Sometimes They Get Scratched Up (2/3)
Title: Sometimes They Get Scratched Up (2/3)
Story: Legacy
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Two uses of a word that looks like fudge, but isn’t fudge.
Summary: He kept it a secret. Not because he was ashamed of it--Kurt wasn’t ashamed of much. But figure skating was his thing, not Mercedes’s, not Rachel’s, no one but his, and his mother’s. He never expected anyone to find out.
Notes: This video is a clip of a triple axel combination triple toe loop, properly executed. It’s a very tricky jump. I don’t particularly like Elvis Stojko, who is the skater in the video, because he’s been very vocal about criticizing Johnny Weir and other so-called “feminine” male skaters--like he’s never rocked a sequin before--but whatever.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gkv-NeZ-hfk
I’m sorry this was a little late, but Chapter 3 is causing me some difficulties. I have issues with posting a chapter and not knowing that the next chapter is on its way.
It’s actually amazing, Kurt marveled as he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, the way my body can feel like it’s on fire, when I’m also so cold that sweat practically freezes when it meets the air. He watched water particles from his breath condense in the air for a moment, cheeks flushed pink, before his coach blew her whistle shrilly and spoke into her ever-present megaphone.
“Not good enough!” Sue Sylvester yelled. “Three more laps, and don’t you dare let that inside edge wobble!”
With a groan, Kurt pushed himself up and set off at a manic pace. Ostensibly, he was developing his footwork at greater speeds--a perfectly logical thing to do. He was also convinced that Sue hated him. She made him do suicides on ice, had him skate dangerously close to the edge so each lap was as long as possible, and refused to acknowledge off of the rink that she was his coach. Sue Sylvester trained champions. Kurt wasn’t a champion, ergo Sue Sylvester was not his coach. When he won gold, she would admit to it.
Other times, he knew he had made the right choice when he saw Sue listed on the “Your Next Coach?” corkboard at the local skating rink. His previous coach had been his mother’s old fan girl. She was a sub-par coach who coddled him. Sue ran him harder than he could ever have imagined. He was forced to new heights, and confronted with the worst criticism he would ever get. The only gentle thing was that Sue knew he was good with music and costuming. She left all of that up to him (with veto power, of course), which left room for minimal changes to the choreography as well. In his heart of hearts, Kurt knew that he would never have a better coach than Sue Sylvester.
Of course, it was pretty hard to admit that when she was chasing him around the outside of the rink, yelling things like “You think this is hard? Try taking a lollipop from the desperate sugar-coated hands of a crying two-year-old, that’s hard!” Usually coaches would be on skates, but Sue didn’t want to skate this fast. Hypocrite.
When he finally finished, his ankles felt weak in his skates and his calves were on fire. He slid over to the center circle to receive criticism and collapsed from the waist up. Sue would despise him for the signs of weakness, but he couldn’t help but drop, resting his hands on his thighs and panting heavily.
“How’d I do?” he asked between gasps of cold, dry air. “Coach?” he said quizzically when she didn’t answer.
Sue stood in the gap of the wall, hands on her hips, looking at him with a fierce expression better befitting a starving tiger. She beckoned him over. Nervously, Kurt glided over to her, although he was careful to stop out of arm’s reach.
“Coach?” he repeated.
“Do you have any idea how slowly you were skating? How many mistakes you made?” she asked in a soft, dangerous growl. Kurt swallowed and tried to ignore the rush of shame that threatened to bring tears to his eyes. He needed to nail this footwork.
“No, Coach.”
Sue’s hand snapped up, so he could see the stopwatch.
“That’s because you were going 17.6 miles per hour, and you didn’t make any mistakes. Outstanding, K. Take five.”
Kurt bowed and wobbled away happily, falling onto a bench. He always felt bipolar around Sue, but he knew her good mood would last at least for a little while, because she had called him K. Sue didn’t give out nicknames often; she only called her captains by their initial. Granted, he was her only skating student, but it still felt nice to be the best. He lapped water from his water bottle greedily, and somehow restricted the urge to pour it over his head. (The fact that it was freezing helped.)
“Your minutes are up!” Sue snapped, magically appearing at his side. Kurt jumped.
“That was barely thirty seconds!” he protested.
“I want you on the ice in full costume, hair and makeup, to run through the exhibition. It’ll take four and a half minutes for that to happen, so get to it!”
