsider his statement about fans when a girl he dimly recognizes from one of his classes corners him right before the first period begins and asks in a breathy voice if he’s the Nate Fick that just won the junior Worlds because she was in the audience with her dad and it was seriously so amazing she can’t even.
“I, uh, thanks?” he says and cringes inwardly when she produces a pen and a scrap of paper from somewhere on her person.
“Could you sign it? Seriously, it would mean so much to me,” she asks. Before now, he was convinced that the expression ‘hearts in eyes’ was used only figuratively, but she seems to be quite talented at pulling it off.
“Yeah, no problem.” He stays still for a moment, desperately trying to remember her name.
“It’s Caroline,” she supplies helpfully.
“Yeah, I knew that.” He’s probably not very convincing, because she sends him a look that clearly says ‘and pigs can fly’. “Sorry, I’m just really tired.” He hands her the paper back and she inserts it between the pages of her notebook, beaming at him.
“Thanks a lot! And I meant it, you were brilliant.”
“No problem. And thank you too, I appreciate it.”
She smiles at him again and looks ready to comment on his brilliance one more time, so he quickly excuses himself, saying he really needs to go to class now. She waves at him and calls, “See you around!”
One of the guys observing their exchange taps him on the back when he turns in the direction of the classroom.
“Dude, did she just ask you out? You gave her your number? Damn, man, the things I’d give up to tap that…”
“No, she just. . .uh, never mind. She definitely didn’t ask me out.”
“Pity. Oh well, more for me then. You don’t happen to know if she’s dating somebody?”
“No, I don’t,” Nate says. “Sorry,” he adds.
Nate hopes this would be the first and the last time somebody pulled the amazed fan act on him today, because he kind of hoped to go back to being anonymous for a while. Most of his classmates don’t give a rat’s ass about figure skating (or at least he hopes so) and he’s not one to brag about it, so the number of people at the school who actually know that he skates could be counted on two hands. They all probably know that he does some kind of a sport - he certainly misses enough classes to justify that. Or they just think he’s an absolute slacker who only bothers to show up on the important tests.
Unfortunately, the world seems to be conspiring against him today, because as soon as he sets foot in the classroom and approaches the front desk to turn in his essay, the teacher stops him in place with a gesture and turns to the class. Mr. Miles is a nice guy and he’s probably one of Nate’s favorite teachers, but he seems dead set on announcing Nate’s latest success to the world at large.
He’s a few minutes late, Nate realizes suddenly, so the classroom is already filled and everybody is staring at him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Miles starts, “I don’t know if you’ve heard about it already, but I am very pleased to announce that we have our own champion right here in this classroom. I’d like to offer my congratulations to Nate Fick, who just won world figure skating championships in Seoul this year.”
Half of the people present fake interest and clap politely. The other half tries very hard (and fails) to hide the laughter. Nate can hear snickering from the back of the classroom.
His media training kicks in so he smiles in response and says, “Thank you very much, sir.”
More snickers at the back.
When the class is over a few of Nate’s classmates gather around him in the corridor.
“Hey, chick-Fick!” someone shouts. They really should brush up on their nicknaming skills, Nate thinks, because that’s beyond lame. “Shouldn’t you wear a fluffy skirt or something? Isn’t that what figure skating is about?”
It’s easier to ignore the idiots, so Nate doesn’t comment, opening his locker.
“Fucking faggot,” somebody spits out. Nate turns around.
“What did you say?” he asks in a surprisingly calm voice. The guy takes a step back. “Say that to my face or shut the fuck up.”
“Come on, James, you gonna let the queer push you around?” one of the guy’s friends says, throwing a dirty look towards Nate.
“I said you’re a fucking faggot. You like it, don’t you? Spending so much time in a locker room with other drag queens in sparkly dresses?”
“Every one of those drag queens, as you put it, could probably take you down any time without too much effort,” Nate retorts.
The guy scowls and pushes him into a locker. Nate grabs his collar in both hands and pushes him away.
“You don’t want to do this,” Nate says quietly.
One of the guys observing their interaction comes closer. “Come on, man, let’s go. Don’t waste your time on him, he’d probably cry if we messed up his pretty face.”
