SGA FIC: Out Of Bounds - John/Rodney - NC-17
The first of four parts today. I'm posting in four sections to give a very large part of the story some natural chapter breaks. Also, WG's bugging me to give him some time on the computer. *sheepish*
The story in one file up to the prior chapter: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: John stuffed the skate guards into Rodney's hands and pushed it, beating the other guys around the first curve of ice, swinging into the easy flow of footwork.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and tireless betas, rabidfan and roaringmice. Welcome to tingler. I also owe a great deal to my clever friendslist: Sled foot courtesy of Darklock, Bela Obesi courtesy of Keenoled, Chilling inevitability of entropy courtesy of Cordelia.
Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hires ex-skating champion and "artiste" Rodney McKay to be his coach. Their teasing friendship warms into something more. After John's Regional championship, news of Rodney's return to figure skating trickles out into the community.
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
The Ohio freeskate session was just two days before the Midwestern Sectionals, a.k.a. Mids, and at the same rink.
A tall man with graying hair and deep set Slavic eyes unzipped his warm up jacket, pulling it off. He had a strong chest and was still in shape, and anyone who recalled non-Olympic international competitors from fifteen years ago would have recognized him. But most skaters were too young to remember, while the coaches for their part were involved with their charges. Including McKay, who stood on the opposite side of the rink, holding an intense conversation with the not-quite-so-young John Sheppard. The former Soviet champion joined the small chaos on the ice. He skated looping curves with careless skill, his skates hissing, though he paid little attention to his moves as he kept his eyes on John and Rodney.
With a bob of his head, his face serious, John seemed to take in whatever Rodney had told him, then pumped out onto the ice. Rodney stepped back from the boards and folded his arms over his chest to watch.
As the only senior level skater in this freeskate session, John garnered considerable attention. His speed barreled through the younger skaters. He moved sleek and smooth. He threw an easy double with impressive height, then came out of it, puffing out a breath like a bellows, scissoring his feet back and forth. He shook out his hands, sweeping into his starting pose for the run through. After a pause to gather himself, John launched.
The former champion watched unobtrusively. Most of those gathered in the stands were distracted as well. Two minutes in, a familiar snappish voice cut across the ice, "You're rushing it. You're nervous and you're rushing it."
Sheppard stopped his program and skated towards Rodney. "When I have the music that won't be a problem...." he answered, an impatient note creeping into his tone.
Count on McKay to still have a voice that could fill a stadium. Petrovich shook his head with an amused little smile. He'd seen enough. He stepped off the ice, sat down and cleaned off his skate blades, moving slowly and deliberately. Precisely to annoy the person waiting for his report.
Sure enough, once he loped upstairs - he'd paused to let an elderly woman with a walker go by; one must have respect for ones elders - Sonja was fuming. Newly permed brown hair curled under her fur hat. She didn't tap her foot but she wasn't far from it. Petrovich's face crinkled into an impish smile.
"Well?" she prompted, unamused.
"Interesting," he said. He guided her by the arm to a card table tucked against the wall outside the pro shop where their conversation could be more private.
"Interesting? That's it?" she frowned.
Petrovich moved his chair closer to the table and said with a smile in his voice. "What do you want me to say? He was a dead boring skater. Now he's an interesting skater. A remarkable change-actually, I saw him at the America Cup, so I'd call it an amazing change-but the word I would use is..." He translated from Russian in his mind, carefully. His English was fluent, his accent a mix of upper crust British and Slavic, but certain words.... "Embryonic." He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "In a few years perhaps...."
"He doesn't have a few years," Sonja said, chewing one long nail, not looking at him.
Which wouldn't do at all. Teasing her, yes, was fun, but he didn't like seeing her like this. She'd grown entirely too attached to this skater. Still, he had to give her the truth. "That is my point, isn't it?"
She sighed. He sighed in sympathy, arms crossed over his chest, protective, bracing himself. He usually enjoyed needling her, because she bounced and her eyes would flash just so. Sonja had the fire of a Russian woman. He hadn't been prepared for her disappointment.
At long last he rolled his head, and in a tone like he was admitting something, with great reluctance, he added, "Does he still have the jumps?"
The jumps were the first thing that evaporated when one tried to turn a sow into a pig's ear, or however the saying went.
"Yes," she said without a breath of hesitation.
"I'll watch the performance tonight," he promised her, leaning across the table to take her hand.
"Of course you will," she said, looking at him like he was a fool. "You're here." And that was the Sonja he knew.
~*~*~
The men had the first practice session. John had dragged Rodney to the rink early, although Rodney had disappeared to hunt down "syrupy overpriced cocoa, you want some?" John told him no. He liked to be the first on the ice. It was superstitious and Rodney would laugh if he knew, but he thought it was important to beat the other skaters out of the gate. It set the tone. Standing in his skate guards, he stamped his feet, trying to keep his heart rate up from his run earlier. The Zamboni rounded the corner for its final pass through the center.
Behind John, two other skaters chatted, while a red-haired kid had taken the only chair, swinging his feet. The coaches had clustered, taking to each other by the boards. John didn't know the first two skaters, although the kid looked familiar, from Juniors last year probably. He recognized Mark Svick doing traditional stretches in the hall back towards the locker rooms. John shook his head. Rodney had discovered USC research that proved holding long stretches made the muscles less elastic, not more, pushing them too far. At best they didn't help at all. John held his arm straight out and kicked his foot towards his palm in Rodney's latest range-of-motion stretches.
The Zamboni trundled off the ice just as Rodney returned, blowing on his cocoa. John pulled off one skate guard and waited one leg at the gate. The other skaters formed up behind him.
"Skating this practice session: Benjamin Lamato, Ian Rossiter, Nathaniel Peters, John Sheppard, Mark Svick...."
John was already on the ice before they called his name.
He stuffed the skate guards into Rodney's hands and pushed it, beating the other guys around the first curve of ice, swinging into the easy flow of footwork. Two of the other skaters had caught on to the game and got fired up to pass him. Svick stayed at the boards talking to his coach and didn't budge until John had completed his first lap. He took a moment to drink some water, too, but John could tell the game irritated Mark.
Good.
John swooped around the red-haired kid, who was starting late, then got down to business. He did several single toe jumps, practicing a solid landing. The two young guys who'd chased him had a near collision, still fired up, and their coaches had to rein them in. John skated over to the boards to Rodney, who was distracted, shaking hands with some big, bald-headed guy. The guy patted Rodney on the shoulder-people didn't usually pat Rodney on the shoulder-and left with a wave.
John cut into the rink to stop, spraying ice. Rodney stared after the guy.
"That was Trevor Morton," Rodney said. He took a sip of his cocoa, then stared into it, pouting. You had to drink it fast if you stood rink side.
"Yeah, well, next time he shows up, tell him you're on the clock," John said, lips in a tight line.
"He's very high up in U.S. figure skating," Rodney explained. "He came to see you skate."
"Really? What did he say?"
"That his wife loves my Korsakov program. You know, that one's everybody's favorite," Rodney said. "It's not as technically difficult as the Firebird, but I can see how it would appeal to the less educated skating fan."
"Ah," John said, disappointed.
"Oh. And he called you 'a feisty one.'"
"Feisty?"
"Cute stunt with the race there, by the way, but this isn't the Preakness," Rodney said, finally turning towards John. He leaned forward with his elbows on the boards, grinning as he leaned close and added in an undertone, "Although if you really want to rattle them, ad lib to their music."
~*~*~
They stood in line with a half a dozen people at the snack stand. Rodney had insisted that he had to have coffee immediately to make up for his disappointment with the hot cocoa, and no amount of coffee back at the hotel could persuade him. John shifted from one foot to the other, counting off the minutes he could be anywhere but here. So he almost missed the moment when an attractive woman in line front of Rodney turned around. She was buxom, with wavy dark hair spilling down her back. As she handed a diet coke to her friend her eyes skimmed Rodney... her smile froze, then fell off her face.
"Rodney McKay," she said in a musical contralto after a tense moment. John smelled trouble instantly.
Rodney squinted at her, confused at first. "You look...."
"You don't remember me?" She turned haughtily to her friend with a small triumphant smile. "What was it he called me? Bella Obesi?"
"... Different," Rodney ended, shoulders hunched.
"Thinner?" she prompted with a raised eyebrow, challenging.
"Well," Rodney began, "Competition weight is important to maintain and the interviewer asked for an example, and naturally you were the first person... who, um... sprang to mind...."
"Come on, Rodney." John gripped Rodney's shoulder before he could dig himself in any deeper. Because that hadn't sounded much like an apology.
She regarded Rodney calmly, head to toe, taking in his extra weight with evident satisfaction. "Yes. I see."
Rodney seemed to take her point and bristled. "It's far more important for the women's compet-"
John physically turned Rodney around and pulled him toward the glass doors, arm around his shoulders.
"-wait, coffee...?" Rodney pointed like a toddler at the snack stand.
"At the hotel." John called back to the lady, "Nice meeting you." He decided at the last second not to call her Bella, in case that was part of the nickname.
Once John got Rodney outside, protesting, but at least walking towards their room, he asked, "How many people have you pissed off?"
"Um. All of them? I was pretty thorough." Rodney wrung his hands. "The trouble is, figure skating is a very small world."
~*~*~
"Hey, stranger...."
"Glad you could join us. Bartender? Another round for the four of us, and one for my friend here."
"Can't stay long. I judge the pee-wees tomorrow morning."
"Ha. I'm sorry."
"At least they're easy to score: mostly you just count the falls."
"So who do you like for the men's short program?"
"Svick."
"Svick."
"Definitely Svick. He's young, his jumps are coming along...."
"I like the red-haired kid, what's his name, Rossiter?"
"Red hair? That's Peters."
"Yeah, Peters, whatever. He's young, coming up very fast."
"I agree he's good, but you can't give them too much success too fast. They'll think it comes easy and never work for it."
"Svick is seasoned. He's earned it."
"Seasoned but young? You're contradicting yourself."
"Okay, who would you place in first, Petrovich?"
"I'm not saying."
"Oh, come on."
"No, no, I will leave that to judges such as yourselves."
"What about Sheppard? He's seasoned."
"He's barbecued. Third."
"Third. You've got to recognize those jumps but he's on his last legs."
"I'd put him in second. There's no way Rossiter or Peters have it behind Svick."