Kurt glared at her, but he was forced to obey. There was a communal locker room at Champion’s that anyone could use, but only special people got their own lockers. The older hockey teams, for example--middle school varsity and up, because they spent more time at the rink than younger kids. Skaters with individual coaches, instead of group classes. That sort of thing. He had had his own locker since about third grade.
With weary, tense limbs, he stripped off his simple warm-up outfit and kicked off his skates. In truth, it didn’t matter that Sue was ordering him and depriving him of valuable breathing time. He would make any excuse for a chance to change into his costume. It was an absolute masterpiece. Reverently, he removed the hanger from his locker, dressed slowly and carefully, so as not to rip anything, and applied stage makeup. He absolutely perfected his appearance before turning to admire himself in the full-length mirror. Management hadn’t wanted to put a mirror in the locker room, fearing various inappropriate activities, but the figure skaters had rallied together. Kurt had good into full bitch mode.
For good reason! he approved, twisting into various poses to inspect his costume. It was made of black velvet that hugged his body in all of the right places, creating gorgeous curves that were all but feminine, yet also revealing the elegant lines and firm muscles of a toned athlete. A bright piece of sparkly pink silk slid from his right shoulder to his thigh, while a dark strip of burgundy slashed across from right shoulder to left hip. His sleeves were sliced horizontally, so the sensitive part of his arm was a maze of interlacing burgundy and pink ribbons, and the tops were made of the same black velvet. From the knee down, a shower of warm stars sparkled on the black.
It was exquisite, it was divine, it was absolute perfection. He couldn’t help but bowing a few times, just to see how it looked. Something was lost without the roses and medal, he thought, but at least it looked real. He blew kisses at himself before exiting the locker room.
What he saw made him freeze in his skates.
Noah Puckerman was standing right near the gap in the boards, staring at him. For one wild second, Kurt thought he was having some kind of bizarre nightmare--but then he noticed that Puck was wearing ice skates, and even in his wildest dreams he couldn’t have imagined that.
A rush of thoughts spun through his head: What’s he doing here? Oh my God, he knows I’m a male figure skater! Shit, I just confirmed every homophobic thought he’s ever had. School is going to suck. Wait, Puck skates? How good? Maybe we could train together. Sue would probably kill me for consorting with the enemy. But he’s really cute. Maybe if we were friends he would be nicer. Is it worth it, facing up to Sue? I don’t think I can compete without her.
Then his dazed mind noticed that Puck was wearing hockey skates and a McKinley-red practice jersey. Similarly-clad boys were zooming all around the rink. Kurt never listened to the announcements very seriously, but he vaguely recalled Figgins’ voice over the intercom, announcing the first hockey practice.
Well, fuck.
Puck put his helmet on and stepped onto the ice, still staring at Kurt as if he didn’t know quite who he was. He skated over to another player and muttered something in his ear. Kurt couldn’t see who it was--his face was hidden by the mask--but the guy looked at Kurt and nodded. This caught the attention of a small cluster of players beside him, who stopped skating around some cones to see what had caught his attention. Soon, most of the team was staring.
Kurt felt his entire face turn a blotchy, ugly shade of red, and debated whether he should try to defend himself, with his skates as deadly weapons, or head for the hills. The rattling sound of the air conditioning roared in his ears, and he decided that he was more likely to throw up than do either. He felt sick and scared. There were too many sparkles on his costume.
In a flash of inspiration, he looked around for Sue. She would eviscerate any hockey player who tried to play Smear the Queer with her best chance at a gold medal, right? When he caught sight of her, he almost fainted with relief. She was already yelling at the hockey coach.
“What travesty is this?” she demanded. “My skater has the ice!” She flung an arm out so she was pointing at Kurt, but the coach wasn’t paying attention. Bad idea.
“Relax, Sue,” the coach said, rolling his eyes. Very bad idea. “Management called you. There’s a scheduling conflict, so--”
“Obviously, seeing as your insipid players are scratching everything up! If my skater breaks an ankle because they gouge the ice, I will sue your--”
“Look, Sue, I’m sorry,” the coach interrupted. Worst idea. “But the point is, in order to give everyone some time, we need to start our practice a little early. You’ve been here for over two hours; I’m sure your…”
He looked at Kurt with such obvious contempt that Kurt felt his spine straighten in defiance.
“…skater will be fine.”
“Listen, you--”
Sue seemed overcome with rage, so Kurt knew it was his cue to step in.