Nate turns to him, speaking fast. “This is between me and him. Nobody asked for your fucking opinion.”
“I’m not scared by somebody who spends his free time shaking his ass covered in tights.”
Nate takes a step in his direction. The jock flinches and steps back. Nate stops.
“That's pretty rich coming from someone who plays a sport that involves big sweaty dogpiles with other men in tight pants,” says Nate. He snaps his locker door shut and adds, “And I think you spend too much time thinking about my ass. Just for future reference, my ass is definitely not interested.”
Nobody comments when he walks away.
part 2
Q: Why did you decide to become a figure skater?
A: I remember when I learned how to skate. It just felt… magical, you know? Like flying.
January 1994
It starts like that: Carol and Hannah get ice skates for Christmas and Nate observes them learning how to skate. It looks fun, especially when the older kids do it, because they don’t fall down too much. Falling down hurts a bit. (Nate knows - he checked. Ice is hard, and also really cold.)
So, skating looks really fun, but watching can get boring after some time. Nate looks around - his mother has her back turned to him, talking to some lady working at the rink. He slips down from his chair and tiptoes to the edge of the ice, hovering near the board uncertainly. There is one girl, older than all of the other kids there; she skates in lazy circles around them, finally stopping to start spinning in one place, fast. Nate watches, transfixed. He looks back over his shoulder - his mom still hasn’t noticed him leaving the chair, so he steps on the ice and lets go of the board.
It’s a bit tricky - the ice is really slippery and it takes him a moment to get used to standing on it. He spreads his arms and turns around, slowly at first, then a bit faster. One spin, then another.
“Nate!” his mom exclaims and he loses his footing, landing on his butt (nothing’s changed - the ice is still as hard and cold as before. Somehow it doesn’t seem so important).
Mom looks concerned, pulling him up and brushing frost from his pants. Nate laughs.
His mother smiles down at him.
“Well then, we’ll have to see about getting you a pair of skates too, right?”
---
December 1997
The ice skates are lying on the floor in the corner of the room. Brad stares at them doubtfully.
It’s not that he didn’t want skates, because he did. Well, he didn’t nag, because Brad doesn’t do that, but perhaps he asked his parents for them a few times more than strictly necessary. But. . . Brad really wants to be a hockey player, like the guys he saw on TV, and it’s a really serious wish. It’s not like last year, when he wanted to be an astronaut, because that’s for kids and Brad has grown up from it already. Well, all right, maybe living in a spaceship could be really cool, but that’s not the point. The point is that the skates have toe picks.
Toe picks. Seriously, that’s for girls.
He’s in the middle of wondering if he could find a way to polish the blades to make them look more like the hockey ones when his mom comes into his room.
“Brad? Grandpa asks if you want to go out with him to skate.”
For a second Brad considers saying he’s tired, but his mom uses one hand to tilt his chin up.
“You know, some of the really good hockey players started as figure skaters at first.”
“Seriously?” Brad asks. “But figure skating is so --”
“Seriously. Ask Grandpa if you don’t believe me.”
Brad thinks about it for a moment. Well, if that’s true then maybe he really should learn how to figure skate first. And then he would be an even better hockey player, right? Right.
---
October 1999
“Remember, don’t panic. Even if something goes wrong, it doesn’t mean that it’s over, okay? Even if you --”
“Even if I fall, I have to get up and skate. I know that,” Nate says, looking up. His coach smiles and pats his head. Really, sometimes he thinks she’s more stressed about this than he is.
“Are you comfortable? The boots can’t be tied too tightly.”
“I know.” He nods again, just in case she’s still not entirely convinced. “I’ll be fine.”
“That’s good. And, Nate, it’s just regionals, okay? So don’t --”
Nate huffs a breath.
“It’s not just regionals. It’s a competition. And skaters that place in the top four in regional events advance to the sectionals, and then the best go to the Nationals --”
“Nate,” his coach says, interrupting him. “Do you have the whole rulebook memorized?”
“No,” he answers solemnly. “Not all of it.”
The coach shakes her head. “Well, never mind.” The speaker’s voice booms in the almost empty rink, announcing Nate Fick, representing the Baltimore Figure Skating Club, as the next skater on the ice. “Good luck!”
