FIC: Out Of Bounds - John/Rodney - NC-17
Everyone come celebrate with me! Enjoy! Here is the completion of Out Of Bounds.
No. Really. I'm not kidding. Here it is.
The story in one file up to an earlier chapter: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17 overall
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: Then John caught sight of the arena and hung back. The seats were dark and filled with sound. At center ice the TV screens flashed, and lights streaked down blue and white, searching, the rink a gleaming white oval below. As different from practice as a Ferris wheel became when lit up and moving at night.
A/N: Thank you once again to everyone on the beta team. I've had so much help from all of you I can't truly take credit for the story.
Betas: perfica, dossier, enname, rabidfan, skinscript, roaringmice, tingler, teaphile (who also did covers)
Skating beta: roaringmice
Long program choreography: skinscript
Czech beta: sarka
Non-fandom betas: Dana Phearson (HP fandom), my father, katmaxwell (anime fandom), thelovesupreme (HP fandom)
Medical information: JG
Toronto information: toronto, my father
Milwaukee information: you guys
Skating information: a thank you to fsvids.net
The early encouragement from: cesperanza, lillian78, twistedrecesses, millefiori, duffy_99, chaps1870, mecurtin and others who nurtured this along when it was a wee thing. Yes, commenting acts as good bait. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.... Special award for sticking it out FOR THREE YEARS.
All you fine folks with insult suggestions, cesperanza for use of her unicorn, troyswann for the bizarre Marlowe reference.
Dedicated to Evan Lysacek who stunned me when he actually replied to his fan mail.
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 all his training and preparation... the U.S. Championships.
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
"Welcome back to the 1999 U.S. State Farm Figure Skating Championships. Tonight, the men's final - the freeskate."
"Capping off a rough year of injuries, last year's silver medalist Michael Estey wound up in a devastating twelfth, while Jeff Kulka surprised us all with a sixth place finish after the short."
"Kyle Fletcher remains the undisputed king. But this has turned the silver and bronze into a free for all."
"There are plenty of excellent skaters out there tonight, hungry for a chance at a medal."
"I would keep an eye on David Bellamy. His program isn't as difficult as some, but he's a musical performer and just never misses. He won the silver back in 1996 and has plenty of experience at this level."
"Then there's Christian Yong-Suk. He's come so close, so many times. He has the jumps. He has terrific power and speed. It's just never come together for him. This could be his year."
"Elijah Wong is currently in second. He's young, but very talented. I do like his intensity."
"He's a fighter."
"Now most people know the fourth place John Sheppard for partnering women's champion Yvonne Shaeffer last winter. But his real event is the technical short program. Still, he has amazing jumps, and that is becoming increasingly important even in the freeskate."
"Canadian champion Elvis Stojko pounded the competition like tent pegs with his jumps alone."
"And it wouldn't be wise to count out Kulka. He is, first and foremost, a performer. He truly shines in the freeskate."
"Like I said, it's a free for all."
"And Fletcher could be hit by a Zamboni."
They laughed.
"You never know!"
"It's going to be quite a night."
~*~*~
The sunset reflected off windshields where John squeezed between cars wedged together over the crosswalk, lifting his skate bag over a hood. A car jolted forward, just barely stopping for John. Traffic was backed up for several blocks outside the Bradley Center garage. He'd left Rodney a hundred yards back, stranded in the Honda.
There were far more people than earlier pooled in the plaza outside the arena. It was weird how John thought of the place as his now, after just a few short days, and wanted the intruders to go away so he could practice. It hadn't quite clicked in that he was done practicing.
When he showed his badge, the bored-looking security came alert. John found himself led around to a back entrance where Kyle Fletcher was just getting out of his car. John's impromptu escort, a burly black man with the attitude of an off-duty cop, glanced around suspiciously. He muttered something into a walkie-talkie as he pulled open the glass door for John and Kyle. Jeff Kulka and David Bellamy trotted up the concrete steps behind them, and the guards ushered the four of them through the arena like rock stars, eying the scattered bystanders with extreme prejudice.
John got the feeling that the Bradley Center used to a somewhat rougher crowd than figure skating fans.
Inside, John followed on Fletcher's heels as they climbed the carpeted stairs and passed rooms with clusters of VIPs dressed more nicely than the average fan ... stepped over and around duct-taped power cords ... cut through a gantlet of reporters who seemed to get caught in Kyle Fletcher's wake, suddenly scrambling to stand. They started talking all at once, with snatches of "Championship..." and "We're here today..." and "... has arrived for the warm-up ...." Fletcher plowed through, head down, while John cast them a worried look. The cameras panned the four skaters as they made their way toward the stairs to the locker room.
Then John caught sight of the arena and hung back. The seats were dark and filled with sound. At center ice the TV screens flashed, and lights streaked down blue and white, searching, the rink a gleaming white oval below. As different from practice as a Ferris wheel became when lit up and moving at night. A chill prickled the back of his neck.
He hurried down the steps to catch up. Below, the four of them fanned out into the locker room which was crowded with skaters, some dressed, some not. Metal doors slammed, the room humming with tension and a low current of skater-coach conversation, the air rank with male sweat. John was already in costume, so he unloaded his skate bag, mentally ticking off what he'd left back in the car when Rodney freaked out about missing the entire competition! Not nice to leave him there, John could admit, but it was not what he could handle right then.
~*~*~
Pale and resolute, his throat dry, Rodney breathed the cold air rink-side and watched the second group of skaters warm up. This early part of the competition had the air of a carnival, the bottom six skaters largely skating for place and to put on a show.
Images of Kyle Fletcher flashed on the television screens overhead. Rodney took another swallow of water, eyes going wide and staring, scanning across the crowded stands.
John wandered out from the locker room. "Hey, Rodney. Try to save some water for me," he complained.
"Huh?" Rodney quickly recovered. "What, those seventy-five other bottles aren't good enough, you have to have this one?" he snapped, waving a hand at the table pushed against the wall, where in fact plastic bottles were lined up, ten deep, next to stacks of tissue packets.
"It's supposed to be for us." John extracted the bottle from his hand, selfish and irritable. "And where did you hide my jacket?"
The skaters glided to the edge leaving one skater alone, slim and small, cutting back and forth on the ice. John stepped backward and let them troupe by.
"Ladies and gentlemen, skating on behalf of the Seacrest skating club of Eugene, Oregon, please give a warm welcome to Trey Watkins!"
If Sheppard did poorly, Rodney planned to wring his scrawny little neck. Then he'd give him a long, detailed, thorough piece of his mind -- the moment he was sure it wouldn't shatter John like brittle glass.
~*~*~
At the break Mrs. Bevington lifted a squirming Amanda so she could see the menu at the pizza stand, the line actually a half circle crowding behind them. The television above the stand showed the Zambonis crawling off the ice. The doors in the rink swung shut. The announcers said, "It's been an exciting evening here in lovely Milwaukee, Wisconsin...."
"I don't want pepperoni...." Amanda whined.
It was nine thirty. After two and a half hours of skating the girls were saturated, crabby, and hungry. Mrs. Morris returned from the bathrooms with the other three girls in tow, shaking her head.
The clerk handed over a stack of small personal pizza boxes as Mrs. Bevington ran herd on the girls. "Everybody bring extra napkins; we'll have to eat at our seats. No running!" She grabbed Amanda by the shoulder, preventing just that. "I’m not buying you another drink if you spill." Amanda tugged herself free and scampered with Bethany toward their seats.
Reflected across multiple television screens behind them, John handed off his skate guards to Rodney. The camera pulled back to take in the whole arena, then switched to an overhead shot, the skaters seeming small as John followed the rest of his flight onto the ice.
~*~*~
The atmosphere of the arena turned electric as the final group skated out.
An excited buzz ran through the crowd and people hurried to return to their seats. This was the real competition. These were the ones who had a shot at a medal. The ones everyone had come to see.
John rubbed his face with his sleeve as he made his first warm up circuit, forcing himself to ignore Kyle Fletcher, who skated at the edge of his field of vision in embroidered Bavarian suspenders and cropped pants. Squealing guitars, U2's shrill "Sunday Bloody Sunday," played in the background. With his spiked hair and puffed sleeves, Yong-Suk looked like a punk rock gypsy.
John powered through backward strokes, tearing around the ice with a grinding sound. He was skating second to last this time so could afford to put out for his warm-up. He lined his shoulder up, turned, swinging around - and popped it, his legs opening up in midair. He heard the crack of a perfectly landed jump behind him but didn't look up to see who it was.
John glided away from it, hands on his hips. Wong cut in front of him, a little too close, his smirk evident, but John didn't have time for him now.
He pushed his edges into the ice, elbows up high, swinging, as he told himself in a soothing if slightly sarcastic mental voice: You're okay, John. It's just a little tension before the game. That's why they invented warm-ups.
Bellamy's filmy lavender costume wafted behind him as he swung his foot around, pulled it into a tight spin, then swung it out again for a traveling scratch spin, looking like a top, pinballing across the ice. He did a little hop in place of his jump, which was probably the way to go.
John collected himself. He just needed to prove he had the jumps in his pocket. With two harsh pushes, he gathered up speed, cutting around the outer rim of the rink, then he stabbed his toe into the ice - and felt it trip far forward as he pulled his arms in tight. He wobbled the landing, skipped backward. He landed on his side and elbow and slid.
The crowd nearby let out a breathless, "Oh!"
He stood back up, the lights in his eyes. He carved a graceful circle away from that spot and deliberately ignored Rodney's wave, signaling him over for a chat.
