Gold Medal Winter Page 4

  “Where is Danny Morrison has anyone seen Danny Morrison?” Jenny rattles to whoever cares to listen.

  Joanie takes her seat next to me, fluffs her hair, and crosses her legs. Her heels have five-inch spikes that could definitely be used as weapons if she ever gets mugged. “Danny Morrison is our other Rhode Island Olympian. Do you two know each other?”

  I shake my head no, trying to place the name.

  “I thought you might,” she goes on. “You’re both in high school and you’re both ice skaters.”

  Both her reveals surprise me. Winter Olympic athletes are often on the other side of twenty in terms of age. “I’m confused. He’s a skater?”

  This makes her laugh. “Oh, no. He’s a hockey player. The first high school hockey player to ever make the US Olympic team,” she adds with pride.

  “Hockey?” I say, my heart sinking like a stone.

  I know all about hockey players from growing up in my hockey-crazed town in this hockey-crazed state. Hockey players are arrogant, bullish meatheads who can’t get enough of themselves and who walk around like they are God’s gift to girls on this earth. They’re treated like kings, so they learn to act like kings too.

  Libby and Joya both love them. Obviously.

  And if I know anything about how the television networks cover the Olympics, especially here in Rhode Island, then this Danny Morrison and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other in the next few weeks. We’ll get paired up for press again and again. The small-state connection plus the fact that we’re both in high school seals it.

  Dios mío.

  “You should see him play,” Joanie McNulty is gushing.

  Just then the door to the studio opens and a ripple of oohs and congratulations erupts across the room. Apparently, Danny Morrison has arrived, though I can’t see him because of the crowd. Even the cameramen turn away to greet him.

  Producer Jenny is immediately ready to pounce. “Danny so glad you’re here no time for makeup you look fine just head right over there next to your fellow Olympian Esperanza Flores have you two met?”

  I wait for the famous Danny to emerge from the throng, expecting to see a big, broad-shouldered guy, your typical high school athlete with crew-cut hair and a thick neck. But what my imagination expects and what my eyes actually see in front of me are two different things entirely.

  Danny Morrison doesn’t look like the hockey players I know from my town. He’s smaller than I expect. No, small isn’t the right word. He looks more like he’d be a runner for track than one of the meaty hockey guys. His hair is dark, almost black, and instead of having the standard short cut of guy athletes, it’s long enough that he has to keep brushing it out of his eyes. Which are blue. Like, really blue. And instead of looking arrogant as he gets miked up, he seems more on edge than anything else.

  Like he might be as nervous as I am.

  “Ten nine Danny sit down right away eight seven,” Jenny is counting.

  “We’re starting already?” I croak as he takes the spot next to me.

  “Don’t worry, this will be fun,” Joanie says.

  I have to move a little so Danny and I aren’t sitting on top of one another. The couch is not exactly big. As I wiggle to my left, I wonder if the network planned this: Squish the Rhode Island Olympians together like they’re a couple!

  The thought makes my cheeks flare red.

  “Three two,” Jenny is whispering.

  There literally isn’t even a second left for introductions. I look over at Danny, who’s watching the cameras, a blank expression on his face.

  One, Jenny mouths, her finger in the air.

  Suddenly, we’re on.

  Joanie’s face lights up immediately. “Good morning, Rhode Island,” she begins, launching into the introduction to the show, what’s in store for the morning and what guests will be on later. It isn’t long before she gets around to us. “Today we’re with two special young people, both of whom are off to the Winter Olympics in just a couple of weeks! Esperanza Flores will represent the US in ladies’ figure skating, and Danny Morrison is about to become the youngest hockey player to ever make Team USA.” She turns to us. “Welcome, Esperanza and Danny.”

  “Good morning, Rhode Island,” I say nervously and with a little wave. This makes Joanie’s smile brighten, so I guess I did all right.

  Danny just nods his head. It’s possible he means to smile too, but the look on his face is more one of pain.

  “So, Esperanza, this morning it was confirmed that Jennifer Madison will not be going to the Olympics because of an injury, and you were chosen for the coveted third spot for ladies’ figure skating. How does it feel?”

  Well. If I answer that I’m excited, it will sound like I’m happy that Jennifer Madison got hurt. But I don’t want people to think I’m not over the moon about the Olympics either. As my brain sorts this out, I remember I’m on live television and I need to say something soon. “Jennifer Madison is a great skater,” I begin, hoping that whatever should come next will magically find its way into my mouth. “And I am sure she is dealing with a lot of disappointment right now. I only hope that I can do her spot justice at the Games.”

  Joanie is nodding, her expression very serious, like we are negotiating world peace and not on a frothy morning talk show. “So you want to honor Jennifer when you skate for gold.”

  I see Coach Chen frantically shaking her head no. She stops short of running a finger across her neck or making a big X with her arms, but just barely. I’d better backtrack. “Well, it’s more that we will all be honoring Jennifer, and a whole host of other people too. We’re representing the United States, but also the people who’ve spent years helping us get where we are today. For me, that would be my mother and the staff at Luciano’s Restaurant, who have supported me and my skating since I was little, and, of course, my amazing coach, Lucy Chen.” My heart is pounding. This is almost as bad as being out on the ice at a major national competition. I hope Luca is happy with the free advertising.

  “I’m glad you mentioned Lucy Chen,” Joanie says. “She brought back gold for the US two decades ago, and I understand that she literally found you by accident and took you under her wing. Does that make you feel like Cinderella?”

  Oh geez. A Dominican Cinderella? Seriously? Coach Chen is rolling her eyes. I hope no one else notices.

  “I’m not sure I’m really the Cinderella type,” I say, realizing that Danny Morrison to my right is trying not to laugh. If we weren’t on live television, I might make an annoyed comment. It’s not like he has to worry about anyone calling him “Cinderella” before the Olympics. That sort of thing only happens to girls.