"I picture Sheppard for fourth. What? Stop laughing. Have you seen his costume? He deserves to be knocked down an ordinal just for that. I'm going to claw my eyes out by the end of his program."
"McKay's coaching him."
"Rodney McKay? The Canadian?"
"I heard about that."
"I don't care what kind of genius McKay was as a skater, he's a new coach. Third-or at best second."
"I pick him for second. You saw him in practice."
"No, no, a few bits of clever choreography does not make up for a lack of interpretive skill."
"Who's his choreographer?"
"Sonja Gato."
"Whew. And McKay? Pulling out the heavy hitters there...."
"Looks like McKay and Sonja are still together, too. An age-old question answered."
"That was just a fling."
"Come on, Petrovich. What's your opinion?"
"I'm withholding judgement until after I see his short program clean through. Do I think he's better? Yes."
"He beat Svick last year."
"Yes. And then Svick blew him away at Nationals."
~*~*~
"I can't believe you!"
"It happens. Costumes get lost. I hit up Sears and bought another pair of shorts last night, you still have the shirt-we're fine!" Rodney insisted. He held out the stretch denim cut-offs like an offering. "I'm sure they're not in a dumpster somewhere. We probably left just them at home."
"And you neglected to mention this until now?" John stormed. The other skaters in the locker room stared studiously at their shoes, the lockers, anywhere but at John, their lips sealed.
Rodney shrank in on himself but waved a hand toward the rink anyway. "The short program is in twenty minutes. I suggest you try them on-"
"They might not fit?" John shouted. He glanced around and quickly lowered his voice to a growl, "What am I supposed to do if they don't? Skate in my underwear?"
A little red-haired kid looked up. "You could borrow the pants to my costume. We're not in the same flight," he offered with anxious eyes.
The kid was fully a foot shorter than John, but it cooled him down a notch. He snatched the shorts out of Rodney's hand with a swiping gesture, and Rodney flinched. "Rodney, I swear to God...." He shook his head, not finishing the threat as he yanked his pants down to try them on. He snapped the price tag off and flung it to the ground.
~*~*~
The catcalls started the moment John hit the ice. He dipped his head in a laughing blush which, no, John, that only encouraged them. He unfortunately had thin legs for someone so tall, but at least he didn't look like Pinocchio anymore.
Abandoning all dignity, Rodney leaned his elbow on the boards, chewing his lip. The short program was the technical portion of the competition, with a limited time to fit in very specific elements. A test of skill.
In reaction to the crowd John played his opening pose a little sexier, one hip canted, arms folded behind his head. His mouth twitched and he glanced up with a sparkle at a stray wolf whistle.
The lazy guitar strokes of Surf Rider began.
He pushed off, skating it fast and hot-good! Turn and center with the bass guitar, then turn and center again... following his arms... kick turns back, and then back, and oh, this was much better than his practice. He carved the ice in broad serpentine curves like a surfer playing with a wave, then cut through center ice bending backward in a spread eagle.
He played with quick steps and then leapt up with the high note, light and fast, twisting in the air... no, no, not high enough... one, two, three, four turns... made it! ... followed by the... oh. Just a double. He landed in a spray of ice. Unintentional, but a nice water effect.
Rodney breathed.
Then John was late-late-late! into his next series of curves. But he threw his triple axel beautifully, bending his arm to the ground at the end, making it part of the music, his back leg curving behind him. Good thing the judges didn't know how far off his mark he was.
The bass refrain returned and he bounced up on one skate, one foot high, shoulders solid. He let it drop and carved backward on the standing skate, then kicked again, and bounced, working his edges back, swooping right with the bass beat.
He spun around-whoops a little slip there-and then pulled speed from the ethers for the last half. He launched into the sax sequence with freewheeling footwork, arms out then pulling him into the curves, swinging his head down... and did he actually have his eyes closed? The fruitcake!
Ah, and his combination spin, so beautifully executed. Rodney wanted to kiss him for the sit-spin alone. Tight to the ground with his leg outstretched, long and perfectly straight. Bobbing up, running his hands along his legs-that was new-into a long camel, his line clean as an arrow, smoothly changing position, his hands folded at the small of his back as he tipped his chest towards the ceiling.
He stepped out of it into backward circular steps, a clean transition for a change. Then he kicked his leg high, and sprang into his final triple Lutz, landing it solid like he was on rock. They could hear that landing across the ice.
With a tap of his toe pick, John jumped into his final spin. Rodney shut his eyes briefly. He'd finished everything that could have gone wrong. With a sigh, he watched John deliberately slow the spin, gliding into his ending pose on the dreamy guitar trill.
Rodney clapped with the fans as John swept one hand out to bow, then turned and bowed to the opposite side.
His hair was a shade darker from sweat as he glided over on one foot, carving gentle arcs till he reached the side. Mark Svick was already on the ice, warming up, slicing back and forth, practicing quick turns with his footwork.
"That was decent," Rodney told John, who stepped off the ice, panting. John's bare legs looked pink. "You skated a little conservatively, and it cost you in the combination jump, but overall it was clean."
"That's because I didn't want to fall," John said, his hands gripping the boards. "I know you ditched my costume, Rodney, so where is it?"
Rodney lifted his chin. "It's my civic duty to keep you from being seen in that atrocity."
Mark Svick's music began and Rodney peered over at him clinically. The Larghetto of Vivaldi's Concerto number 2 was always good, but, hmm, there was a heaviness to Svick's movements that he didn't like. Granted he was biased.
"It's tights, Rodney. I've had stupid-looking costumes before. So long as you can skate it doesn't matter. And I'm not skating half naked again."
"Shhh." Rodney made a flicking motion at John. "Busy now."
~*~*~
The only thing worse than the interminable wait in a Kiss 'N Cry was the endless pacing until the scores were printed out at Sectionals. There was no Kiss 'N Cry at this level, that was something invented for television, and with the inefficiency of handwritten score sheets and volunteers it could be forty-five minutes. John leaned one hand against the wall and pretended that he wasn't replaying his every mistake in his mind, his breath a cold wisp. On the rink below, the pairs competition was underway. To John it was just a blur of motion and glittering costumes.
Finally, one of the volunteers shuffled out of the office in a half-scampering run. She posted the sheets on the wall with masking tape. Three of the eleven competitors gathered around.
"What?" Rodney spluttered. "Third?! No way were you behind that twerp Peters!"
"Easy, easy-" John gripped Rodney across the chest, because it looked like Rodney was ready to climb into the stands to hit the kid. Who fortunately was nowhere to be seen. A few spectators glanced in their direction. "These are better scores than last year."
"They're nowhere near what you deserve!"
"Shhh... settle down, Rodney. We'll hang it on the long program. It's not over," John insisted. He released him. "They might be downgrading me because...." He tipped head sideways at his obvious age.
"They can't do that!" Rodney stamped his foot. He scowled, looking around, his hands balled up into fists. "That's it. If they're prejudging you then we'll give them nothing to prejudge." He stabbed a finger in John's direction. "You're practicing your short program only for the rest of the week. Let's see if they can prejudge a program they haven't seen."
John scratched behind his ear doubtfully, cringing. "Um. I kinda need to work on...."
"Are you still questioning me?"
~*~*~
"You saw him. No way he's third."
"Oh, come on! Do you know what McKay's going to be like if he coaches a winning skater?"
There was a long pause. Then: "I usually score the skater, not the coach."
"Yeah, McKay's a prick but he has nothing to do with this."
"Tell you what. If McKay skates tomorrow, you can put him in last."
Everyone laughed.
"Svick can still take him."
"You were right, Petrovich."
"No, I said nothing."
"Look. It doesn't make any difference if he's second or third-or fourth even. He'll move up to Nationals either way."
"Why don't you score him however you like, and we'll score him however we like?"
"Sure...."
"Uh-huh. And when your score's way off from ours, don't cry to me when the finger-pointing starts."
"Second-Sheppard beat the pants off of Rossiter and Peters today."
"No lower than second, definitely."
"I think he might even take Svick."
"Oh, that would have to be one mind-blowing performance."
"Has anyone seen his LP?"
"Nope. He keeps practicing his short."
"Damn it!"
~*~*~
Six skaters glittered on the side of the rink, waiting through the formalities at the beginning of the competition. John was dressed in a dark green that was nearly black that stood out between bright aquas and hunter's orange around him.
"... the technical coordinator, Miranda Shaw...."
Spectators dutifully clapped.
"... our referee, Brian Covich...."
There was some clapping along with the standard chatter in the stands as people filtered in. Unlike Regionals, Sectionals filled the seats.
Rodney suddenly snickered and buried his head in his elbow where it rested on the boards.
"What?" John asked, already laughing himself.
"It's Sled Foot," Rodney said, nudging his chin in the direction of a small man with glasses wearing a snowflake sweater vest. The guy was making his way down the stairs towards the rink.
"Who?"
Rodney leaned over to murmur in John's ear, grinning. "I was in the Champion Series final-the Grand Prix now-and," he smothered another snicker, dipping his head, "-Sled Foot there was having a perfect skate. I thought he had me. Everything was going along beautifully and then-I've never seen anything like it-his foot just kicked up, like he slipped on a banana peel!" Rodney made a swooping gesture with his hand. "For no reason. " He shook his head. "I went up later to thank him."
"Shit." John chuckled.
"Funniest thing ever. It made all the blooper reels." Rodney sighed happily. "I wonder who he's coaching these days...." Because the guy had moved past the audience bleachers and was now into the competitor area. Then he edged around the far end of the rink, hurrying towards....
"... let's give a warm welcome to our judges... from All Year Skating Club...."
Rodney's smile slowly dissipated. John froze.
"Rodney."
"Um."
"He's a judge."
Rodney turned wide eyes on John and swallowed. He patted John's back heavily and advised him, "Um. Skate good?"
~*~*~
John pushed out onto the ice behind the other skaters for the warm up, one hand reaching to steady himself as he nearly ran over little Nathaniel Peters. Hollow 80s dance music played faintly as John lined his back up, glided with one knee ready, then threw himself into a clean spinning triple Lutz, arms slicing outward on the landing. He swung one hand in a sharp motion, making a fist and pulling his elbow in as he carved backward, his face intense.