The novice regionals look nothing like the competitions you see on TV. Except for the judges and the skaters’ parents, there’s almost no audience, so only awkward applause greets him when he skates to the middle of the ice rink. The ice surface is smooth, but the painted lines left after the last hockey game are still visible.
None of it matters, though, when he hears the first notes of the music. It really feels like he’s alone, the skates on his feet and the ice under the only real things around him. During those few minutes, he can fly.
This feeling stays with him when he’s standing on the podium, the gold medal a pleasant weight against his chest.
---
October 1999
Brad is forced to admit that figure skating is not so bad. All right, those outfits are ridiculous and he’d sooner give up his Marvel comics collection than agree to wearing something like that voluntarily. But apart from that, skating can be cool. Last night he snuck down to the living room when his parents were asleep and watched the World Championship re-runs. The parts where people were skating in pairs were boring, because they either didn’t jump at all or the jumps were less complicated and what’s the point in that. Also, all those lifts looked really stupid, especially when the girl was lifting the guy. That was just awkward.
But the single skaters were another matter entirely. There was one guy - Wynn or something - and he was really good. The commentators were talking a lot about one of the jumps he did, an axel, which was apparently really difficult, and that guy did it really well. It did look impressive.
Brad Googled it later. There were diagrams.
Which is exactly the reason why he finds himself here, in an almost deserted skating rink, fifteen minutes before the closing time, skates on his feet.
He’s been skating pretty regularly since last winter and by now the rink staff knows him well enough, so they won’t mind him staying a bit longer. He can hold himself upright with no problem. He even got the hang of skating backwards, but jumping will be tricky. Still, he saw that skating class last week and if a six year old girl can pull off a jump, he shouldn’t have a problem with it either.
He concentrates on what the book said - take off from the forward outside edge, landing on the back outside edge of the opposite foot, okay, he can do it. He starts out slowly, gaining speed as he moves across the rink. Just don’t hit the boards and it will be fine. He skates backwards, turning around at the last moment, pulls his right leg up and -- whoops, ow. Right, so maybe he should start with only a half-revolution, the triples will come later. In fact, maybe he should start standing on the floor, without skates. This sounds like a pretty good idea.
He turns around and goes back to sit on a bench, tugs his boots off. There’s a free space just outside the rink boards and it should make a nice training area. He jumps in place a few times before deciding he’s ready to try something more difficult and takes a run-up, jumping in the air and landing on both feet. His balance is a little off and he tumbles to the floor.
No, this won’t do.
He thinks again about the skater he watched on TV - he always did the same thing with his arms when he jumped, pulled them in and crossed on his chest, spreading them out on the landing. Maybe that’s the trick.
He stands up and brushes himself off, resolved on getting it right this time. He jumps up in the air, brings his arms closer to this body and this time something really feels different. He lands on one leg and extends the other one reflexively, jumping in place a few times to regain his balance.
“Oh.” He’s so astounded to find himself back on his feet again that he nearly falls over, but manages to stay upright. That felt good. Maybe he can try it on the ice now.
“What are you doing here alone?” A voice interrupts his thoughts. “Where is your coach?”
A man stands near the entrance and he’s frowning at Brad. He’s wearing a grey hoodie with the skating club logo on it and Brad thinks he noticed him here a few times before. He shrugs.
“I don’t have a coach. This was just for fun,” he adds defensively.
“Hm.” The man looks at him more closely now. “And you never learned how to do that before?”
“Not really. I just looked at some websites and stuff.”
“Indeed. But you know you can’t really learn skating from a website, right?”
“I already know how to skate!” Brad protests indignantly, trotting to the bench and pulling his skates on. “I can show you,” he says and before the man has a chance to answer, he descends a few steps leading to the ice surface and skates off to the opposite edge. The man watches him, intrigued.
“Nice. Can you skate backwards as well?”
Brad nods and turns around, starting a lap around the rink.
“Don’t pump your back so much,” the man instructs. Brad slows down, unsure. “Hold your upper body steady, that’s right. And bend your knees a bit more, very good! Now stop.”
Brad stops, doing a little spin on one leg.