He didn't need a chat. He needed to get his jumps together.
"Gentlemen, there is one minute remaining in this warm up...."
Wide-eyed, John was forced to move on to his footwork.
~*~*~
Fuming, John stepped off the ice behind Kulka, wiping his blades clean. Yong-Suk continued his solid, casual strokes, coughing once, the first to skate.
Rodney bent his head to John. "Okay, that was less than ideal, but you need to-"
"Could you not tell me what I did wrong the second I get off the ice when I'm freaking out already?" John snapped, barely controlling the volume of his voice.
"Oh," Rodney said, nonplussed. His face went utterly blank, and John almost felt bad. John glanced away toward the cameras, the audience ... oh hell, there was nowhere safe to look. "Sorry. I. Um. I told you don't do competitions. That was, that was ... very nice."
Never mind. He didn't feel bad at all. "Don't bullshit me either, Rodney. That just makes it worse."
~*~*~
"First on the ice ... Christian Yong-Suk. Skating to music from Aladdin."
"Christian is a wonderful skater with a terrific sense of drama. He's bounced back from the injury which took him out of the America Cup, but he's had problems with consistency throughout his career."
"In fifth place after the short program...."
The girls sat forward in their seats, squirming. Bethany chewed her thumbnail.
Yong Suk approached center ice with his rock star swagger, tossing his head, his eyes narrowed and intense on the TV screen. He wriggled his shoulders into his opening pose, palms together overhead, legs crouched. Took a visible breath.
Breathy violins whirled in a minor key and he stood, arms furling outward and down. He stroked into a half spin, stepped into another, and another, then with the soft bell-like tones, rocketed around outer edge of the rink.
"He has such amazing speed...."
He gathered himself for his first jump.
"Yong Suk is opening with his triple axel. He's practiced the quad, but wasn't sure if he was going to go for it...."
He pushed into the air, arms wrapped tight, angled through the air. He landed with heavy crack, back leg swinging outward.
"Triple axel."
"A wise decision. You just -- if you're not feeling it, if you're not sure you can make it, missing a jump can cost you everything."
~*~*~
Yong Suk swayed into his last pose, the spin slowing while he spread his arms like he'd scattered magical dust. The music drifted into silence.
Bethany and Amanda stood in their seats, their hands high, clapping. Mrs. Bevington heaved herself to her feet, her seat clicking as it folded up. Mrs. Morris followed, clapping more sedately as she nodded in approval. All around the stadium the body of the audience moved, shifted, standing in an uneven flow. The sound increased as Yong-Suk dipped his back leg to bow to the judges.
He dug his heel into the ice, spinning himself around abruptly to face the other side and bowed to them, swinging his arms high to wave.
The noise increased to a roar.
"Did we say Yong-Suk was inconsistent?"
"I take it back!"
"He carried the crowd with him. Even Fletcher might have a hard time beating that."
In the Kiss N' Cry, Yong Suk sat with his one palm on each knee, leaned forward, twitching in expectation. The scores rang out:
"Five point seven ... five eight ..."
"Oh yes. Yong Suk has taken the lead in the freeskate."
~*~*~
Standing in costume at the bathroom mirror, John dabbed pale dots of concealer under his eyes, blending with a ring finger over his dark circles. They'd let his five o'clock shadow grow out for a rugged soldier's look but Rodney had insisted, "You want to look tough, not hung over."
Music filtered through the bathroom door. John recognized the heavy-handed piano in the opening notes of the "Warsaw Concerto." Someone skated that piece every year; it was like a rule.
John struggled to blend foundation into his stubble line, then finally had to wet a paper towel to clean up the mess. He picked little bits of paper towel off his chin.
A toilet flushed behind him. The music grew loud with a roar of applause as the door swung open; hushed again as it fell shut.
Withdrawing the brush from the tube of eyeliner, John drew a liquid line from the inside corner of his eye all along the eyelashes. He messed up in the middle, hated the stuff, but he'd sweat off anything else.
Examining himself in the mirror for weird lines or splotches, he chewed his lip and rinsed his hands. He tugged at his costume, straightening the Air Force insignia on his chest and sleeves. The dangling strands swung from his sleeves, the "rip" across his chest curling down. He turned in a spin in front of the mirror, watching them fan out. Finally he tousled his hair.
John tried to ignore the stream of sustained clapping. Another skater had finished his program.
~*~*~
"David Bellamy is a very experienced competitor who has medaled twice at Nationals."
"Skating to Bizet's 'Dance Bohème."
Bellamy moved into his starting position, the sweep of feathered blond hair brushed back from high cheekbones, his expression smooth and dignified on the overhead screens. Only the jump of a muscle in his jaw betrayed what this meant to him.
There was a long pause. Then the flutes began, soft and fluttering.
Bellamy moved into delicate balletic footwork, his costume light and floaty; the sort of skater who didn't seem to actually touch the ice. He opened with a triple toe loop, one arm raised overhead tracing the motion.
Beautiful jump. The arm movement added a subtle layer of difficulty the judges would appreciate. John wished he hadn't let himself watch and started to walk away. Then he heard the crowd sigh.
John looked over his shoulder, lighting up in surprise. He'd missed the fall: Bellamy was already on his feet and powering around the ice, recapturing lost momentum. For a brief superstitious moment, John thought he'd fallen just because John wished it.
He decided not to stick around to test that theory.
Twenty minutes.
~*~*~
The wash of cheering carried into the locker room, overwhelming the distant smooth orchestra of Wong's music.
John leaned his head against the locker room wall. Felt a familiar hand on his shoulder, hesitant at first, then that sweetly awkward I-know-I'm-not-supposed-to-do-this-in-public pat on the back. John peered up at Rodney with one eye.
"She put in a spin," John murmured. "A life-sucking spin. Two minutes into my program." He turned to face the wall again. Skaters saved those for the end for damned good reason, but Sonja had goaded him into it.
"You've been skating this all season," Rodney reminded him with a firmer squeeze, leaning close.
"I know," John said with a groan.
If Rodney said anything along the lines of you can do it there would be blood.
"Right." Rodney nodded and folded his arms. He leaned back against the lockers. "We'll kill her when the season's over."
Twelve minutes.
~*~*~
Half a minute later Wong returned, tired and sweaty. John tried not to study him but couldn't help it. His head was down and he didn't look at anyone as he pulled out his gym bag.
John looked away before he was caught, hiding a subtle, mean smile.
~*~*~
John sat on the floor of the locker room with headphones on, long legs stretched out, playing his music over and over again. The cheers were all but drowned out by drums, and for the moment, mentally John was back in the men's room, pounding out the rhythm on the sink.
Then Jeff Kulka stood and stepped over John's legs on the way to the arena, his jaw set and determined.
Five minutes.
~*~*~
Rodney settled his chin on his hands, watching Kulka with a jaundiced eye. Kulka cut in a wavy line with both arms raised, accepting the accolades of the crowd. He pretended to miss his starting mark, hands gripping his thick dirty blond hair in mock surprise. With his squinting smile he returned to the center, settling there with a bounce.
Rodney had to give him grudging respect there. He was a consummate performer, playing the crowd with ease.
A wash of calm seriousness passed across Kulka's broad features on the overhead screens. He was not a handsome man, eyes too small, the bones of face and jaw pronounced and thick. He wore a jumpsuit, half white, the other half gray, with a red EKG-shaped line bisecting his torso in a jagged diagonal.
The taut, pensive notes of Rachmaninof's 'Variations on a Theme' began. Kulka's whole body moved in an elongated ripple with the fluid fall of piano. Strong and assured, he pushed himself in a forward glide, pulling his shoulders to roll him back a step to a stop, then fell sideways and arched around in a loop.
Rodney clapped lightly into his palm at Kulka's first triple axel, triple toe combination as he landed it with real effort, flowing out of the jumps with fluid confidence. No natural like John, he obviously had to work for it like Rodney himself always had. Rodney's hand went to his mouth as he tracked Kulka's progress, large-eyed and absorbed.
~*~*~
The audience held their collective breath, silent as the last airy note faded. Then burst into wild applause.
"Flawless performance."
"I warned you not to count Jeff out. The question is, was that enough to bring him out of sixth place and beat Yong Suk?"
John stepped around the corner from the lockers just in time to catch Kulka dip in a bow, giving John a full view of his flat ass. With a wry smirk, John took his skate guards off and handed them to Rodney, who left off clapping to blink distractedly at John. John stuffed his guards into Rodney's hands and waved off any final words of wisdom Rodney might impart.
Unnoticed on the ice, he warmed up, circling, his head down. Kulka swept a large floppy dog off the ice and waved it overhead. He gave it a big smooch and then stepped into the Kiss N' Cry.
Kulka's scores lit up the board. "Five point seven ... five point eight ...." The crowd hooted, cheering again.
"Jeff Kulka has come from behind and taken the lead."
John glanced up at the scoreboard, unable to help himself. Yong-Suk was right behind Kulka, followed by someone called Andrew Reinhardt and then Bellamy, which raised John's eyebrows. Wong had disappeared from the standings; John decided to ask later what happened.
On the overhead screens, Kulka clowned for the camera and set the crowd to giggling.
"Jeff is a charmer. I'm inviting him to my next party," one announcer joked.
The other chuckled.
"Warming up on the ice is John Sheppard... currently in fourth place...." John stroked around the ice and dipped his knees, bouncing. He clenched his fist tight and shook it, looking down. "He's picked a very difficult piece, 'The Hunted' by Kodo. It's Japanese daiko drums and sets a blistering pace for a skater."