He curved between the other skaters, flowing easily and fast, shifting his weight from one skate to the other. He moved into the dodging footwork sequence of his long program, shifting his shoulders left then right, ducking his head low and then spinning to face forward. He grabbed his elbows and did a mock jump, then let his hands drop.
John stroked away from the sequence, head down, hands on his hips. The music shifted from bouncy Bananarama to declare that they were "turning Japanese, I really think so." He curved up to Rodney for a hushed conference and a sip of water. Then he skated out again, skirting Svick, who was gliding backward on one knee.
John gave him a quick glance, pumped up to speed, then stepped into the quad, landing it with his arms open to the sky. There was scattered applause.
"Skaters, there is one minute remaining in this warm up...."
Skating slowly this time, John ran through the arm motions to his footwork sequences again. He looked up to Rodney, who shook his head once and held up his fists to do the first two. He stopped sharply and dramatically after each move, looking for all the world like an angry sign language interpreter.
Eyes narrowed, John tried again, this time with the footwork, his gestures sharper, stronger. Rodney's chest swelled as he straightened.
"This warm up is complete. Skaters, please leave the ice."
John was the last to leave the ice, gliding over in rounded curves. He accepted his skate guards from Rodney and pushed past him toward the locker rooms.
"Where are you going?"
"I don't watch anyone else skate. I'll lose my focus."
"Suit yourself." Rodney shrugged. As a competitor he'd always enjoyed watching the other skaters. First, as a skating fan in general, and second, seeing them fumble pathetically through their routines always gave him a little boost. By the time he hit the ice he felt assured of victory.
Case in point, Rossiter's amusing performance, with his struggle to keep up with the bird-like oboe of Vivaldi's Concerto in A Minor. Yes, yes, the hand gestures were appropriately delicate and Rodney would give him props for his smooth flow over the ice. But he had that overall thickening of someone who was too old for the sport, his footwork a shade too heavy-and was that an inside edge take-off on his Lutz? Yes, it was. Tsk. No doubt the judges missed it.
There was no way they'd miss his cheated jumps. He'd call that a two-and-three-quarters axel rather than a triple axel. Rodney clapped politely with the rest of the crowd when Rossiter bowed.
Chin propped up on his elbow, Rodney snoozed through the next skater's entirely forgettable performance of Zimmer's "Anuncio Ferrero Rocher." It was hard to believe these were the top six, although he reminded himself he had skated at a level far above this after age fifteen.
The current fourth place skater, Benjamin Lamato, was better. Much better. Well, the top four moved up to Nationals so no doubt Lamato was motivated.
He felt John's presence beside him. "Decided to watch after all?"
"He is invisible as far as I'm concerned," John assured him. But his eyes drifted out to the ice, his jaw tense. Svick and Peters had paused to watch as well.
When Lamato finished his program, John stepped onto the rink. He skated gentle circles, getting in his final warm-up. Once Lamato stepped off and was congratulated-yes, yes, good performance, backslaps all around, please go away-John returned for some tissues. He blew his nose and handed it to Rodney.
Lovely. Rodney ranked tissue duty as the most disgusting part of his job.
"Skating on behalf of...." the announcer began.
Now was the time for Rodney's final words of wisdom. "Go get 'em, tiger," he said. It was what Rodney's dad had always told him before he skated.
John had already started for center ice. He shot Rodney a funny look over his shoulder. "Tiger?"
Unconsciously gripping that tissue, Rodney willed John to do well.
~*~*~
The last beat of the Daiko drums faded. John let himself drop his final pose. He hoped the breathless silence was a good sign and, breathing hard as he bowed, he couldn't tell if the applause was any louder for him than the other guy. John turned and bowed to the judges, then skated for Rodney, swiping ice shavings off his blades on the way. This program practically scraped the entire rink. Peters was already warming up, scissoring his feet as he ignored John.
Rodney stood alongside the boards, his feet planted, arms folded over the bundle of John's warm up jacket, with a little victorious smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes all but gleamed.
Okay, then, he had done all right.
Svick paced on the opposite side of the gate from Rodney, his back stick-straight as John clipped on the skate guards.
"It's nice when it comes together out of the clear blue sky like that," Svick said, frowning with a worried expression, his eyes searching John's face. "When once in a blue moon everything just-suddenly works."
John didn't know what to say. That had happened to him before, yeah, but definitely not today.
~*~*~
John moved his legs to let some spectators through the hallway above the rink, then rested his chin on his knees, his back curved. He was still in costume, the strands trailing on the ground, arms looped around his legs where he waited under the line of score sheets. The other skaters had left for the main lobby to get out of the cold.
Rodney lowered himself to the ground next to John with a huff. He handed him a cup of coffee. John took a scalding sip, then handed it back with a shake of his head. His stomach couldn't take anything right now and he was afraid a second sip would make him puke. He tugged at the laces of his sneakers, tightening them. Then resettled his chin on his knee, staring resolutely at the ground. Rodney just blew the steam off his coffee.
John glanced up briefly when a couple of the other skaters drifted back. The redhead, Peters, fidgeted, bouncing his back against the railing. He turned around and lifted himself off the ground, kicking his feet. The older skater, Rossiter, paced, then finally leaned against the wall. Svick was nowhere to be seen. Not that anyone would blame him for skipping the scores altogether. He'd blown his skate, big time. Figure skating was unpredictable. John chewed his lip.
Below them the women's competition continued, ignored.
John and Rossiter jolted up, alert, when the office door opened. Peters let himself drop. John stood slowly, dusting his costume off, followed by Rodney. John wiped all expression off his face, carefully controlled as his adrenaline spiked. He let the other skaters check the standings first.
Rodney turned around with his eyes huge.
"Second, yes!" Peters said, punching the air. He ran off, presumably to tell his coach that they were going to Nationals.
"Congratulations, John." John felt Rossiter pat him on back. The glass door opened, the noise from the lobby momentarily loud. The other skaters had noticed the final standings were up.
The coaches had scored John in a neat row of numbers, with his placement below. First, second, fourth, first, first, first, second, first, first, first....
John was the Section champion. He breathed, slumping, and then laughed.
~*~*~
John floated in a little bubble of victory from the locker room to the office they'd sectioned off for the awards. He stood in front of the blue curtain to have his photo taken as he was given his medal. Rodney looked on, seeming amused by something.
On the way out into the buzzing lobby, the medal still around his neck, people he didn't recognize smiled and offered their congratulations. Weirdly, they knew his name. Rodney, probably noticing John wasn't exactly touching the ground at the moment, offered to collect their things from the locker room and bring the car around. John saw him stop on the top step to talk to a skating mom. When Rodney put a brochure on his knee to sign an autograph, John chalked the offer up to good intentions and figured he'd be getting their stuff.
"Great skate, John," a girl's voice said behind him.
"Thanks," John said, looking around in a daze till he spotted the speaker.
The kid couldn't have been more than sixteen, seventeen. She wore a white ski jacket over a skating costume and sneakers, with a fresh-faced look and less make up than most skaters.
"Are you going to the party?" she asked, chewing gum cheerfully. John's coaches had always made him spit out gum before he set foot in a rink.
"Oh..." John said, scanning the ceiling for an excuse. God, he normally skipped the post competition parties. "It's been a long day...." he began.
"But you have to go! You're the gold medalist," she said, bouncing a little.
John winced.
"And Yvonne'll be there and she wanted to talk to you." She nodded, like this should be a convincing argument.
"Yvonne...?" She couldn't mean....
"Sheaffer."
Oh.
"Oh yeah. I think I've heard of her," John joked, rubbing his jaw. "Any idea why?"
"Nope." The girl popped a bubble.
Now he really didn't want to go. "You know, that's a shame but I really can't."
"Okay. I'll tell her," she said brightly. The girl pranced off, ponytail bobbing. There was an excess of perkiness among the women figure skaters.
Several minutes later, John had collected their gear. He pulled his jacket on, chin raised to look over the crowd to locate Rodney and see if he could separate him from his adoring fans. He felt a tug on his arm and turned to find the same girl.
"Yvonne wants to talk to you now then," she said.
"Uh...." The girl held up a cell phone. It was pink and studded with rhinestones. John took it and tucked it under his chin. "Hello?"
"Hi, John Sheppard?" a sweet feminine voice said.
Yvonne sounded way different from how she did on television. "Yeah?"
"Hi! I've got this charity event that we do every Christmas, and I know you're going to Nationals and stuff, but there's plenty of time in between. It's for the Cancer Society and...."
John listened with a sense of bewildered wonder as she named the sort of skaters who were invited. Oh, gee, Kyle Fletcher did it last year but he's at the Cup of Russia this December and can't make it, uh-huh, okay.
"Would you be interested?" she said, sounding hopeful.
John swallowed and laughed. "Um, yeah!" Like he'd say no.
"Great! Let me get my mom," she said. He heard in the background, "He can do it!" then the phone changed hands to a woman with cool, professional voice:
"Hi, John, this is Madeline Sheaffer, but you can call me Maddy. I'm glad you can join us this year. I'll be at the party, so I hope you can come...."
John absently handed the phone back, nodding to whatever it was the kid said, answering her with a probably irrelevant, "I've gotta find Rodney."
~*~*~
John held the brush handle in his teeth while he struggled with his hair. No amount of mousse or hair gel could get it to lie flat. Watching himself in the hotel mirror, John was beginning to suspect he'd made it worse.
Totally naked, Rodney sprawled on the bed behind him, leaned up on one elbow like the queen of Sheba. Not moving one muscle toward his clothes.
"Come on, Rodney. I said I'd be there."
With a groan, Rodney rolled onto his back. "I skipped these things all the time. Just give Maddy a call."
"Yes," John said with utmost, tooth-clenching patience, "I could skip, but it would be rude." Not that Rodney would know anything about that.
"There's going to press there," Rodney said, rolling back towards him. He propped his chin up on both hands. "Glad handers."
John winced. But he started the electric razor anyway, opening his mouth and pulling his jaw tight. It was unfair that Rodney stayed baby smooth while he got two o'clock shadow.
"Skating parents. Little whiny kids," Rodney promised.
"That bothers you more than it does me."
"True," Rodney admitted. "Photographers. Wealthy sponsors who'll pinch your butt."
John snorted and smiled, pulling out a string of dental floss. He mumbled around his fingers as he flossed, "You've never even gone to one of these, have you?"