“Showoff,” the man admonishes. “But you’re good. What’s your name?”
Brad tilts his head and considers the pros and cons of answering the question. There is a rule about not talking to strangers, but the guy has a nametag with David on it, so Brad supposes technically it doesn’t make him a complete stranger. Just an almost-stranger.
“Brad,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, Brad. I’m David. So, tell me, you never thought about skating professionally?”
“What, like in competitions?” Brad asks. “Dunno, I never really thought about it.”
“I think you could. Well, unless you’re scared you’re not good enough.”
Brad shots him a quick look.
“I can be better than this!”
“Really? But you’d need a coach, wouldn’t you?”
“I guess,” Brad says, digging his toe pick into the ice. He looks up suddenly. “I want to be a hockey player.”
David smiles. “Funny you should say that. I wanted to play hockey once, too.”
“So why don’t you?”
“Because figure skating turned out to be more fun that I thought it would be. You know, you have to be tough to be any good. And when you win, your success is only yours.”
All right, that does sound good. Good enough that Brad is almost convinced.
“And, you know, it really is pretty ninja.”
“Okay,” says Brad.
---
January 2001
“He’s a jerk.”
“Who, the new guy?”
“Yeah, I tried talking to him earlier and he just ignored me. Thinks he’s better than everyone here.”
“Maybe he just wants to stay focused. Heard he’s training with Emerson. He’s big on that staying in the bubble and tuning the world out bullshit.”
“Nah, I’m telling you he’s a douche. How old is he anyway? Like fourteen? He’s not a freaking Godfather, he ain’t gonna win the champs now.”
Nate shuts his locker with a bit more force than strictly necessary. His coach always tells him to ignore the gossip, but sometimes it’s hard to do when everyone keeps droning on and on about it.
“You don’t even know him,” he says. One of the boys - Joe, fifteen, never won a medal yet - turns to him with a vicious look in his eyes.
“Aw, baby got offended? You gonna be best friends with him now, Nate?”
“Well, he’s bound to be more intelligent than some people here,” Nate mutters under his breath, toeing off his shoes.
“What did you say?” Joe comes closer, looking at him with narrowed eyes.
“Nothing,” Nate answers, kneeling on the floor to dig out his skate from under the bench.
“Go back to preschool, kid.”
Nate looks up and raises his eyebrows.
“Maybe you should think about it, too.” He grabs his bag and goes to the exit. “Your laces are untied,” he says, shutting the door after himself.
His coach is waiting for him at the rink. “Something’s bothering you,” she says as soon as she notices him approaching.
“I’m fine,” Nate says, shrugging his shoulders.
She makes a disapproving noise and puts a hand on his back.
“Nate. You know you can talk to me about it.”
He bites his lower lip and shakes his head slightly. “It’s just -- Joe was being stupid.”
“And why were you paying attention to Joe?”
“He’s loud. It’s hard to ignore him when he starts talking.”
“So? What did Joe say?”
“I -- Nothing. I’m ready, we can start now.”
“No, we can’t, not until you tell me what it was exactly that upset you.”
Nate sighs, picking on his sleeve absent-mindedly. “Maybe I shouldn’t compete here yet.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she scoffs. “Nate, listen to me. You qualified for this, right? So whatever it takes to be here, you have this. You’ll do fine, I assure you.”
“Yes, coach.”
“And I told you to call me Jennifer,” she mock-admonishes him.
“Yes, coach.” He grins.
“Smartypants,” she laughs, ruffling his hair. “All right, let’s start with some laps.”
---
Everybody complains about the waiting. Competitions always look like that - a few minutes of skating the programs and a lot of waiting. Waiting before the draw, waiting before the warm-up, waiting, waiting, waiting, cramped up in a tiny space with all the other skaters. Brad doesn’t mind it so much, though sometimes he wishes he could sneak out somewhere to be alone, even if it’s just for a few minutes. Maybe he’ll try. It doesn’t look like they’re going to need him here anytime soon.
The kid standing next to him keeps stealing glances at him when he thinks Brad isn’t looking. Finally, Brad turns to stare him down. The kid doesn’t avert his eyes.
“Hi,” he says.