"Um-hmm. Risky."
"He's one of the few here tonight who has a quad planned...."
John skated out under the lights, feeling vulnerable, the sweat already sticking his costume to his neck. He was expected to put on a show, wear his role of soldier like an outer shell, but he'd never felt so exposed in his life. The sheer focus of the crowd beat down on him like hot rain.
He made a wide circuit of the arena and shook out his hands. "Wait till you have their full attention," he heard Rodney's voice. "You have the time. Use it."
He looked around and caught sight of a set of waving signs with curly somethings -- clouds? -- drawn in spiral pen strokes, puffy shapes that seemed to float over Go John S.! and We ♥ U John! The clouds trailed legs. There were Christmas candy cane shapes at the four corners of one cardboard sign.
Sheep.
They weren't clouds, they were sheep.
John leaned his forehead on his fist and laughed out loud.
And he felt the puzzled murmur of the crowd, felt it bubble over into amusement, and knew he had them. He thought, Now.
He circled to center ice and etched scroll marks on the ice with his skates. He let his head fall, drawing his fists in to his chest, one blade back. Like a paratrooper dangling in the trees.
The music began with one low drum beat.
He pushed outward with his back blade, head coming up with the second thump of the drum. The percussion clattered as he spun low, back leg dragging along the ice. The light, hushed tap of the cymbals, like a pin drop, and more whispering percussion followed as he spun around, checking the area.
He did a loop, straightened, looking over his shoulder, tense as he gathered speed in backward crossovers. Hit the outer edge of the wall and did another recon loop, snapping his head to the side, picking someone in the audience, front row, a lady in pink whose hands fell as he pinned her in place, eyes following that spot as he whipped around the rink. Clawed his skates backward with the death rattle. Set his shoulders, steady, steady... drew back, tapped the ice, and winged into the triple Lutz, soaring.
He landed in the thundering of drums.
The clapping of the crowd washed over him, lost in the steady, pounding rhythm. It was like good sex, this breathless response from them.
He couldn't resist a little rock of his shoulders and chest to the beat, which wasn't strictly in the choreography. Then he whirled into fluid footwork, moving smoothly over imagined rocks and streams, angled forward, as if bent single-minded on escape. He could almost visualize the sweep of tangled branches and whipping leaves and he ducked and twisted in off-center turns, lithe and smooth. He cut his edge into a quick double flip, arms high, like throwing himself lightly over a cliff.
Then immediately down, the music soft, tense and thrumming, and he tucked himself swirling into the spin, his cheek to his knee, squeezed himself tighter into a low aerodynamic profile and speed, speed, speed, his bangs whipped to one side, jaw clenched. He stood up in a whirl - and let himself fall out of it, tapping the ice for a quick backward leap, arms spread like he'd been thrown free.
He glanced up, checking the reaction, testing the wind. Yeah, they were interested. Curious. This was different.
With a smile, he dipped his head again and dug in, shoulders lowered like he was on the run. Arched across the ice, curved once to the inside, swung for lift and twisted, pulled in tight - one, two, three, four - and felt the jangle in his knee as he two-footed the fucking landing. He took a step, two, then followed it with the triple toe loop, in sequence, not combination. Damn it.
John growled to himself, No more Mr. Nice Guy.
Brows drawn, John came out of a glide into twisting, turning, spinning steps on the deep rumbling drums with the driving syncopated up beat that reminded him of jugglers tumbling. He dodged, zigzagged like he was under fire, elbows out and blocking invisible attacks. His back skate scraped, sliding his leg on the ice as he whipped around. Then he pushed into a kicking butterfly leap and dropped into a seated sit spin, elbow on his thigh. He hopped mid-spin, changed position, calf tugged over his other leg, and let it carve wider on the outside edge, seeming to wobble. He tightened upward into a standing burst of speed, arms dragged in and then releasing, sweeping open, his free leg swinging wide. With a left-right sweep he tilted up into a traveling camel spin, leg like a propeller parallel to the ground. He swung in curving arches in a long line with the syncopated, off-tempo drums. The ground rolled away beneath him. There came a stutter of scattered applause, cut short as they watched, hungry.
The last beat hammered into silence. He spun free. Safe.
John drew his forearms in and pulled down into a cannonball shape, keeping low, pushing off. His throat was dry now, his mind skittering with exhaustion as he tried to pull his concentration back together.
The music returned to the soft heartbeat drum beat.
The moan of the foghorn recalled the waterfront. He hugged the edge of the rink. With its low drone, John lifted up in a cautious gesture and swooped, skates curved wide and turning backward, drawing a wide scrolling loop, his shoulder leading.
With the first ringing flick of cymbals he pushed into a light, open curve, arms open, like he was blown by wind, dancing it. He loved that part. He skipped on one skate out of the glide.
John started gathering speed, moving in body checks forward, backward, looking behind, his steps arching, curving over the ice, the cymbals tap-tap-tapping the persistent, driving rhythm until he was upright, spin-stepping in a spray of ice. Faster and faster, he left the spins in a spatter of ice, pumped his arms, powered forward ... he set his shoulders, leg angled out, took the first step and swung around tight - and pounded it up into a high sailing triple axel. The crowd clapped with a sharp intake of breath.
But then he leaned on his back skate and dug in, skidding to a complete stop, low and crouched. Arms cutting out. The music silenced.
He bounced in place, legs to chest, at the pop of the drums.
And then the clapping really began. A chorus of drums filled the stadium, his heart pumping to it. He could feel the people stand. He popped up on the ice in a roundhouse kick, blocked high with his forearm, teeth gritted, stepped, spun around with the thrumming beat into a knee kick, fighting an imaginary opponent. Stepped, blocked low, then high, as he powered into short, choppy moves across half the rink. He ducked down, fists balled and up, dodging, then took sharp, strong sideways strokes, gaining speed, flying as if running from the fight. The beats hesitated, off-rhythm, and then at the edge, right in front of the judges, he pushed off into his triple followed by a second triple in combination. Perfect!
He swung his fist and punched the air -- yes! -- then worked that into the kung-fu moves and swayed back into the choreography. He laughed because the crowd was adding their own rhythm track and he couldn't hear his music.
He swept around the corner and dead center ice sprang into a high stag jump, higher than practice, knees bent, legs tucked in close. He dropped down into a long propeller leg sweep, elbow out, one fist protecting his face. He rolled out of it and hit the far corner. With a breath, he leaped into a full circle airborne roundhouse spinning kick. Then drove fast for the judges -- launched into a one-and-a-half Arabian, turning like a skateboarder in midair -- then dove down, skidding on one knee. Elbow back, head down, his hand slammed the ice with the last hammering notes.
The arena filled with sound and the dissonant thumping roar of a hundred and fifty thousand people standing. He held the pose while his chest heaved like bellows.
"The crowd is on their feet!"
"What an athletic, dynamic performance!"
Up in the stands the sheep signs bobbed and bounced as the girls leaped up and down, screaming.
John rocked back to his knees and looked up at the sky in stunned relief.
Then he got up and circled a step, hands on his hips. He coughed and all but fell into a loose-limbed exhausted bow to judges, sweat draining into and stinging his eyes. He ran his sleeve across his face and then held up both hands and bowed to the opposite row. Waved to the girls as the signs bounced some more. He swam through the pounding of blood in his ears. He did the last two bows to the opposite ends, breath heaving, then swung leaden, throbbing legs and stroked in the general direction of the Kiss n' Cry, which was at least a quarter mile away.
He made for the side of the arena, where he threw himself into a startled Rodney's arms and then grabbed his face and kissed him-
-in his mind. In reality, he was way too tired to do more than glow at Rodney, knowing what he'd done. His hands were on his hips as he skated the length of the rink, the crowd a clapping background noise, the announcers a vague thundering echo.
As it was, Rodney radiated smug glory. He gripped John's shoulder as he came off the ice and shook him. "You did it!"
"Yeah," John gasped. It was all he could manage.
~*~*~
The camera zoomed in on John and Rodney as they stepped up onto the platform to the Kiss 'n Cry. Rodney's shoulder blocked the screen for a moment before the network switched to a different angle.
John's slow heavy breaths rasped across the microphones as he checked behind himself, then sat on the carpeted bench with a grunt and swiped one hand through his sweaty hair. His chest rose and fell and he swallowed, visibly trying to get his breathing under control.
Rodney rucked up his chinos before he sat, eyelashes fluttering once at the cameras. He left a careful eighteen inches between them and rocked in his seat, beaming, his hands clasped together between his thighs. One knee bounced at the speed of a wagging tail. John ducked below the frame briefly to clip on his skate guards, then bobbed back up, water bottle in hand. He leaned closer to murmur in Rodney's ear, giving the camera a sly glance. Rodney dipped his head in a blush, snickering.
John gazed up at his scores, stars in his eyes.
"Five seven... five point eight...." A woman's smooth voice read them.
"That seals it."
"Wow."
"John Sheppard has beaten Yong-Suk by a mile. Kulka holds onto the lead by a thread, with only the current champion, Kyle Fletcher, left to go."
~*~*~
Outside the locker room, still in costume, John dodged through the crush and chaos of too many people in too small a space, suddenly way too warm after the arena, ABC cameras weaving between competitors and family. Rodney's steadying hand was on his back.
They were stopped by Maddy Sheaffer, who pinched John's cheeks saying, "And he's so handsome!" He yielded to a smothering hug from her, followed by Yvonne springing up into his arms with a happy squeak. Shutters rattle-clicked around him.
