Gold Medal Winter Page 15

  “I’ve been trying to get back to you all night,” he says when he gets here. “I’m glad you’re finally alone.”

  “I am,” I say, since this is obvious.

  “You were right. I did kind of stop talking to you.”

  My eyes get wide. I didn’t know we were about to have an honesty chat. “All right. Why?”

  “I’m embarrassed that I got you into this awful situation. You know, with the paparazzi and the press camping out around your house. I’m used to it, but you didn’t need this right before taking off for the Olympics and having to say bye to your mother and all of these nice people who love you.”

  “Oh. It’s okay,” I say, all those hard feelings I had softening to mush, while thinking to myself, especially when you say it that way.

  He sighs, taking in the team mingling with the waitstaff of Luciano’s. “But now they’re stuck dealing with the press too, when what they really want to do is spend time with you and psych you up and stuff.”

  He can be really sweet sometimes. He’s about to open his mouth to keep going, but I stop him before he can.

  “Hunter,” I say. “It’s really okay. And thanks for telling me the truth. But you don’t have to avoid me. It’s not your fault the press followed you to the pond Thursday night. They are vultures. Hyenas even.”

  Hunter looks at me funny, then laughs. “Like in The Lion King?”

  “Exactly,” I say, unable to hide my grin.

  “Let’s make a deal, Esperanza.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Wednesday night after processing, you and I are going to check out Vienna together and help each other ward off the jet lag. The press shouldn’t be as bad there. Or this time, we’ll just be better at outrunning them.”

  “Okay,” I say. “That sounds great.”

  “It’s a date, then,” he says, then gestures toward Libby and Joya, who are staring blatantly in our direction. “I’m going to go over to Miff so your friends feel like it’s okay to come back.”

  My cheeks flush. I try and push away the nagging feeling in my middle that we still haven’t addressed the part where he maybe betrayed my trust and announced the news about my secret weapon to Stacie.

  Then Hunter leans toward me. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ll take your friends leaving us alone as a sign that you might actually like me. Or at least think I’m cute,” he adds, then gives me a big grin and walks away. “She’s free now,” he says to Libby and Joya as he passes by.

  Their eyes get wide and they practically run toward me, but before I can relay each and every word Hunter and I exchanged, Tawny comes up to say hello and I have to do introductions.

  “Tawny, this is Libby and this is Joya,” I say, gesturing between everyone. “Joya and Libby, this is Tawny.”

  “Hi, I totally love you,” Libby says, then covers her eyes with her hand, embarrassed. “I mean. Ack. You know what I mean?”

  Tawny just laughs. “Thank you for the compliment. It’s nice to meet you too.”

  The four of us chat for a while and eat some dessert. We talk about all kinds of things — the food, Betty’s southern accent, growing up in Rhode Island versus living in Detroit, Michigan, which is the ice dancing capital of America, believe it or not, and where Tawny has spent the better part of the last ten years in training. Anything except for Hunter and whatever is going on between the two of us, even though that is what I am thinking about between all the other stuff.

  Before the end of the evening, Tawny raises her eyebrows at me. “I see you watching Hunter, Esperanza.”

  “What? Me?” I ask innocently, hand to my chest.

  “I’m not judging. Just remember what I told you about him.”

  “Of course I do,” I say with a sigh. “How could I forget?”

  She gives me one last be careful look before walking away and leaving me to ponder whether Hunter’s last comments to me were him being friendly, or romantic, or a bit of both.

  I decide that they are both.

  Even though his behavior is confusing.

  And maybe not entirely dependable.

  Which is exactly the problem Tawny is warning me about.

  In the car ride home later on, my mother and I don’t talk. It’s the last time it will be just the two of us until after the Olympics.

  We can’t talk, I don’t think. At least I can’t.

  But she holds my hand tight and I squeeze hers back.

  Enough said.

  “I think what every skater dreams of is not only skating the best program they can possibly skate, but, you know, having the crowd roar at the end. And it was just so loud I couldn’t even hear my music.”