Brad remembers him from the short program yesterday, he was skating to some music Brad didn’t really recognize, but it sounded nice. And his outfit was nice, too, no extra sequins nor ruffles in sight (say whatever you want, but Brad still thinks most of the costumes are ugly as hell). Oh, and apparently he’s some sort of a prodigy child and he’s younger than everyone else here. He does look like he’s seven.
“I’m Nate,” the kid - no, Nate - introduces himself.
“Brad,” says Brad.
Nate observes him intently for a moment. Brad fervently hopes he doesn’t say something along the lines of “I liked your program yesterday” or “I hope you skate well tonight”, or whatever is considered appropriate small talk in these circumstances, because it’s still a competition and no one in their right mind would say that to their rival.
“So,” Nate says, “I’d wish you luck, but I kind of don’t, not really, you know?”
Oh, Brad thinks. He likes this kid.
“Well, I’d return the sentiment, but I don’t really want to, either.”
Nate nods and smiles, as if Brad just passed some kind of a test. And somehow Brad finds himself thinking that maybe, maybe he wouldn’t really mind if Nate did have good luck today.
---
The young and the promising of US figure skating
By Susan Johnson • Photos by Jason Lilley
The time for Junior World Championships is approaching fast and we can take a look at the top contenders for the medal. Team USA is particularly strong this year, especially the men’s single skaters. Nate Fick and Brad Colbert are both considered one of the favorites for the gold.
It’s already been a golden year for Fick. He pulled off a major victory after winning the men’s title at the Junior Grand Prix Final. Finishing on the podium at Worlds would be a wonderful end of the season for him. Brad Colbert went through a coaching change and trains now with Stephen Ferrando. This change seems to have been beneficial for him and he’s said to be in better form than ever.
The third slot originally belonged to Ray Person, who was forced to withdraw after an unfortunate injury to his leg. John Christeson will take his place, competing at Junior World Championships for the first time in his career.
(read more on page 8)
---
November 2006
The skating rink is almost completely empty, his steps echoing in the space. Nate is running through his practice schedule in his head - he’ll start with a warm up session, followed by a quick program run-through. Then he’ll focus on perfecting the technical elements and he’ll finish the session with another -- hopefully clean -- repetition of both his programs. The same way he’s been doing it for the past few years. He sighs.
He’s a little early and his coach isn’t waiting for him yet, so he drops his skates on the floor and stands near the board, propping his left foot on the top and bending forward, stretching the muscles in his legs. He stays in this position for a while and his back twinges a little, but it’s a welcome kind of pain - after so many years of skating sometimes his whole body feels like a one big twinge.
He continues stretching until every muscle in his body feels soft and warm. When he’s finally satisfied he makes his way to the few steps leading to the ice surface, sitting down to take off his shoes. The elastic band on his ankle slipped a little, so he pulls it up. His toes are already covered with Band Aids and he puts a wad of cotton wool over his foot arch, securing it with duct tape. He slips the skates on, taking the guards off, dumping them unceremoniously on the floor next to him. They have a military camouflage pattern, a gift from one of his sisters.
“Oh good, you’re already here,” Jennifer says. “I got stuck in traffic. I’m terribly sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he replies, turning around to look at her. “I’ve warmed up already.”
“All right.” She smiles. “Go ahead, then.”
He steps on the ice. It’s smooth - it always feels great, to be the first person to skate on the surface, just after the zamboni machine left. For a while he lets himself enjoy the peace, when the only sound he can hear is coming from his blades cutting through the ice. On an impulse he turns around, digging the toe pick into the ice and launching himself into a triple toe loop.
“Nate,” his coach says disapprovingly. “Save the jumps for later. But it was a good one.” He doesn’t respond.
He keeps getting distracted with little things all the time, though, and he frowns. Usually he doesn’t have trouble with isolating his thoughts while he’s skating, but today he’s really having a hard time focusing properly. It’s not a good mindset to have just before the World Championships.
“Focus, Nate!” Jennifer shouts across the rink. She’s already put on her skates and joined him on the ice. No shit, he thinks. “Your edges are sloppy. What’s wrong? Come on, don’t give up.” She comes a little close, dropping her voice down. “Nate. I know you need a break, I understand, and it’s okay. But it’s a very short period left and you can do it, I know you can. Don’t give up on yourself that easily.”