Then Ronon loomed into view, grinning. He reached for John's arm, drew him in and rumpled his hair. "I didn't think you were gonna win."
John spluttered and ducked his head. "Yeah, me neither," he admitted in an undertone. And then looked around for Rodney.
The press had caught up with him. Two reporters angled their microphones towards Rodney, the light shining off his forehead.
Rodney stood in his sport jacket, one hand in his pocket, shoulders back, with his smile cocked at a smug angle. "Naturally I would never coach anything less than championship material...." he assured them.
John muttered to Ronon, "This might take a while."
"Hungry?" Ronon suggested, shrugging toward the door.
John's eyes glazed over. "Like you wouldn't believe."
As they worked their way through the crowd, people glanced up at John and smiled, offering their congratulations, shaking his hand. Strangers patted him on the back. Then there came a shriek of giddy laughter and a yell, "Girls! You're not allowed in there!" John turned to find four of the kids from his rink racing toward them.
"Hey there," he said, lighting up as they sprung around him like jumping beans. Mrs. Bevington's daughter wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed, hard. John started moving forward again, dragging her with him. Bethany hung back and beamed.
He stopped to detach the Bevington girl, even as Bethany said, "You know ... if that quad had been clean you could've beaten Kulka."
With a snort John swept her into a hug, gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek then held her out at arm's length, gripping both sides of her head, and said, "Don't rub it in."
~*~*~
Thirty minutes later the crowd trickled in to their seats from intermission for the medal ceremony. They murmured, tense and a little bored as the two Zambonis rolled away and the red carpet was straightened and arranged on the ice. A workman kicked the smallest square podium into place with a hollow wooden sound. Hovering "backstage" behind the Kiss N' Cry, bouncing to get the feeling back in his legs, John wondered if their skates would cut the carpet.
A few feet away, Kyle Fletcher massaged the palm of his hand with a cringe. He looked younger at the moment and had really long lashes. John recalled that Fletcher had fallen on that hand, though it was always hard to reconcile "the" Kyle Fletcher with an injury that happened to everyone.
The workmen finished their sound check and John started to surge forward. But then the head of the U.S. Figure Skating Association stepped out onto the ice to polite applause. He introduced the presenters and started to drone on, and neither Fletcher nor Jeff Kulka even looked over at the ice, so John took that as his cue that it was going to be a while. Kulka leaned a hand on the barrier behind the Kiss N' Cry and lifted his knee, bending around to pick at something on the bottom of his skate.
"That was pretty good, Sheppard." John jerked his head up, startled as he realized Kulka was talking to him. Kulka let go of the skate. "I've gotta admit, I thought you were history after the America Cup."
"A lot of people did," John said.
Jeff Kulka was talking to him. Jeff. Kulka.
"You keep bouncing back," Kulka continued, sweeping thick curly bangs off his face, chatting as if he knew something about John's career.
"Well, I'm bouncy," John said. It was all that came to mind around the blank shock.
Kulka bit his bottom lip and leaned over, saying in an undertone. "See that blond woman with the red jacket? Over by the camera?"
"Yeah," John said, lying. He didn't see any-oh.
"She's gonna pounce on you right after the awards ceremony. According to her, Stars on Ice is the future of figure skating."
"God, I hope not," John said without thinking.
Kulka grinned at him, and clapped him on the back. "Good man. Of course, I'm doing it this year, but just to pay for Worlds."
"I thought he was the one going to that." John nodded his chin at Fletcher, who was ignoring them. He couldn't if Fletcher was shy or stuck up, because by the angle of his head he did seem to be listening.
Kulka gave John a mild, amused look. "Fletcher took the silver at Worlds last year."
"Yeah," John said on a laugh. Everyone knew that.
"So the U.S. has three slots this year," Kulku said slowly. He gave John a meaningful look, then glanced away.
John reeled inwardly, his mouth open. There were three slots on the men's team this year. And he just took the bronze. Although that didn't necessarily mean that....
Kulka cuffed John on the shoulder, shaking him back to the present. "Okay, looks like we're on in a minute. They told you what to do?"
"I've done this once before," John explained. For the pewter medal, two years ago. He'd been the alternate that time. Not picked for Worlds, no. He'd lucked into it after the fact and then got injured. John ran his hands down his face, trying to breathe.
"You did?" Kulka seemed genuinely surprised. How quickly they forgot the fourth place skater. He peered over John's shoulder at the current pewter medal winner. "You know what to do?"
Yong-Suk didn't look more than twenty years old, eyes watery and red like he'd been crying. John understood, finally easing out of the competitive groove. It hit him again that he was here.
"It's cool," Kyle Fletcher spoke suddenly, his voice tight.
It was hard to tell who he was talking to, and the three of them glanced around at each other in confusion. And John memorized in that hyper-focused way one did with celebrities, that Fletcher didn't just hate interviews: he was shy and uncomfortable with people in general. Surprised, John couldn't think of a way to bail him out of the awkward moment.
But Fletcher continued like he had something urgent to say to them. Heck, he was the three-time national champion and second in the world; they listened to him like he was Yoda.
"There's a bond, you know?" He waved a hand between the four of them, as though that would help him communicate. "There's a bond when you get up there that's... forever," he said. "No one else in the world is ever going to know what it's like up there, right now. Just us."
Fletcher turned away like he'd said his piece. The four of them fell silent, drinking in the moment.
Then the announcer said, "In first place, winner of the gold medal, representing the Rockville Skating Club of Rockville, Maryland-Kyle Fletcher!"
The crowd roared as Fletcher took his bows and climbed the platform.
"In second place, winner of the silver medal, representing the Sierra Skating Club of Fresno, California-Jeff Kulka!"
Jeff winked at John, saying, "Don't fall on your ass." Then launched himself onto the ice, grinning with his arms raised to the crowd.
"In third place, winner of the bronze medal, representing the Glen Ellyn Skating Club of Chicago, Illinois-" John couldn't help but smile at the private joke shared by his friends at the Glen Ellyn Skating/“Sex” Club. He wondered if any of them still skated. "-John Sheppard!"
John pushed off onto the ice, stroking hard, feeling the weight of everyone's attention. The applause sounded like rain.
~*~*~
"See?" Rodney gloated to Radek and Sonja as they waited through the interminable medal ceremony. They watched John from behind as he fidgeted on the third step. "They were perfectly capable of seeing brilliant skating on their own-not to mention my consummate skill as a coach-without any of your political finagling."
Sonja rolled her eyes and her head dramatically, and her mouth fell open, aghast. "If it weren't for me-" she began, one hand going to her hip. But Radek laid a hand on her shoulder, silencing her with a quelling look.
He drew her aside. Rodney turned back to watching John, a happy little smile on his face.
Radek murmured to her, "Power is best exercised silently."
She gave him a sharp glance. "How many have you done this for?"
"Skaters?" He looked surprised, blinking owlishly behind his glasses. "Why, just the one."
~*~*~
John finally broke away from the post-competition photo shoot and autograph signing. Rodney stood on the sidelines, arms folded, looking regal if he didn't say so himself. Radiating the commanding presence of a former champion handing down his largesse to the next generation.
"Fletcher's a really nice guy," John gushed as he skated up to the sidelines.
"All he did was shake your hand like he was supposed to." Rodney chuckled.
"Yeah, but he looked at me when he did, like he meant it."
"Oh, Jesus...." Rodney rolled his eyes with a smile.
"And people want my autograph," John said, like he was a little weirded out by it all, looking over his shoulder with a hunted expression. "A lot of them. And they kept teasing me about Yvonne." He blinked back at the ice where Kyle Fletcher was still signing his photo on the front page of the program, nodding at skating moms shyly.
"Ah, your straight cred is assured," Rodney said.
"They had me skate around the rink with the American flag, which was pretty much the stupidest thing ever," John breathed. He handed Rodney the armload of roses while people snapped pictures.
"It looks good for the pictures," Rodney explained, adjusting the roses on his arm. He sniffed them, pleased. John kicked ice shavings off his skate against the boards making a hollow sound. "Trust me, your parents will love them."
John looked around the rink, taking it all in, plainly dazed.
"The important thing is," Rodney said. John looked over, blank-faced. "You didn't pick your costume out of your butt during the photo shoot."
"I tried not to."
He gave John another long moment. The die-hard fans were still clustered at the edge of the rink, leaning over the side, mobbing Fletcher. Rodney remembered those days fondly. The rest of the stands had pretty much emptied out, except for a handful of people who'd stopped a lower-ranked skater midway up the stairs to chat. Workmen, their badges dangling, walked across the ice with microphone wires sliding wetly behind them. A former skating star sat in the front row by the ABC television crew, his feet up on the ABC table, joking amiably with an announcer who was once his chief rival.
John didn't make a sound, but Rodney could feel him sigh and shift, ready to go.
"Come on," Rodney said, patting his shoulder. "They've got the women's final tomorrow, and then the exhibition tomorrow night."
John frowned. "We never practiced my exhibition program." He gave Rodney a suspicious glance. And true, Rodney had never dared to dream they’d make it. Although he'd hoped. Oh, he'd hoped.
"You're right," Rodney said brightly. "Which one are you planning to do?"
[Previous][a href="http://icarusancalion.livejournal.com/893085.html">Next]
There is music and more music:
Sunday Bloody Sunday by U2
The Cave of Wonders from Aladdin
Warsaw Concerto
Dragonheart
Variations by Rachmaninov
The Hunted by Kodo
Ugros by Boiled in Lead
Theme from Apollo 13
The Ecstasy of Gold by Metallica
Theme from Lawrence of Arabia
Little Butterfly by DJ Mystik
Cuzco
No. Really. I'm not kidding. Here it is.