“My competition is in a month,” he said, crossing his arms and turning his nose up just a bit. The return of his perfect posture helped soothe his newly-frazzled nerves. “I need to practice my exhibition piece for when I medal. Your puckheads--” he sneered with just a little bit of disgust “--can wait.”
“Attaboy, K,” Sue said, clapping him on the back. Before the coach could protest, she turned on her megaphone and bellowed, “OFF THE ICE!” The hockey players nearly slipped over each other in the scrabble to obey. Kurt watched their progress, holding his hands behind his back, and waited for them to leave before gliding to the center of the ice.
Confidence, he reminded himself. If he wanted to compete, he would have to face tough crowds eventually. And besides, it wasn’t as if any of these people really knew anything about figure skating. He could leap over their heads with a single well-executed double lutz.
Kurt took a few deep breaths and swung his arms a little to loosen up, and struck his pose. His arms were poised above his head. As the opening strands of music began, they moved, lightly and gracefully.
Oh oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh,
Caught in a bad romance…
As soon as the beat began, he moved dramatically, skating backwards with long, dynamic strides. He knew the rink so well that he didn’t bother to look behind him; he snapped his hips in time with the music. One leg extended back so he was balanced on one thin blade. As soon as he cleared the wall, he smoothly transitioned into his first jump, a double lutz, and landed it perfectly, moving into a sit spin.
The entire program went by like that--perfectly. His footwork was complex, but he managed to keep it up and dance to the beat at the same time. He executed triple jumps and combinations that most skaters his age only dreamed of. At one point he let his body slink down on his knees and so his head nearly grazed the ice as he slid across the rink, and got up cleanly. Kurt approached the final jump--a combination triple axel trip toe loop--with his heart singing.
Unfortunately, he made the mistake of glancing at his audience just as some hilarious individual began to prance around and mimic Kurt’s passionate expression. Most of the team was watching him and laughing--except the few who were watching Kurt’s ever move, and laughing anyway.
Out of sheer habit, he completed the full triple axel, but he fumbled the landing. He attempted the triple toe, completely lacking the proper height, and fell.
Muffled laughter reached his ears. Flushing, Kurt got up and continued skating, rushing to catch up to the music. The song ended with a Y-spin, where he held one foot up almost vertically, and bent forward a bit, and he settled into his opening pose to finish the program.
Defeated, Kurt made a lackluster bow and skated towards the exit, dreaming of his private basement bedroom.
“Hold it!” Sue called. He obeyed out of habit. “Give me a clean axel-toe first.”
Kurt stared at her in absolute horror.
“Don’t give me that look, K, just do it.”
The next fifteen minutes were the most hellish fifteen minutes of Kurt’s young life. He attempted the jump four times and fell each time. The laughter got louder and louder, and he started to panic just a little bit. The triple axel was a difficult jump, but he knew he could land it. Finally, in desperation, he landed a clean triple axel-double toe. No dice. Sue’s megaphone crackled into life.
“For the rest of your life I will have access to a written transcript of your program and you will pop nothing. When I expect to see quads, they will not become triples, triples will not become doubles, and doubles will not become singles. Is that clear?”
Kurt nodded resignedly as the hockey players sniggered with laughter.
“Yeah, Hummel, take it like a man!” one of them called out.
“Karofsky!” Sue snapped. “When you can land a quadruple Lutz for the first known time in competition and win gold for it, you will have earned the right to belittle my skater. Until then, keep your fat mouth shut. Kurt, give me a damn triple axel triple toe loop, and stick the landing!”
Kurt brushed melting ice chips off of his costume and took a shaky breath. The cold, familiar air of the rink soothed him, so he took three more. Slowly, he started to skate around the rink, building up momentum until he launched into a clean jump. The edge wobbled a little bit, but it would pass Sue’s expression.
Wordlessly, he skated towards the exit, made a customary bow to Sue, and went back to the locker room.
“Three o’clock tomorrow,” she reminded him. He nodded.
As soon as the locker room door closed, Kurt let out a frustrated scream. He wanted to kick something--for the first time, he missed football--but he was still wearing his skates, so instead his just pounded and kneed his locker. After a few minutes he felt drained of all anger, but his knees were bruised. On top of the beating he had taken from the unyielding ice, it hurt.
Exhausted, Kurt collapsed on the bench. He had enough energy to take off his skates and replace them with slip-ons, but that was it. He flopped there, trying to wrap his mind around the events of the past twenty minutes or so.