"I might have once," Rodney said with unselfconscious honesty, pillowing his chin on his arms. John could just barely make out the curves of his ass. "But I was probably too little to remember."
John tossed the dental floss and then slid the tie around his collar, buttoning the top two buttons. He adjusted the length, reciting silently to himself, the fox chases the rabbit around the tree... the way his dad had taught him. He had a U.S. Figure Skating tie tack. Flying the team colors. He smoothed out the tie then picked his suit jacket off the back of a chair and struggled into it.
"Rodney, I don't know anyone there except the guys I beat today. Just go," John said with an exasperated sigh. He checked and had to tuck his shirt in. Again. He unbuckled his belt. They never made the tails long enough for him. "You don't even need a tie. You can just wear your sport coat," he said, pulling the belt tight.
"I'm sorry, I did not go to my junior prom or my high school reunion. I'm not going to some pathetic Chuck E. Cheese figure skating party," Rodney said sourly.
The first leg of the party was all ages. "We're going to Albert's. Then the adults are moving to the bar at ten."
John did a last check of his teeth. Nothing green hanging off them, good. Swept at his hair with his fingers. The mousse had mostly managed to get it to stand up along his part like wire, but at least it had fixed his bangs. He gave up and grabbed his ski jacket. Not exactly formal wear but it's what all the skaters would bring anyway, even those who didn't wear sneakers with their sport coats.
Finally, John stood at the door, one hand on the door handle. Frustrated, he said over his shoulder, his jaw set, "You know, Rodney. You're gonna have to face these people sooner or later. If they don't see something new then, to them, you'll always be that eighteen year old brat."
~*~*~
The little family restaurant hired for the party thrummed with Depeche Mode and laughter. John hadn't realized that they hired DJs for these things. Several of the younger skaters ran past him in dresses, giggling and high from adrenaline, their hair still up in competition braids.
The senior skaters had taken a table in an out of the way corner where they slumped, loose-limbed, punch drunk and dazed, laughing too easily. A party was a surreal experience after months of intense training, John had to admit.
They all looked... strangely ordinary out of costume. They took on individual personalities with their street clothes. Rossiter had turned back into the public defender he was during the day, comfortable in his suit. The ruthless women's competitors had transformed into equally ruthless high school girls who'd gathered in a pack to flirt with the DJ. Tough competitor Nathaniel Peters had turned into a rather gawky teenage boy, seeming too small behind the knot of his tie. They were a mismatched group. John glanced down at his dark suit and tie, and wondered what everyone else saw.
"John, I'm so glad you could make it." John turned to find a woman in her mid-forties at his elbow. She had tasteful make-up, and a little too much perfume as she took his arm and introduced herself as Maddy.
As she walked John through the crowd, chatting in a raised voice over the din, John noticed that it didn't look as if she could easily bend her right knee. The landing leg. So Yvonne's mom was a former skater then. She swept him over to a group of men with carnivorous smiles who leaned over to shake John's hand, congratulating him. A camera flashed over his shoulder. John had the feeling he'd been set up for a photo op. With them at the bar was....
"Radek?" John said, taken aback.
"John," Radek said with equal surprise. He peered at John in confusion, adjusting his glasses. "How is it you know Maddy?"
"You've met?" Maddy asked with a curious glance between them.
"Oh, yes, yes, in Canada," Radek said vaguely, swallowing a sip of his wine. He turned to the others and gestured with his glass to John. "Did you know he's been training in secret with Rodney McKay?"
"Well, I wouldn't call it secret...." John began, rolling his eyes.
"No, no, it's this tiny rink. Middle of nowhere," Radek insisted as he wagged a forefinger. "No one knows about it."
The group was fascinated and John couldn't convince them that secrecy had nothing to do with it. Somehow, Radek had managed to completely change the subject and maneuver John to the center of the group as he made a smooth exit with a murmured, "Excuse me." They had the bartender fetch a beer for John as he was forced to describe his training with Rodney. He hoped he wasn't giving away patented trade secrets. "Unorthodox," they nodded to each other, and drifted into a chortling dissection of Rodney's foibles that was half fond, half mean-spirited. John was too polite to contradict them, so he just squirmed. Finally he spotted Radek by one of the buffet tables and beat a strategic retreat.
"Beware the bite-sized pizzas," Radek warned him. John followed behind him in the line, picking up a plate. "Anchovies." He shuddered.
"Someone's playing a mean trick on the kids," John observed. He put a pizza bite back on the platter. He passed Radek and reached the end of the buffet.
"The children have their own table. I believe they are merely, mmm, encouraging them away from the adult food, yes?" Radek said.
"So there's some left for us?"
"Exactly."
They made their way to an empty table near the senior skaters, who were laughing overloud at a story by a lower-ranked skater who looked to be in his early twenties. Most of the group was in college. A few of the junior champions had joined them, gathering in curiosity around Nathaniel, who was their age but skating seniors. John narrowed his eyes, wondering if that was punch he saw in Nathaniel's hand, or if he'd gotten into the wine.
"So. You know Maddy," Radek prompted, still blinking in surprise over it.
"Not really," John said, deciding it was punch. Probably. He dug into his food. "We just met. Yvonne invited me to do a charity skate for the Cancer Society. Just called right out of the blue."
"Oh, that's lucky. Are you going to do it?"
John shrugged his shoulder, tipping his head, smiling and coy. "Well, it's for a good cause...."
"Good."
They ate quietly for a moment. Then Radek added between bites, "I saw your performance today. You are very different when you compete."
John raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"
Radek nodded, digging into his plate. "Mmm-hmm. Much better."
"Cool."
"Oh, it's unusual. Most people are better in practice."
"Well, practice is just practice," John said, making a face. He waved his fork at Radek. "Competition's the real thing."
Radek looked around, frowning in concern. "So... where is Rodney? I wouldn't think even his fans could keep him from free food."
"He's probably in the shower at the hotel, whacking off," John said sourly.
"Ah." Radek nodded, considering it for a moment. "Well. I'm not surprised. I was there in 1986. It was really bad."
"He lost. So what?" John said, picking up his plastic cup of beer. "Do you know how many times I would have given my right arm to come in fifth? At Nationals, never mind the Olympics."
"You do not understand." Radek shook his head, wiping his mouth. He put down his napkin. "It was different back then, during the cold war. There were proxy battles fought between the Soviets and the western countries... Vietnam, in Africa, elsewhere, yes? The Olympics was one of those wars. Whole countries were disappointed in Rodney. The Americans were angry, and of course the Canadians were upset, but also the United Kingdom and Germany." Radek folded his hands, steepling his fingers. "You see, when Rodney lost, the Soviets and East Germans took the entire podium. Rodney was their only chance to win that year."
"Their?" John puzzled.
Radek chuckled and said with a dry smirk, "My country was perfectly content with Rodney's performance."
"Oh. Right."
John leaned back in his chair, swirling the beer in his glass.
"Excuse me," Radek said, picking up his plate. "I believe my host is looking for me." John spotted Maddy craning her neck, peering in their direction. He hurriedly made a point of joining the other skaters, who set up a raucous cheer.
"Hey, John," one of the college kids announced. "We have another trophy to go with your medal." They produced a gold paper Burger King crown.
"Ha, ha, ha," John said. But he put it on anyway. These guys were more his speed.
Another skater raised his glass and laughingly proposed a toast to John's long, long, long overdue win. Oh yeah, he was going to get roasted tonight.
~*~*~
A crack of light spilled into the room, followed by the click of the door as it closed. There was a shuffle and the soft sound of clothes being removed. Static crackled, like a sweater pulled over hair in a too dry room. It was followed by sniff, a perpetual side effect of cold rinks.
Then the bed dipped and John slid under the covers, rustling close. Rodney edged over to give him more room. John smelled like cigarette smoke and the muggy scent of booze.
"How was it?" Rodney murmured, sighing a little and grumpy about his interrupted sleep. He tucked his arm around John's waist.
"Loud."
"Are you drunk?"
"We'll know when I try the stairs."
"Huh?"
"Inside joke. Goodnight, Rodney."
~*~*~
His flight had been delayed so Radek missed his connection at Dulles, but a quick call to his assistant had rerouted him through National. (There was a petition to rename National the "Ronald Reagan" airport, which, given its short runways, harrowing landings and aging infrastructure seemed oddly appropriate.) He'd been forced to jog the through the terminal but the airline had made it up to him-and it was for good reason he never checked his bags.
Radek reclined his oversized seat and kicked off his shoes for the transatlantic flight. People shuffled past, casting brief envious glances around first class before trudging back to coach. There was a time he'd objected to this as a needless expense, but once his assistant had started using frequent flyer miles to upgrade, well, hmm, she had effectively countered any complaints.
"Newspaper, sir?" the stewardess asked.
"Yes, please." He accepted the Times with one hand while he stuffed his laptop under the seat in front of him.
His cell phone vibrated. Radek fumbled for it in his pocket. "Hello?" He adjusted it under his chin, using his toe to finish shoving the laptop under the seat. "No, I only brought a carry-on. Have him meet me at the gate."
He flipped the phone shut. Then changed his mind and dialed. He edged his shoulders comfortably into his seat, glancing out the window at the rain and bustle of baggage carts.
After six rings he almost gave up. Then a feminine voice answered, cheerful and breezy, "Allo, allo!"
"Sonja," he said, his smile turning mischievous. "It's Radek. Are you busy?"
"Of course! I am always busy."
"Because I understand John has been invited to Yvonne Sheafer's charity skate."
"Yes! Isn't that wonderful?" she said.
"Remarkable," Radek switched the phone to his other ear, "given that they've never even met."
"They'll meet now, yes?"
Radek couldn't quite suppress his slow smirk. "Didn't you say you used to choreograph Yvonne?"
There was a pause, and then Sonja laughed. "All right. He should have his own publicity and not be always in Rodney's shadow. Besides, Yvonne needs a younger image."
"He's older than she is. By at least four years," Radek pointed out.
"Yes, but he's new."
[ Previous][ Next]
Sectionals music!
Surf Rider - The Lively Ones
Trio in G Minor Larghetto - Vivaldi
Venus (extended) - Bananarama
Turning Japanese - The Vapors
Concerto in A Minor: Allegro non molto - Vivaldi
Anuncio Ferrero Rocher - Hans Zimmer
Precious - Depeche Mode
I know, I know, Rodney doesn't get the inside joke.