The story in one file up to an earlier chapter: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17 overall
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: Then John caught sight of the arena and hung back. The seats were dark and filled with sound. At center ice the TV screens flashed, and lights streaked down blue and white, searching, the rink a gleaming white oval below. As different from practice as a Ferris wheel became when lit up and moving at night.
A/N: Thank you once again to everyone on the beta team. I've had so much help from all of you I can't truly take credit for the story.
Betas: perfica, dossier, enname, rabidfan, skinscript, roaringmice, tingler, teaphile (who also did covers)
Skating beta: roaringmice
Long program choreography: skinscript
Czech beta: sarka
Non-fandom betas: Dana Phearson (HP fandom), my father, katmaxwell (anime fandom), thelovesupreme (HP fandom)
Medical information: JG
Toronto information: toronto, my father
Milwaukee information: you guys
Skating information: a thank you to fsvids.net
The early encouragement from: cesperanza, lillian78, twistedrecesses, millefiori, duffy_99, chaps1870, mecurtin and others who nurtured this along when it was a wee thing. Yes, commenting acts as good bait. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.... Special award for sticking it out FOR THREE YEARS.
All you fine folks with insult suggestions, cesperanza for use of her unicorn, troyswann for the bizarre Marlowe reference.
Dedicated to Evan Lysacek who stunned me when he actually replied to his fan mail.
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 all his training and preparation... the U.S. Championships.
[Previous][ Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
"Welcome back to the 1999 U.S. State Farm Figure Skating Championships. Tonight, the men's final - the freeskate."
"Capping off a rough year of injuries, last year's silver medalist Michael Estey wound up in a devastating twelfth, while Jeff Kulka surprised us all with a sixth place finish after the short."
"Kyle Fletcher remains the undisputed king. But this has turned the silver and bronze into a free for all."
"There are plenty of excellent skaters out there tonight, hungry for a chance at a medal."
"I would keep an eye on David Bellamy. His program isn't as difficult as some, but he's a musical performer and just never misses. He won the silver back in 1996 and has plenty of experience at this level."
"Then there's Christian Yong-Suk. He's come so close, so many times. He has the jumps. He has terrific power and speed. It's just never come together for him. This could be his year."
"Elijah Wong is currently in second. He's young, but very talented. I do like his intensity."
"He's a fighter."
"Now most people know the fourth place John Sheppard for partnering women's champion Yvonne Shaeffer last winter. But his real event is the technical short program. Still, he has amazing jumps, and that is becoming increasingly important even in the freeskate."
"Canadian champion Elvis Stojko pounded the competition like tent pegs with his jumps alone."
"And it wouldn't be wise to count out Kulka. He is, first and foremost, a performer. He truly shines in the freeskate."
"Like I said, it's a free for all."
"And Fletcher could be hit by a Zamboni."
They laughed.
"You never know!"
"It's going to be quite a night."
~*~*~
The sunset reflected off windshields where John squeezed between cars wedged together over the crosswalk, lifting his skate bag over a hood. A car jolted forward, just barely stopping for John. Traffic was backed up for several blocks outside the Bradley Center garage. He'd left Rodney a hundred yards back, stranded in the Honda.
There were far more people than earlier pooled in the plaza outside the arena. It was weird how John thought of the place as his now, after just a few short days, and wanted the intruders to go away so he could practice. It hadn't quite clicked in that he was done practicing.
When he showed his badge, the bored-looking security came alert. John found himself led around to a back entrance where Kyle Fletcher was just getting out of his car. John's impromptu escort, a burly black man with the attitude of an off-duty cop, glanced around suspiciously. He muttered something into a walkie-talkie as he pulled open the glass door for John and Kyle. Jeff Kulka and David Bellamy trotted up the concrete steps behind them, and the guards ushered the four of them through the arena like rock stars, eying the scattered bystanders with extreme prejudice.
John got the feeling that the Bradley Center used to a somewhat rougher crowd than figure skating fans.
Inside, John followed on Fletcher's heels as they climbed the carpeted stairs and passed rooms with clusters of VIPs dressed more nicely than the average fan ... stepped over and around duct-taped power cords ... cut through a gantlet of reporters who seemed to get caught in Kyle Fletcher's wake, suddenly scrambling to stand. They started talking all at once, with snatches of "Championship..." and "We're here today..." and "... has arrived for the warm-up ...." Fletcher plowed through, head down, while John cast them a worried look. The cameras panned the four skaters as they made their way toward the stairs to the locker room.
Then John caught sight of the arena and hung back. The seats were dark and filled with sound. At center ice the TV screens flashed, and lights streaked down blue and white, searching, the rink a gleaming white oval below. As different from practice as a Ferris wheel became when lit up and moving at night. A chill prickled the back of his neck.
He hurried down the steps to catch up. Below, the four of them fanned out into the locker room which was crowded with skaters, some dressed, some not. Metal doors slammed, the room humming with tension and a low current of skater-coach conversation, the air rank with male sweat. John was already in costume, so he unloaded his skate bag, mentally ticking off what he'd left back in the car when Rodney freaked out about missing the entire competition! Not nice to leave him there, John could admit, but it was not what he could handle right then.
~*~*~
Pale and resolute, his throat dry, Rodney breathed the cold air rink-side and watched the second group of skaters warm up. This early part of the competition had the air of a carnival, the bottom six skaters largely skating for place and to put on a show.
Images of Kyle Fletcher flashed on the television screens overhead. Rodney took another swallow of water, eyes going wide and staring, scanning across the crowded stands.
John wandered out from the locker room. "Hey, Rodney. Try to save some water for me," he complained.
"Huh?" Rodney quickly recovered. "What, those seventy-five other bottles aren't good enough, you have to have this one?" he snapped, waving a hand at the table pushed against the wall, where in fact plastic bottles were lined up, ten deep, next to stacks of tissue packets.
"It's supposed to be for us." John extracted the bottle from his hand, selfish and irritable. "And where did you hide my jacket?"
The skaters glided to the edge leaving one skater alone, slim and small, cutting back and forth on the ice. John stepped backward and let them troupe by.
"Ladies and gentlemen, skating on behalf of the Seacrest skating club of Eugene, Oregon, please give a warm welcome to Trey Watkins!"
If Sheppard did poorly, Rodney planned to wring his scrawny little neck. Then he'd give him a long, detailed, thorough piece of his mind -- the moment he was sure it wouldn't shatter John like brittle glass.
~*~*~
At the break Mrs. Bevington lifted a squirming Amanda so she could see the menu at the pizza stand, the line actually a half circle crowding behind them. The television above the stand showed the Zambonis crawling off the ice. The doors in the rink swung shut. The announcers said, "It's been an exciting evening here in lovely Milwaukee, Wisconsin...."
"I don't want pepperoni...." Amanda whined.
It was nine thirty. After two and a half hours of skating the girls were saturated, crabby, and hungry. Mrs. Morris returned from the bathrooms with the other three girls in tow, shaking her head.
The clerk handed over a stack of small personal pizza boxes as Mrs. Bevington ran herd on the girls. "Everybody bring extra napkins; we'll have to eat at our seats. No running!" She grabbed Amanda by the shoulder, preventing just that. "I’m not buying you another drink if you spill." Amanda tugged herself free and scampered with Bethany toward their seats.
Reflected across multiple television screens behind them, John handed off his skate guards to Rodney. The camera pulled back to take in the whole arena, then switched to an overhead shot, the skaters seeming small as John followed the rest of his flight onto the ice.
~*~*~
The atmosphere of the arena turned electric as the final group skated out.
An excited buzz ran through the crowd and people hurried to return to their seats. This was the real competition. These were the ones who had a shot at a medal. The ones everyone had come to see.
John rubbed his face with his sleeve as he made his first warm up circuit, forcing himself to ignore Kyle Fletcher, who skated at the edge of his field of vision in embroidered Bavarian suspenders and cropped pants. Squealing guitars, U2's shrill "Sunday Bloody Sunday," played in the background. With his spiked hair and puffed sleeves, Yong-Suk looked like a punk rock gypsy.
John powered through backward strokes, tearing around the ice with a grinding sound. He was skating second to last this time so could afford to put out for his warm-up. He lined his shoulder up, turned, swinging around - and popped it, his legs opening up in midair. He heard the crack of a perfectly landed jump behind him but didn't look up to see who it was.
John glided away from it, hands on his hips. Wong cut in front of him, a little too close, his smirk evident, but John didn't have time for him now.
He pushed his edges into the ice, elbows up high, swinging, as he told himself in a soothing if slightly sarcastic mental voice: You're okay, John. It's just a little tension before the game. That's why they invented warm-ups.
Bellamy's filmy lavender costume wafted behind him as he swung his foot around, pulled it into a tight spin, then swung it out again for a traveling scratch spin, looking like a top, pinballing across the ice. He did a little hop in place of his jump, which was probably the way to go.
John collected himself. He just needed to prove he had the jumps in his pocket. With two harsh pushes, he gathered up speed, cutting around the outer rim of the rink, then he stabbed his toe into the ice - and felt it trip far forward as he pulled his arms in tight. He wobbled the landing, skipped backward. He landed on his side and elbow and slid.
The crowd nearby let out a breathless, "Oh!"
He stood back up, the lights in his eyes. He carved a graceful circle away from that spot and deliberately ignored Rodney's wave, signaling him over for a chat.