They knew. The entire hockey team knew that he was an ice skater. They thought it was funny. By Monday night, the whole school would know.
A loud bang interrupted his thoughts as the door opened and shut, and Puck came in, stiff and uncomfortable. Kurt fixed him with a dull stare.
“Hey,” Puck said awkwardly. “Um, I’m here to get-- I mean, we don’t have lockers yet but I left my, um, thing in lost and found last season and I kind of need it, so-- are you okay?”
Hot tears spilled out of Kurt’s eyes as if on cue, and his hands tightened into fists.
“Do I look okay?” he snapped, jumping up. His tired muscles felt like wooden planks, protesting the movement. “This was the one thing that mine, and you and your stupid-- stupid, ignorant uninspired simian assholes ruined it, just like you ruin everything!”
Kurt was breathing hard and Puck stared at him, completely dumbstruck. Kurt waited expectedly for a moment, then snorted with impatience. With fumbling fingers, he took his bag from his locker and slammed it closed.
“Fuck you,” he muttered as he brushed past Puck and out the door.
He was still crying when he hopped into his car, pulled out his cell phone, and pressed speed dial four. Speed dial one was his father’s cell, number two was the garage, number three was Sue’s cell, and number four was…
“Hey my boy, what’s up? I thought Ms. Sylvester was holding you up for another half hour?”
Her voice was a welcome source of relief. Sue was always a valuable ally in the building, but Mercedes was a friend.
“Mercedes, c-can I--” His voice was weak.
“Kurt?” she said, alarmed. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he hiccupped, wiping at his eyes. The question had annoyed him more coming from Puck. “I’m at the rink. I just need to talk.”
“Be at my house in six minutes. I’ve got Phish Food.”
He was in there in three.
I know that Kurt’s emotions are kind of all over the place towards the end, but don’t worry. He and Puck are going to have a little heart-to-heart, and things will be explained. For anyone who doesn’t know, “popping” is, as Sue implied, simplifying a jump. Spinning two rotations in the air instead of three, etc. It’s not good, points get taken off. And Phish Food is this amazing flavor of ice cream from Ben & Jerry’s. It’s chocolate, with marshmallow, caramel, and small pieces of fish-shaped chocolate.
Story: Legacy
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Two uses of a word that looks like fudge, but isn’t fudge.
Summary: He kept it a secret. Not because he was ashamed of it--Kurt wasn’t ashamed of much. But figure skating was his thing, not Mercedes’s, not Rachel’s, no one but his, and his mother’s. He never expected anyone to find out.
Notes: This video is a clip of a triple axel combination triple toe loop, properly executed. It’s a very tricky jump. I don’t particularly like Elvis Stojko, who is the skater in the video, because he’s been very vocal about criticizing Johnny Weir and other so-called “feminine” male skaters--like he’s never rocked a sequin before--but whatever.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gkv-NeZ-hfk
I’m sorry this was a little late, but Chapter 3 is causing me some difficulties. I have issues with posting a chapter and not knowing that the next chapter is on its way.
It’s actually amazing, Kurt marveled as he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, the way my body can feel like it’s on fire, when I’m also so cold that sweat practically freezes when it meets the air. He watched water particles from his breath condense in the air for a moment, cheeks flushed pink, before his coach blew her whistle shrilly and spoke into her ever-present megaphone.
“Not good enough!” Sue Sylvester yelled. “Three more laps, and don’t you dare let that inside edge wobble!”
With a groan, Kurt pushed himself up and set off at a manic pace. Ostensibly, he was developing his footwork at greater speeds--a perfectly logical thing to do. He was also convinced that Sue hated him. She made him do suicides on ice, had him skate dangerously close to the edge so each lap was as long as possible, and refused to acknowledge off of the rink that she was his coach. Sue Sylvester trained champions. Kurt wasn’t a champion, ergo Sue Sylvester was not his coach. When he won gold, she would admit to it.
Other times, he knew he had made the right choice when he saw Sue listed on the “Your Next Coach?” corkboard at the local skating rink. His previous coach had been his mother’s old fan girl. She was a sub-par coach who coddled him. Sue ran him harder than he could ever have imagined. He was forced to new heights, and confronted with the worst criticism he would ever get. The only gentle thing was that Sue knew he was good with music and costuming. She left all of that up to him (with veto power, of course), which left room for minimal changes to the choreography as well. In his heart of hearts, Kurt knew that he would never have a better coach than Sue Sylvester.