Woo!
The story in one file up to the prior chapter: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: John stuffed the skate guards into Rodney's hands and pushed it, beating the other guys around the first curve of ice, swinging into the easy flow of footwork.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and tireless betas, rabidfan and roaringmice. Welcome to tingler. I also owe a great deal to my clever friendslist: Sled foot courtesy of Darklock, Bela Obesi courtesy of Keenoled, Chilling inevitability of entropy courtesy of Cordelia.
Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hires ex-skating champion and "artiste" Rodney McKay to be his coach. Their teasing friendship warms into something more. After John's Regional championship, news of Rodney's return to figure skating trickles out into the community.
[ Previous][ Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
The Ohio freeskate session was just two days before the Midwestern Sectionals, a.k.a. Mids, and at the same rink.
A tall man with graying hair and deep set Slavic eyes unzipped his warm up jacket, pulling it off. He had a strong chest and was still in shape, and anyone who recalled non-Olympic international competitors from fifteen years ago would have recognized him. But most skaters were too young to remember, while the coaches for their part were involved with their charges. Including McKay, who stood on the opposite side of the rink, holding an intense conversation with the not-quite-so-young John Sheppard. The former Soviet champion joined the small chaos on the ice. He skated looping curves with careless skill, his skates hissing, though he paid little attention to his moves as he kept his eyes on John and Rodney.
With a bob of his head, his face serious, John seemed to take in whatever Rodney had told him, then pumped out onto the ice. Rodney stepped back from the boards and folded his arms over his chest to watch.
As the only senior level skater in this freeskate session, John garnered considerable attention. His speed barreled through the younger skaters. He moved sleek and smooth. He threw an easy double with impressive height, then came out of it, puffing out a breath like a bellows, scissoring his feet back and forth. He shook out his hands, sweeping into his starting pose for the run through. After a pause to gather himself, John launched.
The former champion watched unobtrusively. Most of those gathered in the stands were distracted as well. Two minutes in, a familiar snappish voice cut across the ice, "You're rushing it. You're nervous and you're rushing it."
Sheppard stopped his program and skated towards Rodney. "When I have the music that won't be a problem...." he answered, an impatient note creeping into his tone.
Count on McKay to still have a voice that could fill a stadium. Petrovich shook his head with an amused little smile. He'd seen enough. He stepped off the ice, sat down and cleaned off his skate blades, moving slowly and deliberately. Precisely to annoy the person waiting for his report.
Sure enough, once he loped upstairs - he'd paused to let an elderly woman with a walker go by; one must have respect for ones elders - Sonja was fuming. Newly permed brown hair curled under her fur hat. She didn't tap her foot but she wasn't far from it. Petrovich's face crinkled into an impish smile.
"Well?" she prompted, unamused.
"Interesting," he said. He guided her by the arm to a card table tucked against the wall outside the pro shop where their conversation could be more private.
"Interesting? That's it?" she frowned.
Petrovich moved his chair closer to the table and said with a smile in his voice. "What do you want me to say? He was a dead boring skater. Now he's an interesting skater. A remarkable change-actually, I saw him at the America Cup, so I'd call it an amazing change-but the word I would use is..." He translated from Russian in his mind, carefully. His English was fluent, his accent a mix of upper crust British and Slavic, but certain words.... "Embryonic." He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "In a few years perhaps...."
"He doesn't have a few years," Sonja said, chewing one long nail, not looking at him.
Which wouldn't do at all. Teasing her, yes, was fun, but he didn't like seeing her like this. She'd grown entirely too attached to this skater. Still, he had to give her the truth. "That is my point, isn't it?"
She sighed. He sighed in sympathy, arms crossed over his chest, protective, bracing himself. He usually enjoyed needling her, because she bounced and her eyes would flash just so. Sonja had the fire of a Russian woman. He hadn't been prepared for her disappointment.
At long last he rolled his head, and in a tone like he was admitting something, with great reluctance, he added, "Does he still have the jumps?"
The jumps were the first thing that evaporated when one tried to turn a sow into a pig's ear, or however the saying went.
"Yes," she said without a breath of hesitation.
"I'll watch the performance tonight," he promised her, leaning across the table to take her hand.
"Of course you will," she said, looking at him like he was a fool. "You're here." And that was the Sonja he knew.
~*~*~
The men had the first practice session. John had dragged Rodney to the rink early, although Rodney had disappeared to hunt down "syrupy overpriced cocoa, you want some?" John told him no. He liked to be the first on the ice. It was superstitious and Rodney would laugh if he knew, but he thought it was important to beat the other skaters out of the gate. It set the tone. Standing in his skate guards, he stamped his feet, trying to keep his heart rate up from his run earlier. The Zamboni rounded the corner for its final pass through the center.
Behind John, two other skaters chatted, while a red-haired kid had taken the only chair, swinging his feet. The coaches had clustered, taking to each other by the boards. John didn't know the first two skaters, although the kid looked familiar, from Juniors last year probably. He recognized Mark Svick doing traditional stretches in the hall back towards the locker rooms. John shook his head. Rodney had discovered USC research that proved holding long stretches made the muscles less elastic, not more, pushing them too far. At best they didn't help at all. John held his arm straight out and kicked his foot towards his palm in Rodney's latest range-of-motion stretches.
The Zamboni trundled off the ice just as Rodney returned, blowing on his cocoa. John pulled off one skate guard and waited one leg at the gate. The other skaters formed up behind him.
"Skating this practice session: Benjamin Lamato, Ian Rossiter, Nathaniel Peters, John Sheppard, Mark Svick...."
John was already on the ice before they called his name.
He stuffed the skate guards into Rodney's hands and pushed it, beating the other guys around the first curve of ice, swinging into the easy flow of footwork. Two of the other skaters had caught on to the game and got fired up to pass him. Svick stayed at the boards talking to his coach and didn't budge until John had completed his first lap. He took a moment to drink some water, too, but John could tell the game irritated Mark.
Good.
John swooped around the red-haired kid, who was starting late, then got down to business. He did several single toe jumps, practicing a solid landing. The two young guys who'd chased him had a near collision, still fired up, and their coaches had to rein them in. John skated over to the boards to Rodney, who was distracted, shaking hands with some big, bald-headed guy. The guy patted Rodney on the shoulder-people didn't usually pat Rodney on the shoulder-and left with a wave.
John cut into the rink to stop, spraying ice. Rodney stared after the guy.
"That was Trevor Morton," Rodney said. He took a sip of his cocoa, then stared into it, pouting. You had to drink it fast if you stood rink side.
"Yeah, well, next time he shows up, tell him you're on the clock," John said, lips in a tight line.
"He's very high up in U.S. figure skating," Rodney explained. "He came to see you skate."
"Really? What did he say?"
"That his wife loves my Korsakov program. You know, that one's everybody's favorite," Rodney said. "It's not as technically difficult as the Firebird, but I can see how it would appeal to the less educated skating fan."
"Ah," John said, disappointed.
"Oh. And he called you 'a feisty one.'"
"Feisty?"
"Cute stunt with the race there, by the way, but this isn't the Preakness," Rodney said, finally turning towards John. He leaned forward with his elbows on the boards, grinning as he leaned close and added in an undertone, "Although if you really want to rattle them, ad lib to their music."
~*~*~
They stood in line with a half a dozen people at the snack stand. Rodney had insisted that he had to have coffee immediately to make up for his disappointment with the hot cocoa, and no amount of coffee back at the hotel could persuade him. John shifted from one foot to the other, counting off the minutes he could be anywhere but here. So he almost missed the moment when an attractive woman in line front of Rodney turned around. She was buxom, with wavy dark hair spilling down her back. As she handed a diet coke to her friend her eyes skimmed Rodney... her smile froze, then fell off her face.
"Rodney McKay," she said in a musical contralto after a tense moment. John smelled trouble instantly.
Rodney squinted at her, confused at first. "You look...."
"You don't remember me?" She turned haughtily to her friend with a small triumphant smile. "What was it he called me? Bella Obesi?"
"... Different," Rodney ended, shoulders hunched.
"Thinner?" she prompted with a raised eyebrow, challenging.
"Well," Rodney began, "Competition weight is important to maintain and the interviewer asked for an example, and naturally you were the first person... who, um... sprang to mind...."
"Come on, Rodney." John gripped Rodney's shoulder before he could dig himself in any deeper. Because that hadn't sounded much like an apology.
She regarded Rodney calmly, head to toe, taking in his extra weight with evident satisfaction. "Yes. I see."
Rodney seemed to take her point and bristled. "It's far more important for the women's compet-"
John physically turned Rodney around and pulled him toward the glass doors, arm around his shoulders.
"-wait, coffee...?" Rodney pointed like a toddler at the snack stand.
"At the hotel." John called back to the lady, "Nice meeting you." He decided at the last second not to call her Bella, in case that was part of the nickname.
Once John got Rodney outside, protesting, but at least walking towards their room, he asked, "How many people have you pissed off?"
"Um. All of them? I was pretty thorough." Rodney wrung his hands. "The trouble is, figure skating is a very small world."
~*~*~
"Hey, stranger...."
"Glad you could join us. Bartender? Another round for the four of us, and one for my friend here."
"Can't stay long. I judge the pee-wees tomorrow morning."
"Ha. I'm sorry."
"At least they're easy to score: mostly you just count the falls."
"So who do you like for the men's short program?"
"Svick."
"Svick."
"Definitely Svick. He's young, his jumps are coming along...."
"I like the red-haired kid, what's his name, Rossiter?"
"Red hair? That's Peters."
"Yeah, Peters, whatever. He's young, coming up very fast."
"I agree he's good, but you can't give them too much success too fast. They'll think it comes easy and never work for it."
"Svick is seasoned. He's earned it."
"Seasoned but young? You're contradicting yourself."
"Okay, who would you place in first, Petrovich?"
"I'm not saying."
"Oh, come on."
"No, no, I will leave that to judges such as yourselves."
"What about Sheppard? He's seasoned."
"He's barbecued. Third."
"Third. You've got to recognize those jumps but he's on his last legs."
"I'd put him in second. There's no way Rossiter or Peters have it behind Svick."