He didn't need a chat. He needed to get his jumps together.
"Gentlemen, there is one minute remaining in this warm up...."
Wide-eyed, John was forced to move on to his footwork.
~*~*~
Fuming, John stepped off the ice behind Kulka, wiping his blades clean. Yong-Suk continued his solid, casual strokes, coughing once, the first to skate.
Rodney bent his head to John. "Okay, that was less than ideal, but you need to-"
"Could you not tell me what I did wrong the second I get off the ice when I'm freaking out already?" John snapped, barely controlling the volume of his voice.
"Oh," Rodney said, nonplussed. His face went utterly blank, and John almost felt bad. John glanced away toward the cameras, the audience ... oh hell, there was nowhere safe to look. "Sorry. I. Um. I told you don't do competitions. That was, that was ... very nice."
Never mind. He didn't feel bad at all. "Don't bullshit me either, Rodney. That just makes it worse."
~*~*~
"First on the ice ... Christian Yong-Suk. Skating to music from Aladdin."
"Christian is a wonderful skater with a terrific sense of drama. He's bounced back from the injury which took him out of the America Cup, but he's had problems with consistency throughout his career."
"In fifth place after the short program...."
The girls sat forward in their seats, squirming. Bethany chewed her thumbnail.
Yong Suk approached center ice with his rock star swagger, tossing his head, his eyes narrowed and intense on the TV screen. He wriggled his shoulders into his opening pose, palms together overhead, legs crouched. Took a visible breath.
Breathy violins whirled in a minor key and he stood, arms furling outward and down. He stroked into a half spin, stepped into another, and another, then with the soft bell-like tones, rocketed around outer edge of the rink.
"He has such amazing speed...."
He gathered himself for his first jump.
"Yong Suk is opening with his triple axel. He's practiced the quad, but wasn't sure if he was going to go for it...."
He pushed into the air, arms wrapped tight, angled through the air. He landed with heavy crack, back leg swinging outward.
"Triple axel."
"A wise decision. You just -- if you're not feeling it, if you're not sure you can make it, missing a jump can cost you everything."
~*~*~
Yong Suk swayed into his last pose, the spin slowing while he spread his arms like he'd scattered magical dust. The music drifted into silence.
Bethany and Amanda stood in their seats, their hands high, clapping. Mrs. Bevington heaved herself to her feet, her seat clicking as it folded up. Mrs. Morris followed, clapping more sedately as she nodded in approval. All around the stadium the body of the audience moved, shifted, standing in an uneven flow. The sound increased as Yong-Suk dipped his back leg to bow to the judges.
He dug his heel into the ice, spinning himself around abruptly to face the other side and bowed to them, swinging his arms high to wave.
The noise increased to a roar.
"Did we say Yong-Suk was inconsistent?"
"I take it back!"
"He carried the crowd with him. Even Fletcher might have a hard time beating that."
In the Kiss N' Cry, Yong Suk sat with his one palm on each knee, leaned forward, twitching in expectation. The scores rang out:
"Five point seven ... five eight ..."
"Oh yes. Yong Suk has taken the lead in the freeskate."
~*~*~
Standing in costume at the bathroom mirror, John dabbed pale dots of concealer under his eyes, blending with a ring finger over his dark circles. They'd let his five o'clock shadow grow out for a rugged soldier's look but Rodney had insisted, "You want to look tough, not hung over."
Music filtered through the bathroom door. John recognized the heavy-handed piano in the opening notes of the "Warsaw Concerto." Someone skated that piece every year; it was like a rule.
John struggled to blend foundation into his stubble line, then finally had to wet a paper towel to clean up the mess. He picked little bits of paper towel off his chin.
A toilet flushed behind him. The music grew loud with a roar of applause as the door swung open; hushed again as it fell shut.
Withdrawing the brush from the tube of eyeliner, John drew a liquid line from the inside corner of his eye all along the eyelashes. He messed up in the middle, hated the stuff, but he'd sweat off anything else.
Examining himself in the mirror for weird lines or splotches, he chewed his lip and rinsed his hands. He tugged at his costume, straightening the Air Force insignia on his chest and sleeves. The dangling strands swung from his sleeves, the "rip" across his chest curling down. He turned in a spin in front of the mirror, watching them fan out. Finally he tousled his hair.
John tried to ignore the stream of sustained clapping. Another skater had finished his program.
~*~*~
"David Bellamy is a very experienced competitor who has medaled twice at Nationals."
"Skating to Bizet's 'Dance Bohème."
Bellamy moved into his starting position, the sweep of feathered blond hair brushed back from high cheekbones, his expression smooth and dignified on the overhead screens. Only the jump of a muscle in his jaw betrayed what this meant to him.
There was a long pause. Then the flutes began, soft and fluttering.
Bellamy moved into delicate balletic footwork, his costume light and floaty; the sort of skater who didn't seem to actually touch the ice. He opened with a triple toe loop, one arm raised overhead tracing the motion.
Beautiful jump. The arm movement added a subtle layer of difficulty the judges would appreciate. John wished he hadn't let himself watch and started to walk away. Then he heard the crowd sigh.
John looked over his shoulder, lighting up in surprise. He'd missed the fall: Bellamy was already on his feet and powering around the ice, recapturing lost momentum. For a brief superstitious moment, John thought he'd fallen just because John wished it.
He decided not to stick around to test that theory.
Twenty minutes.
~*~*~
The wash of cheering carried into the locker room, overwhelming the distant smooth orchestra of Wong's music.
John leaned his head against the locker room wall. Felt a familiar hand on his shoulder, hesitant at first, then that sweetly awkward I-know-I'm-not-supposed-to-do-this-in-public pat on the back. John peered up at Rodney with one eye.
"She put in a spin," John murmured. "A life-sucking spin. Two minutes into my program." He turned to face the wall again. Skaters saved those for the end for damned good reason, but Sonja had goaded him into it.
"You've been skating this all season," Rodney reminded him with a firmer squeeze, leaning close.
"I know," John said with a groan.
If Rodney said anything along the lines of you can do it there would be blood.
"Right." Rodney nodded and folded his arms. He leaned back against the lockers. "We'll kill her when the season's over."
Twelve minutes.
~*~*~
Half a minute later Wong returned, tired and sweaty. John tried not to study him but couldn't help it. His head was down and he didn't look at anyone as he pulled out his gym bag.
John looked away before he was caught, hiding a subtle, mean smile.
~*~*~
John sat on the floor of the locker room with headphones on, long legs stretched out, playing his music over and over again. The cheers were all but drowned out by drums, and for the moment, mentally John was back in the men's room, pounding out the rhythm on the sink.
Then Jeff Kulka stood and stepped over John's legs on the way to the arena, his jaw set and determined.
Five minutes.
~*~*~
Rodney settled his chin on his hands, watching Kulka with a jaundiced eye. Kulka cut in a wavy line with both arms raised, accepting the accolades of the crowd. He pretended to miss his starting mark, hands gripping his thick dirty blond hair in mock surprise. With his squinting smile he returned to the center, settling there with a bounce.
Rodney had to give him grudging respect there. He was a consummate performer, playing the crowd with ease.
A wash of calm seriousness passed across Kulka's broad features on the overhead screens. He was not a handsome man, eyes too small, the bones of face and jaw pronounced and thick. He wore a jumpsuit, half white, the other half gray, with a red EKG-shaped line bisecting his torso in a jagged diagonal.
The taut, pensive notes of Rachmaninof's 'Variations on a Theme' began. Kulka's whole body moved in an elongated ripple with the fluid fall of piano. Strong and assured, he pushed himself in a forward glide, pulling his shoulders to roll him back a step to a stop, then fell sideways and arched around in a loop.
Rodney clapped lightly into his palm at Kulka's first triple axel, triple toe combination as he landed it with real effort, flowing out of the jumps with fluid confidence. No natural like John, he obviously had to work for it like Rodney himself always had. Rodney's hand went to his mouth as he tracked Kulka's progress, large-eyed and absorbed.
~*~*~
The audience held their collective breath, silent as the last airy note faded. Then burst into wild applause.
"Flawless performance."
"I warned you not to count Jeff out. The question is, was that enough to bring him out of sixth place and beat Yong Suk?"
John stepped around the corner from the lockers just in time to catch Kulka dip in a bow, giving John a full view of his flat ass. With a wry smirk, John took his skate guards off and handed them to Rodney, who left off clapping to blink distractedly at John. John stuffed his guards into Rodney's hands and waved off any final words of wisdom Rodney might impart.
Unnoticed on the ice, he warmed up, circling, his head down. Kulka swept a large floppy dog off the ice and waved it overhead. He gave it a big smooch and then stepped into the Kiss N' Cry.
Kulka's scores lit up the board. "Five point seven ... five point eight ...." The crowd hooted, cheering again.
"Jeff Kulka has come from behind and taken the lead."
John glanced up at the scoreboard, unable to help himself. Yong-Suk was right behind Kulka, followed by someone called Andrew Reinhardt and then Bellamy, which raised John's eyebrows. Wong had disappeared from the standings; John decided to ask later what happened.
On the overhead screens, Kulka clowned for the camera and set the crowd to giggling.
"Jeff is a charmer. I'm inviting him to my next party," one announcer joked.
The other chuckled.
"Warming up on the ice is John Sheppard... currently in fourth place...." John stroked around the ice and dipped his knees, bouncing. He clenched his fist tight and shook it, looking down. "He's picked a very difficult piece, 'The Hunted' by Kodo. It's Japanese daiko drums and sets a blistering pace for a skater."