Of course, it was pretty hard to admit that when she was chasing him around the outside of the rink, yelling things like “You think this is hard? Try taking a lollipop from the desperate sugar-coated hands of a crying two-year-old, that’s hard!” Usually coaches would be on skates, but Sue didn’t want to skate this fast. Hypocrite.
When he finally finished, his ankles felt weak in his skates and his calves were on fire. He slid over to the center circle to receive criticism and collapsed from the waist up. Sue would despise him for the signs of weakness, but he couldn’t help but drop, resting his hands on his thighs and panting heavily.
“How’d I do?” he asked between gasps of cold, dry air. “Coach?” he said quizzically when she didn’t answer.
Sue stood in the gap of the wall, hands on her hips, looking at him with a fierce expression better befitting a starving tiger. She beckoned him over. Nervously, Kurt glided over to her, although he was careful to stop out of arm’s reach.
“Coach?” he repeated.
“Do you have any idea how slowly you were skating? How many mistakes you made?” she asked in a soft, dangerous growl. Kurt swallowed and tried to ignore the rush of shame that threatened to bring tears to his eyes. He needed to nail this footwork.
“No, Coach.”
Sue’s hand snapped up, so he could see the stopwatch.
“That’s because you were going 17.6 miles per hour, and you didn’t make any mistakes. Outstanding, K. Take five.”
Kurt bowed and wobbled away happily, falling onto a bench. He always felt bipolar around Sue, but he knew her good mood would last at least for a little while, because she had called him K. Sue didn’t give out nicknames often; she only called her captains by their initial. Granted, he was her only skating student, but it still felt nice to be the best. He lapped water from his water bottle greedily, and somehow restricted the urge to pour it over his head. (The fact that it was freezing helped.)
“Your minutes are up!” Sue snapped, magically appearing at his side. Kurt jumped.
“That was barely thirty seconds!” he protested.
“I want you on the ice in full costume, hair and makeup, to run through the exhibition. It’ll take four and a half minutes for that to happen, so get to it!”
Kurt glared at her, but he was forced to obey. There was a communal locker room at Champion’s that anyone could use, but only special people got their own lockers. The older hockey teams, for example--middle school varsity and up, because they spent more time at the rink than younger kids. Skaters with individual coaches, instead of group classes. That sort of thing. He had had his own locker since about third grade.
With weary, tense limbs, he stripped off his simple warm-up outfit and kicked off his skates. In truth, it didn’t matter that Sue was ordering him and depriving him of valuable breathing time. He would make any excuse for a chance to change into his costume. It was an absolute masterpiece. Reverently, he removed the hanger from his locker, dressed slowly and carefully, so as not to rip anything, and applied stage makeup. He absolutely perfected his appearance before turning to admire himself in the full-length mirror. Management hadn’t wanted to put a mirror in the locker room, fearing various inappropriate activities, but the figure skaters had rallied together. Kurt had good into full bitch mode.
For good reason! he approved, twisting into various poses to inspect his costume. It was made of black velvet that hugged his body in all of the right places, creating gorgeous curves that were all but feminine, yet also revealing the elegant lines and firm muscles of a toned athlete. A bright piece of sparkly pink silk slid from his right shoulder to his thigh, while a dark strip of burgundy slashed across from right shoulder to left hip. His sleeves were sliced horizontally, so the sensitive part of his arm was a maze of interlacing burgundy and pink ribbons, and the tops were made of the same black velvet. From the knee down, a shower of warm stars sparkled on the black.
It was exquisite, it was divine, it was absolute perfection. He couldn’t help but bowing a few times, just to see how it looked. Something was lost without the roses and medal, he thought, but at least it looked real. He blew kisses at himself before exiting the locker room.
What he saw made him freeze in his skates.
Noah Puckerman was standing right near the gap in the boards, staring at him. For one wild second, Kurt thought he was having some kind of bizarre nightmare--but then he noticed that Puck was wearing ice skates, and even in his wildest dreams he couldn’t have imagined that.
A rush of thoughts spun through his head: What’s he doing here? Oh my God, he knows I’m a male figure skater! Shit, I just confirmed every homophobic thought he’s ever had. School is going to suck. Wait, Puck skates? How good? Maybe we could train together. Sue would probably kill me for consorting with the enemy. But he’s really cute. Maybe if we were friends he would be nicer. Is it worth it, facing up to Sue? I don’t think I can compete without her.