“I know!” he snaps, “I don’t need a fucking pep talk!” And great, now he’s taking out his frustrations on her. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t --”
She pats him on the back.
“It’s all right. How about this, give me a clean run through the short program and then we’ll talk.”
“Yeah, okay.”
He stands in the middle of the rink, head bowed, one arm bent at the elbow, the hand touching his shoulder lightly. The music starts and he makes a sweeping motion with his hand, his body following the movement. Jennifer stays quiet for the whole program and he manages to lose himself in the melody once again, all the steps already ingrained in his memory.
He nails it for the first time today.
They have the talk later - well, he supposes it’s been a long time coming, but it’s still somewhat of a shock when Jennifer calmly announces that she feels their cooperation is no more productive or beneficial for his career.
“What?” he asks, dumbfounded. “Are you kidding? But the Worlds are in three weeks and now -”
“No, no, Nate, relax,” she protests vehemently. “I’m telling you now because I think it might actually help you if you know what’s going on. I’m not leaving you now, but I think, after the Worlds - maybe we should look for a different coach for you.”
“Oh. Okay, if you think so…”
“No, I -- Jesus. I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I?” she says, shaking her head. “All right, let me start over. You are a great skater, Nate, and you really have so much potential, that sometimes I feel I’m just not good enough for you anymore, you know?”
“So, you’re saying it’s not me, it’s you,” he states dryly after a moment of silence. “You totally just dumped me.”
She laughs. “Yes, I cannot continue being in this relationship with a clear conscience anymore.” She looks at him softly and says, “C’mere.” He lets her hug him with one arm, leaning into her side and they sit in silence for a while.
“Just don’t let it go to your head,” she adds. “You still need to work.”
“Yes, I’ve been assured of this,” he informs her, smiling openly now.
“Good.” She nods. “So get to work, what are you waiting for? A special invite? I want to see two clean programs today, so better get moving!”
He lets her hustle him out of the locker room, back on the ice.
---
November 2006
“Braaad, this fucking sucks!” Ray moans. He sits down on a step and stretches his leg in front of him. It’s covered in plaster from foot to thigh.
“Don’t be a pussy, Ray,” Brad says.
“Fuck, homes, I’d like to see you like this,” Ray retorts, adding as an afterthought. “Oh, right, I forgot. You’re the Iceman, you’d probably skate with two legs broken. We can’t all be superheroes like you, Brad.”
“Don’t sit on the ground Ray. You’ll freeze your ass to the pavement,” Brad says, grabbing Ray’s crutch and holding it out to him. Ray stands up slowly, wincing a little, and takes it without comment. Brad observes him closely.
“You all right?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah, I’m fucking all right,” Ray replies. Brad looks at him doubtfully. “Seriously, homes. It’s fine.”
Brad sighs. Getting a confession form Ray on a serious matter is sometimes harder than holding a decent conversation with a wall. “You’ve been to the doctor?”
Ray looks like he’s not going to answer the question, but eventually he makes up his mind.
“Yeah. They said my leg’s probably fucked for good.”
Brad doesn’t comment, because what would he say? That he’s sorry, that he knows how Ray must feel? He doesn’t; he hopes he never will. He just nods instead and Ray seems to get it.
“I think I’m gonna finish school,” Ray adds after a moment. “And then maybe go to college.”
The idea of Ray in college really isn’t so crazy, because Ray’s not stupid, but Brad still snorts in disbelief, for tradition’s sake. “And what, you’re going to turn into a wine-sipping communist dick-suck?”
“No, I’ll be a sports commentator,” Ray says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Brad already fears for whatever TV station would employ him. “Which means I will be offering my invaluable insights into figure skating, so you totally need to work on getting into my good graces.”
“Ray.”
“I’m serious, homes. Do you have any idea how much dirt I have on you now? I’m sure the audience would love to hear it, like that one time when you -”
“Ray. Shut up.”
“That’s not nice, Brad!” Ray shouts indignantly. “Definitely not going to earn any points in your favor.”
“Ray. Shut up, please,” Brad deadpans.