"Um-hmm. Risky."
"He's one of the few here tonight who has a quad planned...."
John skated out under the lights, feeling vulnerable, the sweat already sticking his costume to his neck. He was expected to put on a show, wear his role of soldier like an outer shell, but he'd never felt so exposed in his life. The sheer focus of the crowd beat down on him like hot rain.
He made a wide circuit of the arena and shook out his hands. "Wait till you have their full attention," he heard Rodney's voice. "You have the time. Use it."
He looked around and caught sight of a set of waving signs with curly somethings -- clouds? -- drawn in spiral pen strokes, puffy shapes that seemed to float over Go John S.! and We ♥ U John! The clouds trailed legs. There were Christmas candy cane shapes at the four corners of one cardboard sign.
Sheep.
They weren't clouds, they were sheep.
John leaned his forehead on his fist and laughed out loud.
And he felt the puzzled murmur of the crowd, felt it bubble over into amusement, and knew he had them. He thought, Now.
He circled to center ice and etched scroll marks on the ice with his skates. He let his head fall, drawing his fists in to his chest, one blade back. Like a paratrooper dangling in the trees.
The music began with one low drum beat.
He pushed outward with his back blade, head coming up with the second thump of the drum. The percussion clattered as he spun low, back leg dragging along the ice. The light, hushed tap of the cymbals, like a pin drop, and more whispering percussion followed as he spun around, checking the area.
He did a loop, straightened, looking over his shoulder, tense as he gathered speed in backward crossovers. Hit the outer edge of the wall and did another recon loop, snapping his head to the side, picking someone in the audience, front row, a lady in pink whose hands fell as he pinned her in place, eyes following that spot as he whipped around the rink. Clawed his skates backward with the death rattle. Set his shoulders, steady, steady... drew back, tapped the ice, and winged into the triple Lutz, soaring.
He landed in the thundering of drums.
The clapping of the crowd washed over him, lost in the steady, pounding rhythm. It was like good sex, this breathless response from them.
He couldn't resist a little rock of his shoulders and chest to the beat, which wasn't strictly in the choreography. Then he whirled into fluid footwork, moving smoothly over imagined rocks and streams, angled forward, as if bent single-minded on escape. He could almost visualize the sweep of tangled branches and whipping leaves and he ducked and twisted in off-center turns, lithe and smooth. He cut his edge into a quick double flip, arms high, like throwing himself lightly over a cliff.
Then immediately down, the music soft, tense and thrumming, and he tucked himself swirling into the spin, his cheek to his knee, squeezed himself tighter into a low aerodynamic profile and speed, speed, speed, his bangs whipped to one side, jaw clenched. He stood up in a whirl - and let himself fall out of it, tapping the ice for a quick backward leap, arms spread like he'd been thrown free.
He glanced up, checking the reaction, testing the wind. Yeah, they were interested. Curious. This was different.
With a smile, he dipped his head again and dug in, shoulders lowered like he was on the run. Arched across the ice, curved once to the inside, swung for lift and twisted, pulled in tight - one, two, three, four - and felt the jangle in his knee as he two-footed the fucking landing. He took a step, two, then followed it with the triple toe loop, in sequence, not combination. Damn it.
John growled to himself, No more Mr. Nice Guy.
Brows drawn, John came out of a glide into twisting, turning, spinning steps on the deep rumbling drums with the driving syncopated up beat that reminded him of jugglers tumbling. He dodged, zigzagged like he was under fire, elbows out and blocking invisible attacks. His back skate scraped, sliding his leg on the ice as he whipped around. Then he pushed into a kicking butterfly leap and dropped into a seated sit spin, elbow on his thigh. He hopped mid-spin, changed position, calf tugged over his other leg, and let it carve wider on the outside edge, seeming to wobble. He tightened upward into a standing burst of speed, arms dragged in and then releasing, sweeping open, his free leg swinging wide. With a left-right sweep he tilted up into a traveling camel spin, leg like a propeller parallel to the ground. He swung in curving arches in a long line with the syncopated, off-tempo drums. The ground rolled away beneath him. There came a stutter of scattered applause, cut short as they watched, hungry.
The last beat hammered into silence. He spun free. Safe.
John drew his forearms in and pulled down into a cannonball shape, keeping low, pushing off. His throat was dry now, his mind skittering with exhaustion as he tried to pull his concentration back together.
The music returned to the soft heartbeat drum beat.
The moan of the foghorn recalled the waterfront. He hugged the edge of the rink. With its low drone, John lifted up in a cautious gesture and swooped, skates curved wide and turning backward, drawing a wide scrolling loop, his shoulder leading.
With the first ringing flick of cymbals he pushed into a light, open curve, arms open, like he was blown by wind, dancing it. He loved that part. He skipped on one skate out of the glide.
John started gathering speed, moving in body checks forward, backward, looking behind, his steps arching, curving over the ice, the cymbals tap-tap-tapping the persistent, driving rhythm until he was upright, spin-stepping in a spray of ice. Faster and faster, he left the spins in a spatter of ice, pumped his arms, powered forward ... he set his shoulders, leg angled out, took the first step and swung around tight - and pounded it up into a high sailing triple axel. The crowd clapped with a sharp intake of breath.
But then he leaned on his back skate and dug in, skidding to a complete stop, low and crouched. Arms cutting out. The music silenced.
He bounced in place, legs to chest, at the pop of the drums.
And then the clapping really began. A chorus of drums filled the stadium, his heart pumping to it. He could feel the people stand. He popped up on the ice in a roundhouse kick, blocked high with his forearm, teeth gritted, stepped, spun around with the thrumming beat into a knee kick, fighting an imaginary opponent. Stepped, blocked low, then high, as he powered into short, choppy moves across half the rink. He ducked down, fists balled and up, dodging, then took sharp, strong sideways strokes, gaining speed, flying as if running from the fight. The beats hesitated, off-rhythm, and then at the edge, right in front of the judges, he pushed off into his triple followed by a second triple in combination. Perfect!
He swung his fist and punched the air -- yes! -- then worked that into the kung-fu moves and swayed back into the choreography. He laughed because the crowd was adding their own rhythm track and he couldn't hear his music.
He swept around the corner and dead center ice sprang into a high stag jump, higher than practice, knees bent, legs tucked in close. He dropped down into a long propeller leg sweep, elbow out, one fist protecting his face. He rolled out of it and hit the far corner. With a breath, he leaped into a full circle airborne roundhouse spinning kick. Then drove fast for the judges -- launched into a one-and-a-half Arabian, turning like a skateboarder in midair -- then dove down, skidding on one knee. Elbow back, head down, his hand slammed the ice with the last hammering notes.
The arena filled with sound and the dissonant thumping roar of a hundred and fifty thousand people standing. He held the pose while his chest heaved like bellows.
"The crowd is on their feet!"
"What an athletic, dynamic performance!"
Up in the stands the sheep signs bobbed and bounced as the girls leaped up and down, screaming.
John rocked back to his knees and looked up at the sky in stunned relief.
Then he got up and circled a step, hands on his hips. He coughed and all but fell into a loose-limbed exhausted bow to judges, sweat draining into and stinging his eyes. He ran his sleeve across his face and then held up both hands and bowed to the opposite row. Waved to the girls as the signs bounced some more. He swam through the pounding of blood in his ears. He did the last two bows to the opposite ends, breath heaving, then swung leaden, throbbing legs and stroked in the general direction of the Kiss n' Cry, which was at least a quarter mile away.
He made for the side of the arena, where he threw himself into a startled Rodney's arms and then grabbed his face and kissed him-
-in his mind. In reality, he was way too tired to do more than glow at Rodney, knowing what he'd done. His hands were on his hips as he skated the length of the rink, the crowd a clapping background noise, the announcers a vague thundering echo.
As it was, Rodney radiated smug glory. He gripped John's shoulder as he came off the ice and shook him. "You did it!"
"Yeah," John gasped. It was all he could manage.
~*~*~
The camera zoomed in on John and Rodney as they stepped up onto the platform to the Kiss 'n Cry. Rodney's shoulder blocked the screen for a moment before the network switched to a different angle.
John's slow heavy breaths rasped across the microphones as he checked behind himself, then sat on the carpeted bench with a grunt and swiped one hand through his sweaty hair. His chest rose and fell and he swallowed, visibly trying to get his breathing under control.
Rodney rucked up his chinos before he sat, eyelashes fluttering once at the cameras. He left a careful eighteen inches between them and rocked in his seat, beaming, his hands clasped together between his thighs. One knee bounced at the speed of a wagging tail. John ducked below the frame briefly to clip on his skate guards, then bobbed back up, water bottle in hand. He leaned closer to murmur in Rodney's ear, giving the camera a sly glance. Rodney dipped his head in a blush, snickering.
John gazed up at his scores, stars in his eyes.
"Five seven... five point eight...." A woman's smooth voice read them.
"That seals it."
"Wow."
"John Sheppard has beaten Yong-Suk by a mile. Kulka holds onto the lead by a thread, with only the current champion, Kyle Fletcher, left to go."
~*~*~
Outside the locker room, still in costume, John dodged through the crush and chaos of too many people in too small a space, suddenly way too warm after the arena, ABC cameras weaving between competitors and family. Rodney's steadying hand was on his back.
They were stopped by Maddy Sheaffer, who pinched John's cheeks saying, "And he's so handsome!" He yielded to a smothering hug from her, followed by Yvonne springing up into his arms with a happy squeak. Shutters rattle-clicked around him.