"I picture Sheppard for fourth. What? Stop laughing. Have you seen his costume? He deserves to be knocked down an ordinal just for that. I'm going to claw my eyes out by the end of his program."
"McKay's coaching him."
"Rodney McKay? The Canadian?"
"I heard about that."
"I don't care what kind of genius McKay was as a skater, he's a new coach. Third-or at best second."
"I pick him for second. You saw him in practice."
"No, no, a few bits of clever choreography does not make up for a lack of interpretive skill."
"Who's his choreographer?"
"Sonja Gato."
"Whew. And McKay? Pulling out the heavy hitters there...."
"Looks like McKay and Sonja are still together, too. An age-old question answered."
"That was just a fling."
"Come on, Petrovich. What's your opinion?"
"I'm withholding judgement until after I see his short program clean through. Do I think he's better? Yes."
"He beat Svick last year."
"Yes. And then Svick blew him away at Nationals."
~*~*~
"I can't believe you!"
"It happens. Costumes get lost. I hit up Sears and bought another pair of shorts last night, you still have the shirt-we're fine!" Rodney insisted. He held out the stretch denim cut-offs like an offering. "I'm sure they're not in a dumpster somewhere. We probably left just them at home."
"And you neglected to mention this until now?" John stormed. The other skaters in the locker room stared studiously at their shoes, the lockers, anywhere but at John, their lips sealed.
Rodney shrank in on himself but waved a hand toward the rink anyway. "The short program is in twenty minutes. I suggest you try them on-"
"They might not fit?" John shouted. He glanced around and quickly lowered his voice to a growl, "What am I supposed to do if they don't? Skate in my underwear?"
A little red-haired kid looked up. "You could borrow the pants to my costume. We're not in the same flight," he offered with anxious eyes.
The kid was fully a foot shorter than John, but it cooled him down a notch. He snatched the shorts out of Rodney's hand with a swiping gesture, and Rodney flinched. "Rodney, I swear to God...." He shook his head, not finishing the threat as he yanked his pants down to try them on. He snapped the price tag off and flung it to the ground.
~*~*~
The catcalls started the moment John hit the ice. He dipped his head in a laughing blush which, no, John, that only encouraged them. He unfortunately had thin legs for someone so tall, but at least he didn't look like Pinocchio anymore.
Abandoning all dignity, Rodney leaned his elbow on the boards, chewing his lip. The short program was the technical portion of the competition, with a limited time to fit in very specific elements. A test of skill.
In reaction to the crowd John played his opening pose a little sexier, one hip canted, arms folded behind his head. His mouth twitched and he glanced up with a sparkle at a stray wolf whistle.
The lazy guitar strokes of Surf Rider began.
He pushed off, skating it fast and hot-good! Turn and center with the bass guitar, then turn and center again... following his arms... kick turns back, and then back, and oh, this was much better than his practice. He carved the ice in broad serpentine curves like a surfer playing with a wave, then cut through center ice bending backward in a spread eagle.
He played with quick steps and then leapt up with the high note, light and fast, twisting in the air... no, no, not high enough... one, two, three, four turns... made it! ... followed by the... oh. Just a double. He landed in a spray of ice. Unintentional, but a nice water effect.
Rodney breathed.
Then John was late-late-late! into his next series of curves. But he threw his triple axel beautifully, bending his arm to the ground at the end, making it part of the music, his back leg curving behind him. Good thing the judges didn't know how far off his mark he was.
The bass refrain returned and he bounced up on one skate, one foot high, shoulders solid. He let it drop and carved backward on the standing skate, then kicked again, and bounced, working his edges back, swooping right with the bass beat.
He spun around-whoops a little slip there-and then pulled speed from the ethers for the last half. He launched into the sax sequence with freewheeling footwork, arms out then pulling him into the curves, swinging his head down... and did he actually have his eyes closed? The fruitcake!
Ah, and his combination spin, so beautifully executed. Rodney wanted to kiss him for the sit-spin alone. Tight to the ground with his leg outstretched, long and perfectly straight. Bobbing up, running his hands along his legs-that was new-into a long camel, his line clean as an arrow, smoothly changing position, his hands folded at the small of his back as he tipped his chest towards the ceiling.
He stepped out of it into backward circular steps, a clean transition for a change. Then he kicked his leg high, and sprang into his final triple Lutz, landing it solid like he was on rock. They could hear that landing across the ice.
With a tap of his toe pick, John jumped into his final spin. Rodney shut his eyes briefly. He'd finished everything that could have gone wrong. With a sigh, he watched John deliberately slow the spin, gliding into his ending pose on the dreamy guitar trill.
Rodney clapped with the fans as John swept one hand out to bow, then turned and bowed to the opposite side.
His hair was a shade darker from sweat as he glided over on one foot, carving gentle arcs till he reached the side. Mark Svick was already on the ice, warming up, slicing back and forth, practicing quick turns with his footwork.
"That was decent," Rodney told John, who stepped off the ice, panting. John's bare legs looked pink. "You skated a little conservatively, and it cost you in the combination jump, but overall it was clean."
"That's because I didn't want to fall," John said, his hands gripping the boards. "I know you ditched my costume, Rodney, so where is it?"
Rodney lifted his chin. "It's my civic duty to keep you from being seen in that atrocity."
Mark Svick's music began and Rodney peered over at him clinically. The Larghetto of Vivaldi's Concerto number 2 was always good, but, hmm, there was a heaviness to Svick's movements that he didn't like. Granted he was biased.
"It's tights, Rodney. I've had stupid-looking costumes before. So long as you can skate it doesn't matter. And I'm not skating half naked again."
"Shhh." Rodney made a flicking motion at John. "Busy now."
~*~*~
The only thing worse than the interminable wait in a Kiss 'N Cry was the endless pacing until the scores were printed out at Sectionals. There was no Kiss 'N Cry at this level, that was something invented for television, and with the inefficiency of handwritten score sheets and volunteers it could be forty-five minutes. John leaned one hand against the wall and pretended that he wasn't replaying his every mistake in his mind, his breath a cold wisp. On the rink below, the pairs competition was underway. To John it was just a blur of motion and glittering costumes.
Finally, one of the volunteers shuffled out of the office in a half-scampering run. She posted the sheets on the wall with masking tape. Three of the eleven competitors gathered around.
"What?" Rodney spluttered. "Third?! No way were you behind that twerp Peters!"
"Easy, easy-" John gripped Rodney across the chest, because it looked like Rodney was ready to climb into the stands to hit the kid. Who fortunately was nowhere to be seen. A few spectators glanced in their direction. "These are better scores than last year."
"They're nowhere near what you deserve!"
"Shhh... settle down, Rodney. We'll hang it on the long program. It's not over," John insisted. He released him. "They might be downgrading me because...." He tipped head sideways at his obvious age.
"They can't do that!" Rodney stamped his foot. He scowled, looking around, his hands balled up into fists. "That's it. If they're prejudging you then we'll give them nothing to prejudge." He stabbed a finger in John's direction. "You're practicing your short program only for the rest of the week. Let's see if they can prejudge a program they haven't seen."
John scratched behind his ear doubtfully, cringing. "Um. I kinda need to work on...."
"Are you still questioning me?"
~*~*~
"You saw him. No way he's third."
"Oh, come on! Do you know what McKay's going to be like if he coaches a winning skater?"
There was a long pause. Then: "I usually score the skater, not the coach."
"Yeah, McKay's a prick but he has nothing to do with this."
"Tell you what. If McKay skates tomorrow, you can put him in last."
Everyone laughed.
"Svick can still take him."
"You were right, Petrovich."
"No, I said nothing."
"Look. It doesn't make any difference if he's second or third-or fourth even. He'll move up to Nationals either way."
"Why don't you score him however you like, and we'll score him however we like?"
"Sure...."
"Uh-huh. And when your score's way off from ours, don't cry to me when the finger-pointing starts."
"Second-Sheppard beat the pants off of Rossiter and Peters today."
"No lower than second, definitely."
"I think he might even take Svick."
"Oh, that would have to be one mind-blowing performance."
"Has anyone seen his LP?"
"Nope. He keeps practicing his short."
"Damn it!"
~*~*~
Six skaters glittered on the side of the rink, waiting through the formalities at the beginning of the competition. John was dressed in a dark green that was nearly black that stood out between bright aquas and hunter's orange around him.
"... the technical coordinator, Miranda Shaw...."
Spectators dutifully clapped.
"... our referee, Brian Covich...."
There was some clapping along with the standard chatter in the stands as people filtered in. Unlike Regionals, Sectionals filled the seats.
Rodney suddenly snickered and buried his head in his elbow where it rested on the boards.
"What?" John asked, already laughing himself.
"It's Sled Foot," Rodney said, nudging his chin in the direction of a small man with glasses wearing a snowflake sweater vest. The guy was making his way down the stairs towards the rink.
"Who?"
Rodney leaned over to murmur in John's ear, grinning. "I was in the Champion Series final-the Grand Prix now-and," he smothered another snicker, dipping his head, "-Sled Foot there was having a perfect skate. I thought he had me. Everything was going along beautifully and then-I've never seen anything like it-his foot just kicked up, like he slipped on a banana peel!" Rodney made a swooping gesture with his hand. "For no reason. " He shook his head. "I went up later to thank him."
"Shit." John chuckled.
"Funniest thing ever. It made all the blooper reels." Rodney sighed happily. "I wonder who he's coaching these days...." Because the guy had moved past the audience bleachers and was now into the competitor area. Then he edged around the far end of the rink, hurrying towards....
"... let's give a warm welcome to our judges... from All Year Skating Club...."
Rodney's smile slowly dissipated. John froze.
"Rodney."
"Um."
"He's a judge."
Rodney turned wide eyes on John and swallowed. He patted John's back heavily and advised him, "Um. Skate good?"
~*~*~
John pushed out onto the ice behind the other skaters for the warm up, one hand reaching to steady himself as he nearly ran over little Nathaniel Peters. Hollow 80s dance music played faintly as John lined his back up, glided with one knee ready, then threw himself into a clean spinning triple Lutz, arms slicing outward on the landing. He swung one hand in a sharp motion, making a fist and pulling his elbow in as he carved backward, his face intense.
He curved between the other skaters, flowing easily and fast, shifting his weight from one skate to the other. He moved into the dodging footwork sequence of his long program, shifting his shoulders left then right, ducking his head low and then spinning to face forward. He grabbed his elbows and did a mock jump, then let his hands drop.