Ray throws his hands up, mock-offended. “Fucking Iceman. A man just can’t win,” he adds good-naturedly. “And speaking of ice-related things, don’t you have a training in the morning or something?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Godfather demanded his presence for a four hours practice session at 6am, since the world championships were less than two weeks from now. Evenings like this one were a rarity now. “And I really better get going, wouldn’t want Sixta to chew me out for not looking my best in the morning.”
“Oh man, that guy’s still so obsessed with that? Colbert!” Ray barks in a perfect imitation of Brad’s assistant coach. “What is you some kind of goddamn hippie faggot? Fuck is this? Why the fuck is your shirt out of regulation?” Brad shakes his head in amusement. Ray continues in his normal voice. “Remember, Brad, maintaining a proper grooming standard is a priority. You skate with your shirt untucked, you get tangled in it during a spin and then you fall down.”
“Yes, Ray. Thank you very much for the invaluable input.”
“Always at your service, Brad.”
---
Fick goes for gold
Junior World Championships came to an end
By Evan Wright, special to theinsideedge.com
(12/02/2006) Junior World Championships in Seoul ended in a success for Nate Fick. The 16 year old from Baltimore will return home with a gold medal around his neck.
“Nate was in great form during the whole season,” his coach, Jennifer Browning, said when asked for an opinion. “I’m very proud of him.”
“It was an amazing experience,” commented the young medalist.
Although he already earned the champion title, Nate knows there’s still room for improvement. “I just wanted to skate my best and I’m glad that I managed to do that, but I know that I can be better. I’m always trying to challenge myself.”
The United States led the medal count with five, while Russia finished with four. Brad Colbert grabbed the silver, finishing just behind his teammate. In ice dance, Tony Espera and Gina Alvarez finished in the first place […]
---
December 2006
“Nate? Are you going to sleep?” his mom asks, standing the doorway.
“Mhm, in a minute,” Nate replies, not looking up from his textbook. He’s got a history essay due tomorrow and he really needs to finish it soon. Usually he’s a sucker for everything WWII --especially battles fought by marines, because they are seriously badass -- but right now he’s not a big fan of even the Battle of Iwo Jima.
His mom sighs and steps closer to his chair, setting a mug of coffee on top of some papers strewn around the desk. Nate hastily picks it up and moves it to the surface not covered by anything that could turn out to be his half-finished assignment.
“Just don’t stay up too late,” she says, ruffling his hair.
“I won’t,” he promises. Well, maybe that’s not exactly true - but in Los Angeles it’s still early, right? It’s all relative.
He starts a new page, writing on it in a neat script. There are many things that can be said about being a junior world champion, but it certainly doesn’t make the teachers go easy on him. It’s not that he really minds - he won’t be a figure skater forever and school is important. Maybe he’ll go to college after he retires, but to do that he needs to graduate from high school first and that requires finishing the history essay, among other things.
He goes to sleep late, long after his parents and sisters. He sets the alarm clock for 6am and buries his head under the covers.
The buzzing sound wakes him up in the morning and he reaches out to turn it off, accidentally knocking the clock down to the floor. At least it stops making noise. He sits up, rubbing his hand over his eyes tiredly.
In the kitchen downstairs his mom sends him a disapproving glance when he forgoes breakfast in favor of coffee.
“I’ll eat a sandwich on the first break, promise,” he says, shrugging into his coat and running out the door. “See you later!”
With the championships over, going to school like a normal person still feels a bit surreal. He never thought he’d get used to the almost constant attention from sports journalists and fans during the skating season, but somehow he did, so being able to get on the bus without anybody asking him for an autograph is a bit of a novelty right now. It’s nice.
He’s forced to reconsider his statement about fans when a girl he dimly recognizes from one of his classes corners him right before the first period begins and asks in a breathy voice if he’s the Nate Fick that just won the junior Worlds because she was in the audience with her dad and it was seriously so amazing she can’t even.
“I, uh, thanks?” he says and cringes inwardly when she produces a pen and a scrap of paper from somewhere on her person.
“Could you sign it? Seriously, it would mean so much to me,” she asks. Before now, he was convinced that the expression ‘hearts in eyes’ was used only figuratively, but she seems to be quite talented at pulling it off.