Then Ronon loomed into view, grinning. He reached for John's arm, drew him in and rumpled his hair. "I didn't think you were gonna win."
John spluttered and ducked his head. "Yeah, me neither," he admitted in an undertone. And then looked around for Rodney.
The press had caught up with him. Two reporters angled their microphones towards Rodney, the light shining off his forehead.
Rodney stood in his sport jacket, one hand in his pocket, shoulders back, with his smile cocked at a smug angle. "Naturally I would never coach anything less than championship material...." he assured them.
John muttered to Ronon, "This might take a while."
"Hungry?" Ronon suggested, shrugging toward the door.
John's eyes glazed over. "Like you wouldn't believe."
As they worked their way through the crowd, people glanced up at John and smiled, offering their congratulations, shaking his hand. Strangers patted him on the back. Then there came a shriek of giddy laughter and a yell, "Girls! You're not allowed in there!" John turned to find four of the kids from his rink racing toward them.
"Hey there," he said, lighting up as they sprung around him like jumping beans. Mrs. Bevington's daughter wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed, hard. John started moving forward again, dragging her with him. Bethany hung back and beamed.
He stopped to detach the Bevington girl, even as Bethany said, "You know ... if that quad had been clean you could've beaten Kulka."
With a snort John swept her into a hug, gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek then held her out at arm's length, gripping both sides of her head, and said, "Don't rub it in."
~*~*~
Thirty minutes later the crowd trickled in to their seats from intermission for the medal ceremony. They murmured, tense and a little bored as the two Zambonis rolled away and the red carpet was straightened and arranged on the ice. A workman kicked the smallest square podium into place with a hollow wooden sound. Hovering "backstage" behind the Kiss N' Cry, bouncing to get the feeling back in his legs, John wondered if their skates would cut the carpet.
A few feet away, Kyle Fletcher massaged the palm of his hand with a cringe. He looked younger at the moment and had really long lashes. John recalled that Fletcher had fallen on that hand, though it was always hard to reconcile "the" Kyle Fletcher with an injury that happened to everyone.
The workmen finished their sound check and John started to surge forward. But then the head of the U.S. Figure Skating Association stepped out onto the ice to polite applause. He introduced the presenters and started to drone on, and neither Fletcher nor Jeff Kulka even looked over at the ice, so John took that as his cue that it was going to be a while. Kulka leaned a hand on the barrier behind the Kiss N' Cry and lifted his knee, bending around to pick at something on the bottom of his skate.
"That was pretty good, Sheppard." John jerked his head up, startled as he realized Kulka was talking to him. Kulka let go of the skate. "I've gotta admit, I thought you were history after the America Cup."
"A lot of people did," John said.
Jeff Kulka was talking to him. Jeff. Kulka.
"You keep bouncing back," Kulka continued, sweeping thick curly bangs off his face, chatting as if he knew something about John's career.
"Well, I'm bouncy," John said. It was all that came to mind around the blank shock.
Kulka bit his bottom lip and leaned over, saying in an undertone. "See that blond woman with the red jacket? Over by the camera?"
"Yeah," John said, lying. He didn't see any-oh.
"She's gonna pounce on you right after the awards ceremony. According to her, Stars on Ice is the future of figure skating."
"God, I hope not," John said without thinking.
Kulka grinned at him, and clapped him on the back. "Good man. Of course, I'm doing it this year, but just to pay for Worlds."
"I thought he was the one going to that." John nodded his chin at Fletcher, who was ignoring them. He couldn't if Fletcher was shy or stuck up, because by the angle of his head he did seem to be listening.
Kulka gave John a mild, amused look. "Fletcher took the silver at Worlds last year."
"Yeah," John said on a laugh. Everyone knew that.
"So the U.S. has three slots this year," Kulku said slowly. He gave John a meaningful look, then glanced away.
John reeled inwardly, his mouth open. There were three slots on the men's team this year. And he just took the bronze. Although that didn't necessarily mean that....
Kulka cuffed John on the shoulder, shaking him back to the present. "Okay, looks like we're on in a minute. They told you what to do?"
"I've done this once before," John explained. For the pewter medal, two years ago. He'd been the alternate that time. Not picked for Worlds, no. He'd lucked into it after the fact and then got injured. John ran his hands down his face, trying to breathe.
"You did?" Kulka seemed genuinely surprised. How quickly they forgot the fourth place skater. He peered over John's shoulder at the current pewter medal winner. "You know what to do?"
Yong-Suk didn't look more than twenty years old, eyes watery and red like he'd been crying. John understood, finally easing out of the competitive groove. It hit him again that he was here.
"It's cool," Kyle Fletcher spoke suddenly, his voice tight.
It was hard to tell who he was talking to, and the three of them glanced around at each other in confusion. And John memorized in that hyper-focused way one did with celebrities, that Fletcher didn't just hate interviews: he was shy and uncomfortable with people in general. Surprised, John couldn't think of a way to bail him out of the awkward moment.
But Fletcher continued like he had something urgent to say to them. Heck, he was the three-time national champion and second in the world; they listened to him like he was Yoda.
"There's a bond, you know?" He waved a hand between the four of them, as though that would help him communicate. "There's a bond when you get up there that's... forever," he said. "No one else in the world is ever going to know what it's like up there, right now. Just us."
Fletcher turned away like he'd said his piece. The four of them fell silent, drinking in the moment.
Then the announcer said, "In first place, winner of the gold medal, representing the Rockville Skating Club of Rockville, Maryland-Kyle Fletcher!"
The crowd roared as Fletcher took his bows and climbed the platform.
"In second place, winner of the silver medal, representing the Sierra Skating Club of Fresno, California-Jeff Kulka!"
Jeff winked at John, saying, "Don't fall on your ass." Then launched himself onto the ice, grinning with his arms raised to the crowd.
"In third place, winner of the bronze medal, representing the Glen Ellyn Skating Club of Chicago, Illinois-" John couldn't help but smile at the private joke shared by his friends at the Glen Ellyn Skating/“Sex” Club. He wondered if any of them still skated. "-John Sheppard!"
John pushed off onto the ice, stroking hard, feeling the weight of everyone's attention. The applause sounded like rain.
~*~*~
"See?" Rodney gloated to Radek and Sonja as they waited through the interminable medal ceremony. They watched John from behind as he fidgeted on the third step. "They were perfectly capable of seeing brilliant skating on their own-not to mention my consummate skill as a coach-without any of your political finagling."
Sonja rolled her eyes and her head dramatically, and her mouth fell open, aghast. "If it weren't for me-" she began, one hand going to her hip. But Radek laid a hand on her shoulder, silencing her with a quelling look.
He drew her aside. Rodney turned back to watching John, a happy little smile on his face.
Radek murmured to her, "Power is best exercised silently."
She gave him a sharp glance. "How many have you done this for?"
"Skaters?" He looked surprised, blinking owlishly behind his glasses. "Why, just the one."
~*~*~
John finally broke away from the post-competition photo shoot and autograph signing. Rodney stood on the sidelines, arms folded, looking regal if he didn't say so himself. Radiating the commanding presence of a former champion handing down his largesse to the next generation.
"Fletcher's a really nice guy," John gushed as he skated up to the sidelines.
"All he did was shake your hand like he was supposed to." Rodney chuckled.
"Yeah, but he looked at me when he did, like he meant it."
"Oh, Jesus...." Rodney rolled his eyes with a smile.
"And people want my autograph," John said, like he was a little weirded out by it all, looking over his shoulder with a hunted expression. "A lot of them. And they kept teasing me about Yvonne." He blinked back at the ice where Kyle Fletcher was still signing his photo on the front page of the program, nodding at skating moms shyly.
"Ah, your straight cred is assured," Rodney said.
"They had me skate around the rink with the American flag, which was pretty much the stupidest thing ever," John breathed. He handed Rodney the armload of roses while people snapped pictures.
"It looks good for the pictures," Rodney explained, adjusting the roses on his arm. He sniffed them, pleased. John kicked ice shavings off his skate against the boards making a hollow sound. "Trust me, your parents will love them."
John looked around the rink, taking it all in, plainly dazed.
"The important thing is," Rodney said. John looked over, blank-faced. "You didn't pick your costume out of your butt during the photo shoot."
"I tried not to."
He gave John another long moment. The die-hard fans were still clustered at the edge of the rink, leaning over the side, mobbing Fletcher. Rodney remembered those days fondly. The rest of the stands had pretty much emptied out, except for a handful of people who'd stopped a lower-ranked skater midway up the stairs to chat. Workmen, their badges dangling, walked across the ice with microphone wires sliding wetly behind them. A former skating star sat in the front row by the ABC television crew, his feet up on the ABC table, joking amiably with an announcer who was once his chief rival.
John didn't make a sound, but Rodney could feel him sigh and shift, ready to go.
"Come on," Rodney said, patting his shoulder. "They've got the women's final tomorrow, and then the exhibition tomorrow night."
John frowned. "We never practiced my exhibition program." He gave Rodney a suspicious glance. And true, Rodney had never dared to dream they’d make it. Although he'd hoped. Oh, he'd hoped.
"You're right," Rodney said brightly. "Which one are you planning to do?"
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There is music and more music:
Sunday Bloody Sunday by U2
The Cave of Wonders from Aladdin
Warsaw Concerto
Dragonheart
Variations by Rachmaninov
The Hunted by Kodo
Ugros by Boiled in Lead
Theme from Apollo 13
The Ecstasy of Gold by Metallica
Theme from Lawrence of Arabia
Little Butterfly by DJ Mystik
Cuzco