Then his dazed mind noticed that Puck was wearing hockey skates and a McKinley-red practice jersey. Similarly-clad boys were zooming all around the rink. Kurt never listened to the announcements very seriously, but he vaguely recalled Figgins’ voice over the intercom, announcing the first hockey practice.
Well, fuck.
Puck put his helmet on and stepped onto the ice, still staring at Kurt as if he didn’t know quite who he was. He skated over to another player and muttered something in his ear. Kurt couldn’t see who it was--his face was hidden by the mask--but the guy looked at Kurt and nodded. This caught the attention of a small cluster of players beside him, who stopped skating around some cones to see what had caught his attention. Soon, most of the team was staring.
Kurt felt his entire face turn a blotchy, ugly shade of red, and debated whether he should try to defend himself, with his skates as deadly weapons, or head for the hills. The rattling sound of the air conditioning roared in his ears, and he decided that he was more likely to throw up than do either. He felt sick and scared. There were too many sparkles on his costume.
In a flash of inspiration, he looked around for Sue. She would eviscerate any hockey player who tried to play Smear the Queer with her best chance at a gold medal, right? When he caught sight of her, he almost fainted with relief. She was already yelling at the hockey coach.
“What travesty is this?” she demanded. “My skater has the ice!” She flung an arm out so she was pointing at Kurt, but the coach wasn’t paying attention. Bad idea.
“Relax, Sue,” the coach said, rolling his eyes. Very bad idea. “Management called you. There’s a scheduling conflict, so--”
“Obviously, seeing as your insipid players are scratching everything up! If my skater breaks an ankle because they gouge the ice, I will sue your--”
“Look, Sue, I’m sorry,” the coach interrupted. Worst idea. “But the point is, in order to give everyone some time, we need to start our practice a little early. You’ve been here for over two hours; I’m sure your…”
He looked at Kurt with such obvious contempt that Kurt felt his spine straighten in defiance.
“…skater will be fine.”
“Listen, you--”
Sue seemed overcome with rage, so Kurt knew it was his cue to step in.
“My competition is in a month,” he said, crossing his arms and turning his nose up just a bit. The return of his perfect posture helped soothe his newly-frazzled nerves. “I need to practice my exhibition piece for when I medal. Your puckheads--” he sneered with just a little bit of disgust “--can wait.”
“Attaboy, K,” Sue said, clapping him on the back. Before the coach could protest, she turned on her megaphone and bellowed, “OFF THE ICE!” The hockey players nearly slipped over each other in the scrabble to obey. Kurt watched their progress, holding his hands behind his back, and waited for them to leave before gliding to the center of the ice.
Confidence, he reminded himself. If he wanted to compete, he would have to face tough crowds eventually. And besides, it wasn’t as if any of these people really knew anything about figure skating. He could leap over their heads with a single well-executed double lutz.
Kurt took a few deep breaths and swung his arms a little to loosen up, and struck his pose. His arms were poised above his head. As the opening strands of music began, they moved, lightly and gracefully.
Oh oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh,
Caught in a bad romance…
As soon as the beat began, he moved dramatically, skating backwards with long, dynamic strides. He knew the rink so well that he didn’t bother to look behind him; he snapped his hips in time with the music. One leg extended back so he was balanced on one thin blade. As soon as he cleared the wall, he smoothly transitioned into his first jump, a double lutz, and landed it perfectly, moving into a sit spin.
The entire program went by like that--perfectly. His footwork was complex, but he managed to keep it up and dance to the beat at the same time. He executed triple jumps and combinations that most skaters his age only dreamed of. At one point he let his body slink down on his knees and so his head nearly grazed the ice as he slid across the rink, and got up cleanly. Kurt approached the final jump--a combination triple axel trip toe loop--with his heart singing.
Unfortunately, he made the mistake of glancing at his audience just as some hilarious individual began to prance around and mimic Kurt’s passionate expression. Most of the team was watching him and laughing--except the few who were watching Kurt’s ever move, and laughing anyway.
Out of sheer habit, he completed the full triple axel, but he fumbled the landing. He attempted the triple toe, completely lacking the proper height, and fell.
Muffled laughter reached his ears. Flushing, Kurt got up and continued skating, rushing to catch up to the music. The song ended with a Y-spin, where he held one foot up almost vertically, and bent forward a bit, and he settled into his opening pose to finish the program.