John stroked away from the sequence, head down, hands on his hips. The music shifted from bouncy Bananarama to declare that they were "turning Japanese, I really think so." He curved up to Rodney for a hushed conference and a sip of water. Then he skated out again, skirting Svick, who was gliding backward on one knee.
John gave him a quick glance, pumped up to speed, then stepped into the quad, landing it with his arms open to the sky. There was scattered applause.
"Skaters, there is one minute remaining in this warm up...."
Skating slowly this time, John ran through the arm motions to his footwork sequences again. He looked up to Rodney, who shook his head once and held up his fists to do the first two. He stopped sharply and dramatically after each move, looking for all the world like an angry sign language interpreter.
Eyes narrowed, John tried again, this time with the footwork, his gestures sharper, stronger. Rodney's chest swelled as he straightened.
"This warm up is complete. Skaters, please leave the ice."
John was the last to leave the ice, gliding over in rounded curves. He accepted his skate guards from Rodney and pushed past him toward the locker rooms.
"Where are you going?"
"I don't watch anyone else skate. I'll lose my focus."
"Suit yourself." Rodney shrugged. As a competitor he'd always enjoyed watching the other skaters. First, as a skating fan in general, and second, seeing them fumble pathetically through their routines always gave him a little boost. By the time he hit the ice he felt assured of victory.
Case in point, Rossiter's amusing performance, with his struggle to keep up with the bird-like oboe of Vivaldi's Concerto in A Minor. Yes, yes, the hand gestures were appropriately delicate and Rodney would give him props for his smooth flow over the ice. But he had that overall thickening of someone who was too old for the sport, his footwork a shade too heavy-and was that an inside edge take-off on his Lutz? Yes, it was. Tsk. No doubt the judges missed it.
There was no way they'd miss his cheated jumps. He'd call that a two-and-three-quarters axel rather than a triple axel. Rodney clapped politely with the rest of the crowd when Rossiter bowed.
Chin propped up on his elbow, Rodney snoozed through the next skater's entirely forgettable performance of Zimmer's "Anuncio Ferrero Rocher." It was hard to believe these were the top six, although he reminded himself he had skated at a level far above this after age fifteen.
The current fourth place skater, Benjamin Lamato, was better. Much better. Well, the top four moved up to Nationals so no doubt Lamato was motivated.
He felt John's presence beside him. "Decided to watch after all?"
"He is invisible as far as I'm concerned," John assured him. But his eyes drifted out to the ice, his jaw tense. Svick and Peters had paused to watch as well.
When Lamato finished his program, John stepped onto the rink. He skated gentle circles, getting in his final warm-up. Once Lamato stepped off and was congratulated-yes, yes, good performance, backslaps all around, please go away-John returned for some tissues. He blew his nose and handed it to Rodney.
Lovely. Rodney ranked tissue duty as the most disgusting part of his job.
"Skating on behalf of...." the announcer began.
Now was the time for Rodney's final words of wisdom. "Go get 'em, tiger," he said. It was what Rodney's dad had always told him before he skated.
John had already started for center ice. He shot Rodney a funny look over his shoulder. "Tiger?"
Unconsciously gripping that tissue, Rodney willed John to do well.
~*~*~
The last beat of the Daiko drums faded. John let himself drop his final pose. He hoped the breathless silence was a good sign and, breathing hard as he bowed, he couldn't tell if the applause was any louder for him than the other guy. John turned and bowed to the judges, then skated for Rodney, swiping ice shavings off his blades on the way. This program practically scraped the entire rink. Peters was already warming up, scissoring his feet as he ignored John.
Rodney stood alongside the boards, his feet planted, arms folded over the bundle of John's warm up jacket, with a little victorious smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes all but gleamed.
Okay, then, he had done all right.
Svick paced on the opposite side of the gate from Rodney, his back stick-straight as John clipped on the skate guards.
"It's nice when it comes together out of the clear blue sky like that," Svick said, frowning with a worried expression, his eyes searching John's face. "When once in a blue moon everything just-suddenly works."
John didn't know what to say. That had happened to him before, yeah, but definitely not today.
~*~*~
John moved his legs to let some spectators through the hallway above the rink, then rested his chin on his knees, his back curved. He was still in costume, the strands trailing on the ground, arms looped around his legs where he waited under the line of score sheets. The other skaters had left for the main lobby to get out of the cold.
Rodney lowered himself to the ground next to John with a huff. He handed him a cup of coffee. John took a scalding sip, then handed it back with a shake of his head. His stomach couldn't take anything right now and he was afraid a second sip would make him puke. He tugged at the laces of his sneakers, tightening them. Then resettled his chin on his knee, staring resolutely at the ground. Rodney just blew the steam off his coffee.
John glanced up briefly when a couple of the other skaters drifted back. The redhead, Peters, fidgeted, bouncing his back against the railing. He turned around and lifted himself off the ground, kicking his feet. The older skater, Rossiter, paced, then finally leaned against the wall. Svick was nowhere to be seen. Not that anyone would blame him for skipping the scores altogether. He'd blown his skate, big time. Figure skating was unpredictable. John chewed his lip.
Below them the women's competition continued, ignored.
John and Rossiter jolted up, alert, when the office door opened. Peters let himself drop. John stood slowly, dusting his costume off, followed by Rodney. John wiped all expression off his face, carefully controlled as his adrenaline spiked. He let the other skaters check the standings first.
Rodney turned around with his eyes huge.
"Second, yes!" Peters said, punching the air. He ran off, presumably to tell his coach that they were going to Nationals.
"Congratulations, John." John felt Rossiter pat him on back. The glass door opened, the noise from the lobby momentarily loud. The other skaters had noticed the final standings were up.
The coaches had scored John in a neat row of numbers, with his placement below. First, second, fourth, first, first, first, second, first, first, first....
John was the Section champion. He breathed, slumping, and then laughed.
~*~*~
John floated in a little bubble of victory from the locker room to the office they'd sectioned off for the awards. He stood in front of the blue curtain to have his photo taken as he was given his medal. Rodney looked on, seeming amused by something.
On the way out into the buzzing lobby, the medal still around his neck, people he didn't recognize smiled and offered their congratulations. Weirdly, they knew his name. Rodney, probably noticing John wasn't exactly touching the ground at the moment, offered to collect their things from the locker room and bring the car around. John saw him stop on the top step to talk to a skating mom. When Rodney put a brochure on his knee to sign an autograph, John chalked the offer up to good intentions and figured he'd be getting their stuff.
"Great skate, John," a girl's voice said behind him.
"Thanks," John said, looking around in a daze till he spotted the speaker.
The kid couldn't have been more than sixteen, seventeen. She wore a white ski jacket over a skating costume and sneakers, with a fresh-faced look and less make up than most skaters.
"Are you going to the party?" she asked, chewing gum cheerfully. John's coaches had always made him spit out gum before he set foot in a rink.
"Oh..." John said, scanning the ceiling for an excuse. God, he normally skipped the post competition parties. "It's been a long day...." he began.
"But you have to go! You're the gold medalist," she said, bouncing a little.
John winced.
"And Yvonne'll be there and she wanted to talk to you." She nodded, like this should be a convincing argument.
"Yvonne...?" She couldn't mean....
"Sheaffer."
Oh.
"Oh yeah. I think I've heard of her," John joked, rubbing his jaw. "Any idea why?"
"Nope." The girl popped a bubble.
Now he really didn't want to go. "You know, that's a shame but I really can't."
"Okay. I'll tell her," she said brightly. The girl pranced off, ponytail bobbing. There was an excess of perkiness among the women figure skaters.
Several minutes later, John had collected their gear. He pulled his jacket on, chin raised to look over the crowd to locate Rodney and see if he could separate him from his adoring fans. He felt a tug on his arm and turned to find the same girl.
"Yvonne wants to talk to you now then," she said.
"Uh...." The girl held up a cell phone. It was pink and studded with rhinestones. John took it and tucked it under his chin. "Hello?"
"Hi, John Sheppard?" a sweet feminine voice said.
Yvonne sounded way different from how she did on television. "Yeah?"
"Hi! I've got this charity event that we do every Christmas, and I know you're going to Nationals and stuff, but there's plenty of time in between. It's for the Cancer Society and...."
John listened with a sense of bewildered wonder as she named the sort of skaters who were invited. Oh, gee, Kyle Fletcher did it last year but he's at the Cup of Russia this December and can't make it, uh-huh, okay.
"Would you be interested?" she said, sounding hopeful.
John swallowed and laughed. "Um, yeah!" Like he'd say no.
"Great! Let me get my mom," she said. He heard in the background, "He can do it!" then the phone changed hands to a woman with cool, professional voice:
"Hi, John, this is Madeline Sheaffer, but you can call me Maddy. I'm glad you can join us this year. I'll be at the party, so I hope you can come...."
John absently handed the phone back, nodding to whatever it was the kid said, answering her with a probably irrelevant, "I've gotta find Rodney."
~*~*~
John held the brush handle in his teeth while he struggled with his hair. No amount of mousse or hair gel could get it to lie flat. Watching himself in the hotel mirror, John was beginning to suspect he'd made it worse.
Totally naked, Rodney sprawled on the bed behind him, leaned up on one elbow like the queen of Sheba. Not moving one muscle toward his clothes.
"Come on, Rodney. I said I'd be there."
With a groan, Rodney rolled onto his back. "I skipped these things all the time. Just give Maddy a call."
"Yes," John said with utmost, tooth-clenching patience, "I could skip, but it would be rude." Not that Rodney would know anything about that.
"There's going to press there," Rodney said, rolling back towards him. He propped his chin up on both hands. "Glad handers."
John winced. But he started the electric razor anyway, opening his mouth and pulling his jaw tight. It was unfair that Rodney stayed baby smooth while he got two o'clock shadow.
"Skating parents. Little whiny kids," Rodney promised.
"That bothers you more than it does me."
"True," Rodney admitted. "Photographers. Wealthy sponsors who'll pinch your butt."
John snorted and smiled, pulling out a string of dental floss. He mumbled around his fingers as he flossed, "You've never even gone to one of these, have you?"
"I might have once," Rodney said with unselfconscious honesty, pillowing his chin on his arms. John could just barely make out the curves of his ass. "But I was probably too little to remember."