  — SARAH HUGHES,

  Olympic gold medalist, Winter Games 2002

  Saying good-bye to my mother and Libby and Joya and everyone from Luciano’s at Boston Logan Airport was so sad I can’t really think about it without crying again, and the lady I got stuck next to by the window is sick of my hiccuping and sputtering. On the other hand, the ginormous knitting needles she’s using to make a seriously ugly mustard-and-brown-colored scarf keep poking into my arms and once even my head.

  Before this flight is over, one of us is going to lose an eye.

  The press was there to film the whole thing, which was insane. We all wanted to ignore them even though there were cameras rolling and flashing the entire time, which was really difficult to pretend not to see.

  My mother tried to be brave, especially when the press was asking her how she felt about not watching me skate at the Olympics. Betty was wearing a kerchief over her curlers in the middle of the afternoon, which for some reason made me even sadder, and the rest of the staff from Luciano’s are an emotional bunch in general, so it was a big weeping-willow festival. Libby brought me double chocolate peanut butter chip cookies, which are my favorite, and Joya sent me off with her Good Luck/Break a Leg teeny tiny sparkly stud earrings that are shaped like stars.

  “Trust me,” Joya said, handing them to me. “If you wear these, you’ll medal.”

  “But what about West Side Story? What are you going to wear for that?”

  She jutted out a hip and planted a firm hand on it. “When I’m on Broadway, you can make sure to give them back.”

  I was touched. “I’ll wear them every time I get out on the ice, Joya.”

  “You’d better. I’m going to be watching on TV, and I expect to see them sparkling on your ears.”

  Just remembering this makes me teary again. I check to make sure the star earrings are secure, then I sniffle and dab my eyes with a tissue while Knitting Lady harrumphs. Then I munch on more of Libby’s cookies, which are permanently melty, even when you don’t put them in the microwave to warm up.

  I wish I was sitting next to Tawny, but she’s about ten rows ahead. The entire figure skating team is spread out over three different airplanes because the US Olympic Committee holds random seats on commercial flights for us, and then just drops us into them when we qualify. Coach Chen is in first class. She got upgraded because of her super fancy million-miler status. Even though she offered to get me upgraded too, I didn’t think that traveling in first class when the rest of the team is in economy was a good idea, and she agreed.

  Stacie is in business class, though. All by her lonesome. Of course she and I ended up on the same flight.

  Hunter is surprisingly traveling in coach. I’m not sure why, since it’s not like he doesn’t have the money or the status. Meredith is here with us too, but in the way back, almost next to the bathrooms. She hasn’t spoken to me since the Team Event debacle. I wish she’d shown up at the party last night, because a crowded plane is not the best environment for us to talk. Despite this, I decide to make a trip to the bathroom to see if I might catch her eye, which could at least give me an opening to say something to her. For some reason, I really believe there’s hope for us as potential friends.

  On the way to the back of the plane, I get a nod from Ja
son Mifflin and a cheerful “Good evening” from Coach East. Hunter smiles and waves me over, and I gesture that I’ll see him on my return trip. In the line to use the bathroom, I practically stand next to Meredith in her seat for ten whole minutes and she doesn’t even look up from her iPad. It’s like I’m invisible.

  I’d rather have her react in anger than keep ignoring me.

  I give up hope when the little old man who was the last person ahead of me comes out of the tiny bathroom. I head inside even though I don’t even have to go. I spend five minutes touching up my hair, my lip gloss, and whatever else needs fixing, before I reemerge.

  On my way back to my row, out of the corner of my eye, I spot Danny Morrison in a window seat. My heart does a little dance, though this might just be the bout of turbulence shaking us around. He and I haven’t seen each other since the embarrassing hockey game spotlight incident. I head down the aisle, minding my own business, looking everywhere but at Danny, who’s staring so hard out the window that his face is practically pressed against it.

  But then the man in the seat next to him puts his hand out and stops me.