Defeated, Kurt made a lackluster bow and skated towards the exit, dreaming of his private basement bedroom.
“Hold it!” Sue called. He obeyed out of habit. “Give me a clean axel-toe first.”
Kurt stared at her in absolute horror.
“Don’t give me that look, K, just do it.”
The next fifteen minutes were the most hellish fifteen minutes of Kurt’s young life. He attempted the jump four times and fell each time. The laughter got louder and louder, and he started to panic just a little bit. The triple axel was a difficult jump, but he knew he could land it. Finally, in desperation, he landed a clean triple axel-double toe. No dice. Sue’s megaphone crackled into life.
“For the rest of your life I will have access to a written transcript of your program and you will pop nothing. When I expect to see quads, they will not become triples, triples will not become doubles, and doubles will not become singles. Is that clear?”
Kurt nodded resignedly as the hockey players sniggered with laughter.
“Yeah, Hummel, take it like a man!” one of them called out.
“Karofsky!” Sue snapped. “When you can land a quadruple Lutz for the first known time in competition and win gold for it, you will have earned the right to belittle my skater. Until then, keep your fat mouth shut. Kurt, give me a damn triple axel triple toe loop, and stick the landing!”
Kurt brushed melting ice chips off of his costume and took a shaky breath. The cold, familiar air of the rink soothed him, so he took three more. Slowly, he started to skate around the rink, building up momentum until he launched into a clean jump. The edge wobbled a little bit, but it would pass Sue’s expression.
Wordlessly, he skated towards the exit, made a customary bow to Sue, and went back to the locker room.
“Three o’clock tomorrow,” she reminded him. He nodded.
As soon as the locker room door closed, Kurt let out a frustrated scream. He wanted to kick something--for the first time, he missed football--but he was still wearing his skates, so instead his just pounded and kneed his locker. After a few minutes he felt drained of all anger, but his knees were bruised. On top of the beating he had taken from the unyielding ice, it hurt.
Exhausted, Kurt collapsed on the bench. He had enough energy to take off his skates and replace them with slip-ons, but that was it. He flopped there, trying to wrap his mind around the events of the past twenty minutes or so.
They knew. The entire hockey team knew that he was an ice skater. They thought it was funny. By Monday night, the whole school would know.
A loud bang interrupted his thoughts as the door opened and shut, and Puck came in, stiff and uncomfortable. Kurt fixed him with a dull stare.
“Hey,” Puck said awkwardly. “Um, I’m here to get-- I mean, we don’t have lockers yet but I left my, um, thing in lost and found last season and I kind of need it, so-- are you okay?”
Hot tears spilled out of Kurt’s eyes as if on cue, and his hands tightened into fists.
“Do I look okay?” he snapped, jumping up. His tired muscles felt like wooden planks, protesting the movement. “This was the one thing that mine, and you and your stupid-- stupid, ignorant uninspired simian assholes ruined it, just like you ruin everything!”
Kurt was breathing hard and Puck stared at him, completely dumbstruck. Kurt waited expectedly for a moment, then snorted with impatience. With fumbling fingers, he took his bag from his locker and slammed it closed.
“Fuck you,” he muttered as he brushed past Puck and out the door.
He was still crying when he hopped into his car, pulled out his cell phone, and pressed speed dial four. Speed dial one was his father’s cell, number two was the garage, number three was Sue’s cell, and number four was…
“Hey my boy, what’s up? I thought Ms. Sylvester was holding you up for another half hour?”
Her voice was a welcome source of relief. Sue was always a valuable ally in the building, but Mercedes was a friend.
“Mercedes, c-can I--” His voice was weak.
“Kurt?” she said, alarmed. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he hiccupped, wiping at his eyes. The question had annoyed him more coming from Puck. “I’m at the rink. I just need to talk.”
“Be at my house in six minutes. I’ve got Phish Food.”
He was in there in three.
I know that Kurt’s emotions are kind of all over the place towards the end, but don’t worry. He and Puck are going to have a little heart-to-heart, and things will be explained. For anyone who doesn’t know, “popping” is, as Sue implied, simplifying a jump. Spinning two rotations in the air instead of three, etc. It’s not good, points get taken off. And Phish Food is this amazing flavor of ice cream from Ben & Jerry’s. It’s chocolate, with marshmallow, caramel, and small pieces of fish-shaped chocolate.