“Yeah, no problem.” He stays still for a moment, desperately trying to remember her name.
“It’s Caroline,” she supplies helpfully.
“Yeah, I knew that.” He’s probably not very convincing, because she sends him a look that clearly says ‘and pigs can fly’. “Sorry, I’m just really tired.” He hands her the paper back and she inserts it between the pages of her notebook, beaming at him.
“Thanks a lot! And I meant it, you were brilliant.”
“No problem. And thank you too, I appreciate it.”
She smiles at him again and looks ready to comment on his brilliance one more time, so he quickly excuses himself, saying he really needs to go to class now. She waves at him and calls, “See you around!”
One of the guys observing their exchange taps him on the back when he turns in the direction of the classroom.
“Dude, did she just ask you out? You gave her your number? Damn, man, the things I’d give up to tap that…”
“No, she just. . .uh, never mind. She definitely didn’t ask me out.”
“Pity. Oh well, more for me then. You don’t happen to know if she’s dating somebody?”
“No, I don’t,” Nate says. “Sorry,” he adds.
Nate hopes this would be the first and the last time somebody pulled the amazed fan act on him today, because he kind of hoped to go back to being anonymous for a while. Most of his classmates don’t give a rat’s ass about figure skating (or at least he hopes so) and he’s not one to brag about it, so the number of people at the school who actually know that he skates could be counted on two hands. They all probably know that he does some kind of a sport - he certainly misses enough classes to justify that. Or they just think he’s an absolute slacker who only bothers to show up on the important tests.
Unfortunately, the world seems to be conspiring against him today, because as soon as he sets foot in the classroom and approaches the front desk to turn in his essay, the teacher stops him in place with a gesture and turns to the class. Mr. Miles is a nice guy and he’s probably one of Nate’s favorite teachers, but he seems dead set on announcing Nate’s latest success to the world at large.
He’s a few minutes late, Nate realizes suddenly, so the classroom is already filled and everybody is staring at him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Miles starts, “I don’t know if you’ve heard about it already, but I am very pleased to announce that we have our own champion right here in this classroom. I’d like to offer my congratulations to Nate Fick, who just won world figure skating championships in Seoul this year.”
Half of the people present fake interest and clap politely. The other half tries very hard (and fails) to hide the laughter. Nate can hear snickering from the back of the classroom.
His media training kicks in so he smiles in response and says, “Thank you very much, sir.”
More snickers at the back.
When the class is over a few of Nate’s classmates gather around him in the corridor.
“Hey, chick-Fick!” someone shouts. They really should brush up on their nicknaming skills, Nate thinks, because that’s beyond lame. “Shouldn’t you wear a fluffy skirt or something? Isn’t that what figure skating is about?”
It’s easier to ignore the idiots, so Nate doesn’t comment, opening his locker.
“Fucking faggot,” somebody spits out. Nate turns around.
“What did you say?” he asks in a surprisingly calm voice. The guy takes a step back. “Say that to my face or shut the fuck up.”
“Come on, James, you gonna let the queer push you around?” one of the guy’s friends says, throwing a dirty look towards Nate.
“I said you’re a fucking faggot. You like it, don’t you? Spending so much time in a locker room with other drag queens in sparkly dresses?”
“Every one of those drag queens, as you put it, could probably take you down any time without too much effort,” Nate retorts.
The guy scowls and pushes him into a locker. Nate grabs his collar in both hands and pushes him away.
“You don’t want to do this,” Nate says quietly.
One of the guys observing their interaction comes closer. “Come on, man, let’s go. Don’t waste your time on him, he’d probably cry if we messed up his pretty face.”
Nate turns to him, speaking fast. “This is between me and him. Nobody asked for your fucking opinion.”
“I’m not scared by somebody who spends his free time shaking his ass covered in tights.”
Nate takes a step in his direction. The jock flinches and steps back. Nate stops.
“That's pretty rich coming from someone who plays a sport that involves big sweaty dogpiles with other men in tight pants,” says Nate. He snaps his locker door shut and adds, “And I think you spend too much time thinking about my ass. Just for future reference, my ass is definitely not interested.”
Nobody comments when he walks away.
part 2