  “Esperanza Flores!” he exclaims. Half the plane hears him yell my name. “I thought that was you! Danny’s told me all about his fellow Rhode Island Olympian! I’m his dad!”

  If it was possible to disappear through the floor of an airplane at thirty-five thousand feet, it’s clear that Danny would do just that. He gives me a nod, which I guess is his version of hello, but doesn’t say anything else.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say to Mr. Morrison, taking him in. Danny and his father look nothing alike. His father has black eyes when Danny has blue ones. His father’s features are softer and rounder and friendlier, too — easier to read — under his wildly curling gray hair.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you! I’m looking forward to seeing you out on the ice at the Games.”

  “Oh! You have tickets to the figure skating …” I start, but then I see that Danny is shooting his father would you calm down! looks. He seems mortified by our whole interaction. So I don’t finish my question. Instead I say, “That’s really nice you get to go with your son to the Olympics.”

  Mr. Morrison grins. “Well, I’m Danny’s manager. It’s important that I’m here. He needs me.”

  “Oh,” I say, surprised. His father doesn’t look like the manager type.

  Danny rolls his eyes. “You are not,” he says to his father. Then he looks at me. “Hello, Esperanza. Nice to see you. FYI, I don’t have a manager.” His voice is pained.

  I smile. I can’t help it.

  I love parents.

  Meanwhile, Danny’s father is grinning like a maniac. I never would have guessed that a goofy, harmless man such as Mr. Morrison could have spawned such a broody moody hockey player type.

  “Regardless, consider yourself lucky your dad gets to be here,” I say. “I wanted my mother to come but we … she’s … um, not here.” I stumble on this last bit because the sadness hits me all over again.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Danny says, his expression shifting from embarrassed to sincere. “She must be disappointed.”

  I nod. “I am too.”

  “Well, Esperanza,” Mr. Morrison says, his expression changing to match that of his son’s, “you can count on me as someone to lean on for any and all of your parental needs over the next ten days. I’ll do what I can.”

  For the first time I see the resemblance between them. It’s in the eyes, even if they’re different colors. “That’s sweet of you to offer,” I say, touched.

  “Dad!” Danny protests right about the same time. “Don’t force yourself on everybody.” Before I can respond, he is up and getting out of their row. “I’m going to take a walk,” he says, propelling himself over his father’s knees by grabbing on to the backs of the seats, brushing by me without looking me in the eye.

  Mr. Morrison moves over and pats the aisle seat he’s just vacated. “Why don’t you join me for a few minutes, Ms. Flores?”

  “Sure,” I say, watching as Danny hurries away. Then I sit down and ask Mr. Morrison how he “manages” his hockey-playing son, and he, in turn, asks me all about my program and the kinds of jumps I do. Mr. Morrison, it turns out, is a big fan of skating.

  It isn’t long before Danny has returned from his trip around the airplane and is standing next to me in the aisle.

  “Maybe you could come to one of my practices,” I suggest to Mr. Morrison as I get up and move out of the way so Danny can sit. “Since you like to watch skating so much.”

  “I’d love that,” Mr. Morrison says. “It’s a plan. Why don’t you work out the details with Danny? I’ll give you two some privacy now,” he adds, and puts on some earphones. He turns to the window and stares outside at the night sky.

  Danny is still standing there, his hand on the top of the empty seat in front of his. He blinks. “You don’t have to invite my father to see you skate. I’ll talk to him.”

  “No, I want to,” I say quickly. “Your dad is great.”

  “Sometimes he’s a bit much.”

  “I like him,” I say. “Your dad is staying with you at the hockey team’s safehouse, right? So, um, maybe you can give me the safehouse info and I can drop off a few passes for your father?”

  “Sure,” Danny says distractedly. He keeps glancing at something behind me. When he goes to get a pen out of his knapsack, I turn to see what it is.

  Who it is.