John tossed the dental floss and then slid the tie around his collar, buttoning the top two buttons. He adjusted the length, reciting silently to himself, the fox chases the rabbit around the tree... the way his dad had taught him. He had a U.S. Figure Skating tie tack. Flying the team colors. He smoothed out the tie then picked his suit jacket off the back of a chair and struggled into it.
"Rodney, I don't know anyone there except the guys I beat today. Just go," John said with an exasperated sigh. He checked and had to tuck his shirt in. Again. He unbuckled his belt. They never made the tails long enough for him. "You don't even need a tie. You can just wear your sport coat," he said, pulling the belt tight.
"I'm sorry, I did not go to my junior prom or my high school reunion. I'm not going to some pathetic Chuck E. Cheese figure skating party," Rodney said sourly.
The first leg of the party was all ages. "We're going to Albert's. Then the adults are moving to the bar at ten."
John did a last check of his teeth. Nothing green hanging off them, good. Swept at his hair with his fingers. The mousse had mostly managed to get it to stand up along his part like wire, but at least it had fixed his bangs. He gave up and grabbed his ski jacket. Not exactly formal wear but it's what all the skaters would bring anyway, even those who didn't wear sneakers with their sport coats.
Finally, John stood at the door, one hand on the door handle. Frustrated, he said over his shoulder, his jaw set, "You know, Rodney. You're gonna have to face these people sooner or later. If they don't see something new then, to them, you'll always be that eighteen year old brat."
~*~*~
The little family restaurant hired for the party thrummed with Depeche Mode and laughter. John hadn't realized that they hired DJs for these things. Several of the younger skaters ran past him in dresses, giggling and high from adrenaline, their hair still up in competition braids.
The senior skaters had taken a table in an out of the way corner where they slumped, loose-limbed, punch drunk and dazed, laughing too easily. A party was a surreal experience after months of intense training, John had to admit.
They all looked... strangely ordinary out of costume. They took on individual personalities with their street clothes. Rossiter had turned back into the public defender he was during the day, comfortable in his suit. The ruthless women's competitors had transformed into equally ruthless high school girls who'd gathered in a pack to flirt with the DJ. Tough competitor Nathaniel Peters had turned into a rather gawky teenage boy, seeming too small behind the knot of his tie. They were a mismatched group. John glanced down at his dark suit and tie, and wondered what everyone else saw.
"John, I'm so glad you could make it." John turned to find a woman in her mid-forties at his elbow. She had tasteful make-up, and a little too much perfume as she took his arm and introduced herself as Maddy.
As she walked John through the crowd, chatting in a raised voice over the din, John noticed that it didn't look as if she could easily bend her right knee. The landing leg. So Yvonne's mom was a former skater then. She swept him over to a group of men with carnivorous smiles who leaned over to shake John's hand, congratulating him. A camera flashed over his shoulder. John had the feeling he'd been set up for a photo op. With them at the bar was....
"Radek?" John said, taken aback.
"John," Radek said with equal surprise. He peered at John in confusion, adjusting his glasses. "How is it you know Maddy?"
"You've met?" Maddy asked with a curious glance between them.
"Oh, yes, yes, in Canada," Radek said vaguely, swallowing a sip of his wine. He turned to the others and gestured with his glass to John. "Did you know he's been training in secret with Rodney McKay?"
"Well, I wouldn't call it secret...." John began, rolling his eyes.
"No, no, it's this tiny rink. Middle of nowhere," Radek insisted as he wagged a forefinger. "No one knows about it."
The group was fascinated and John couldn't convince them that secrecy had nothing to do with it. Somehow, Radek had managed to completely change the subject and maneuver John to the center of the group as he made a smooth exit with a murmured, "Excuse me." They had the bartender fetch a beer for John as he was forced to describe his training with Rodney. He hoped he wasn't giving away patented trade secrets. "Unorthodox," they nodded to each other, and drifted into a chortling dissection of Rodney's foibles that was half fond, half mean-spirited. John was too polite to contradict them, so he just squirmed. Finally he spotted Radek by one of the buffet tables and beat a strategic retreat.
"Beware the bite-sized pizzas," Radek warned him. John followed behind him in the line, picking up a plate. "Anchovies." He shuddered.
"Someone's playing a mean trick on the kids," John observed. He put a pizza bite back on the platter. He passed Radek and reached the end of the buffet.
"The children have their own table. I believe they are merely, mmm, encouraging them away from the adult food, yes?" Radek said.
"So there's some left for us?"
"Exactly."
They made their way to an empty table near the senior skaters, who were laughing overloud at a story by a lower-ranked skater who looked to be in his early twenties. Most of the group was in college. A few of the junior champions had joined them, gathering in curiosity around Nathaniel, who was their age but skating seniors. John narrowed his eyes, wondering if that was punch he saw in Nathaniel's hand, or if he'd gotten into the wine.
"So. You know Maddy," Radek prompted, still blinking in surprise over it.
"Not really," John said, deciding it was punch. Probably. He dug into his food. "We just met. Yvonne invited me to do a charity skate for the Cancer Society. Just called right out of the blue."
"Oh, that's lucky. Are you going to do it?"
John shrugged his shoulder, tipping his head, smiling and coy. "Well, it's for a good cause...."
"Good."
They ate quietly for a moment. Then Radek added between bites, "I saw your performance today. You are very different when you compete."
John raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"
Radek nodded, digging into his plate. "Mmm-hmm. Much better."
"Cool."
"Oh, it's unusual. Most people are better in practice."
"Well, practice is just practice," John said, making a face. He waved his fork at Radek. "Competition's the real thing."
Radek looked around, frowning in concern. "So... where is Rodney? I wouldn't think even his fans could keep him from free food."
"He's probably in the shower at the hotel, whacking off," John said sourly.
"Ah." Radek nodded, considering it for a moment. "Well. I'm not surprised. I was there in 1986. It was really bad."
"He lost. So what?" John said, picking up his plastic cup of beer. "Do you know how many times I would have given my right arm to come in fifth? At Nationals, never mind the Olympics."
"You do not understand." Radek shook his head, wiping his mouth. He put down his napkin. "It was different back then, during the cold war. There were proxy battles fought between the Soviets and the western countries... Vietnam, in Africa, elsewhere, yes? The Olympics was one of those wars. Whole countries were disappointed in Rodney. The Americans were angry, and of course the Canadians were upset, but also the United Kingdom and Germany." Radek folded his hands, steepling his fingers. "You see, when Rodney lost, the Soviets and East Germans took the entire podium. Rodney was their only chance to win that year."
"Their?" John puzzled.
Radek chuckled and said with a dry smirk, "My country was perfectly content with Rodney's performance."
"Oh. Right."
John leaned back in his chair, swirling the beer in his glass.
"Excuse me," Radek said, picking up his plate. "I believe my host is looking for me." John spotted Maddy craning her neck, peering in their direction. He hurriedly made a point of joining the other skaters, who set up a raucous cheer.
"Hey, John," one of the college kids announced. "We have another trophy to go with your medal." They produced a gold paper Burger King crown.
"Ha, ha, ha," John said. But he put it on anyway. These guys were more his speed.
Another skater raised his glass and laughingly proposed a toast to John's long, long, long overdue win. Oh yeah, he was going to get roasted tonight.
~*~*~
A crack of light spilled into the room, followed by the click of the door as it closed. There was a shuffle and the soft sound of clothes being removed. Static crackled, like a sweater pulled over hair in a too dry room. It was followed by sniff, a perpetual side effect of cold rinks.
Then the bed dipped and John slid under the covers, rustling close. Rodney edged over to give him more room. John smelled like cigarette smoke and the muggy scent of booze.
"How was it?" Rodney murmured, sighing a little and grumpy about his interrupted sleep. He tucked his arm around John's waist.
"Loud."
"Are you drunk?"
"We'll know when I try the stairs."
"Huh?"
"Inside joke. Goodnight, Rodney."
~*~*~
His flight had been delayed so Radek missed his connection at Dulles, but a quick call to his assistant had rerouted him through National. (There was a petition to rename National the "Ronald Reagan" airport, which, given its short runways, harrowing landings and aging infrastructure seemed oddly appropriate.) He'd been forced to jog the through the terminal but the airline had made it up to him-and it was for good reason he never checked his bags.
Radek reclined his oversized seat and kicked off his shoes for the transatlantic flight. People shuffled past, casting brief envious glances around first class before trudging back to coach. There was a time he'd objected to this as a needless expense, but once his assistant had started using frequent flyer miles to upgrade, well, hmm, she had effectively countered any complaints.
"Newspaper, sir?" the stewardess asked.
"Yes, please." He accepted the Times with one hand while he stuffed his laptop under the seat in front of him.
His cell phone vibrated. Radek fumbled for it in his pocket. "Hello?" He adjusted it under his chin, using his toe to finish shoving the laptop under the seat. "No, I only brought a carry-on. Have him meet me at the gate."
He flipped the phone shut. Then changed his mind and dialed. He edged his shoulders comfortably into his seat, glancing out the window at the rain and bustle of baggage carts.
After six rings he almost gave up. Then a feminine voice answered, cheerful and breezy, "Allo, allo!"
"Sonja," he said, his smile turning mischievous. "It's Radek. Are you busy?"
"Of course! I am always busy."
"Because I understand John has been invited to Yvonne Sheafer's charity skate."
"Yes! Isn't that wonderful?" she said.
"Remarkable," Radek switched the phone to his other ear, "given that they've never even met."
"They'll meet now, yes?"
Radek couldn't quite suppress his slow smirk. "Didn't you say you used to choreograph Yvonne?"
There was a pause, and then Sonja laughed. "All right. He should have his own publicity and not be always in Rodney's shadow. Besides, Yvonne needs a younger image."
"He's older than she is. By at least four years," Radek pointed out.
"Yes, but he's new."
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Sectionals music!
Surf Rider - The Lively Ones
Trio in G Minor Larghetto - Vivaldi
Venus (extended) - Bananarama
Turning Japanese - The Vapors
Concerto in A Minor: Allegro non molto - Vivaldi
Anuncio Ferrero Rocher - Hans Zimmer
Precious - Depeche Mode
I know, I know, Rodney doesn't get the inside joke.
Woo!