  Hunter Wills is staring at us from the other side of the plane. He quickly looks away and pretends like he wasn’t. If I didn’t know better, I would say Danny and Hunter were being territorial. Over me.

  Huh.

  I look from Hunter back to Danny again, and, though I’m not proud to admit this, the first thing that passes through my mind is the following: I wonder who’s cuter, Hunter or Danny? Then I remember that I was supposed to go see Hunter and say hello. Oh well.

  “Here,” Danny says, handing me the information.

  “Thanks,” I say, mind racing.

  “So I guess we’ll see you Wednesday after processing? When you come to drop off the passes?”

  I nod, even though I feel like I’m forgetting something. “Okay.”

  “Why don’t you come by around six p.m.?” Danny says, wiping the hair away from his eyes. “I’m sure we’ll be fighting jet lag anyway.”

  “Sure,” I agree.

  “See you then,” he says, a little smile appearing on his lips. “I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

  “Me too,” I say, and start down the aisle toward my seat. There is absolutely no way sleep is in the cards now that I apparently have two maybe-dates in Vienna, with two boys, all three of us headed to the Olympics.

  Which is totally surreal.

  And also kind of fantastic.

  I wake up a few hours later, cramped and curled in my seat, when the airline attendant is trying to give me breakfast and coffee and the pilot is explaining that we’ll be landing within forty-five minutes. The knitting needle lady is snoring next to me, her mustardy-brown scarf curled in her lap like a snake.

  It’s Tuesday morning already.

  I crane my neck around behind me and meet Hunter’s eyes all the way on the other side of the plane. I wave. He raises his coffee cup in a toast, then immediately looks away.

  I wonder if he’s mad I never went to visit him.

  Then again, he could have visited me.

  It isn’t long before the pilot comes over the loudspeaker to say that we are about to land.

  Vienna, Austria. Soon on to the Games.

  Dios mío.

  My days as a US Olympian have officially begun.

  The train from the airport into Vienna is silent — except for the loud Americans like me and Coach Chen.

  “Why isn’t there any noise?” I whisper to Coach.

  “The Austrians are very well-behaved and good at self-control. They’re much like the Germans.” Coach Chen rubs her eyes. “It�
��s kind of nice after the plane.”

  I should be tired too, since sleeping at thirty-five thousand feet is not exactly a comfortable affair, but I’m too amped up with excitement and nerves.

  We get off the train right in the center of the city.

  Vienna is jaw-dropping. I mean, I’ve seen all kinds of beautiful in my life, especially the pond in my backyard on a pretty night or the beach on a summer’s evening. But this is a whole other kind of beauty with which I’ve previously been unfamiliar.

  First of all, it’s snowing. Everywhere you look, everything’s covered in white, and we are in the old part of town where there aren’t many cars. People walk around, looking in shopwindows and stopping at cafés to warm up with coffee. The buildings are big and majestic and gleaming, their lights providing a soft glow in the gray day. They kind of remind me of the fancy government buildings and the Smithsonian in Washington, DC, but they’re way more beautiful. Probably because they’re like hundreds of years more ancient.

  “We need to turn left here.” Coach Chen consults the GPS on her phone and leads us down a little side street with one quaint shop selling soaps, another selling fancy sheets, and the next one all teas and jams. Then she stops abruptly and peers at the little screen again. “I think this is it.”

  Coach Chen and I stare up at the beautiful five-story stone townhouse where apparently we are going to be staying for the next two nights until we go on to the Games.

  I blink and blink again, expecting it to disappear. “This is the safehouse? Seriously?” Our safehouse is not at all like those rinky-dinky ugly broken-down places where they hide people on FBI shows. It’s more like a small, beautiful mansion. “Wow.”

  We ring the doorbell, and a member of the housekeeping staff ushers us inside and to our rooms. Mine has two sets of windows that open out like French doors, and big thick drapes. There are two beds in the center and a fireplace against one wall. I drop my bags to the floor. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before, but I wonder if I’ll have a roommate. Maybe Tawny?