  Joanie is undaunted. “A Spiñorita is more like it, then?”

  “I’ve never heard that one before,” I say, and laugh — I can’t help it. For the first time since the cameras started rolling, I start to relax. “I bet my mother will like it.”

  “So Spiñorita it is!” Joanie sounds delighted.

  I shrug and try to keep smiling. “Sure.” Before Joanie can change the subject to something else, I decide to say something I actually want to say — something real. “Most important of all, I’m really grateful to Coach Chen,” I go on. “It does feel a bit unbelievable that I’m going to the Olympics. I actually pinched myself on the way here this morning to make sure it was real.”

  Joanie McNulty likes this, I can tell. She looks thrilled, like she just won the lottery, or someone bequeathed her a nice house in Newport on the ocean. “Well, to all of us here in Rhode Island, you’re certainly our Cinderella story of this Winter Olympic Games.” Her eyes shift to Danny. Finally, I can breathe. “Now, Danny, you also got bumped up to the team because of another player’s injury,” Joanie is saying.

  Huh. So he and I are in the same boat. This makes me a little less annoyed at how much he enjoyed my being asked the Cinderella question. I hear Joanie and Danny talking to each other, but in my relief at having the spotlight off of me, I can’t tell you w
hat they are discussing. My brain settles into a happy fog.

  That is, until I hear Joanie say the following, complete with a Danny and Esperanza, sitting in a tree underlying tone to her voice: “You two Rhode Island Olympians are going to be seeing a lot of each other in the next few weeks! What do you think about being thrown together in such a high-excitement situation?”

  Dios mío. Good thing olive skin makes blushes less noticeable. I’m searching my head for a response when Danny answers. “The Olympics don’t offer much time for getting to know someone who isn’t also on your team.” He glances over at me, and my brown eyes meet his blue ones. “So while I’m happy to meet another member of Team USA, I’m sure we’ll both be more focused on training to win than on each other.”

  “Exactly,” I agree.

  Then the interview is over as suddenly as it started, and Danny Morrison and I are separated by the various people who want to ask us additional questions. By the time the crowd around me dissipates, he’s gone.

  He left without us officially meeting off-camera, and I have to admit, I’m slightly disappointed about this. But only slightly. He was right about one thing. Focus is the name of the game if either of us wants to win, so I’d better get my game on.

  The rest of the day is all press all the time, including taping one of those background stories the networks love to show about American athletes to try to reel in viewers. When I finally have some peace, it’s already way past dinner, and I’m ready to fall into bed. I suddenly long for some normalcy, to go back to the days when I was just Esperanza Flores and not Esperanza Flores, America’s Hope for Gold.

  Which basically was the day before yesterday.

  Even now, in the privacy of my lilac-hued bedroom, the cheesy connection the press has made between my name and “hope” makes my eyes roll. I don’t know which is worse, though — that one or Spiñorita.

  “Mija,” my mother says, appearing in the doorway. Her hair is pulled back in a headband, and her fluffy pink slippers peek out from under her robe. She comes over and sits down on the edge of the bed, looking tired from running around all day at the restaurant. “The next few weeks are going to be so exciting. Everything is going to happen very fast, cariño. And I want you to try not to lose yourself in all the fame and the competition. It’s very easy, you know?”

  “Fame?” I ask with a laugh.

  She nods. “You will always be my little girl, Esperanza. No matter what happens next.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m glad I’ll have you there to remind me.”

  Her eyes cloud over.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Oh, nothing, really.” She smiles. “Now get some rest.”

  “Good night,” I tell her. As she shuffles off, a protective pang jabs at my insides. I wish life was easier for my mother and she didn’t have to work so much and so hard to keep us afloat. Mamá has to go to the Olympics. Going to the Games will give her something like a vacation, and she needs that for herself just as much as I need her to be there for me. Maybe soon I’ll be able to get some endorsement deals and contribute more to our life.

  Then again, that won’t happen without gold.

  I push this thought away. For now.

  Just before I’m about to fall asleep, my phone rings with the horns to the Olympic anthem for the gazillionth time today. Apparently getting picked for Team USA makes a girl popular. I look at the screen, but I don’t recognize the number, so I send the caller to voice mail. Just as I’m about to turn out the light, the phone rings again with the same number. This time, I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, teammate,” says a boy on the other end.

  “Teammate?” I ask.

  “Esperanza, it’s Hunter Wills. Remember me?”

  That he actually asks this is pretty hilarious. What girl under eighteen doesn’t know Hunter Wills? What girl over eighteen doesn’t, for that matter? “Of course I remember you.”

  “Well, good. I found your number on your Facebook profile. You should probably fix that before long, or you’re going to start getting a lot of random phone calls from fans.”

  “Oh,” I say, unsure what’s more startling: that Hunter Wills went looking for my phone number and called me out of the blue, or the possibility that I’m going to have to start hiding my identity from “fans.” Fans? Ha! What a crazy thought. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to say congratulations, and that if there’s anything you need — anything at all — I’m here for you.”

  “Okay. Me too,” I say, then cover my face with my free hand, my cheeks burning. Like Hunter Wills needs me looking out for him, not to mention the part where he has an entire staff of managers and publicists already doing just that.

  Why is it that I can land triple jumps one after the other on the ice, but when I talk to boys, I land on my butt?

  “Thanks,” he says, and I can almost hear him smiling on the other end. “I’ll keep that in mind. And I guess I’ll see you really soon? Our practice in Boston is barely over a week away.”

  “So I’ve heard. And I guess you will see me,” I say. Then I cover myself completely with my quilt. Perhaps hiding and total darkness will help better responses to emerge from my mouth.

  He laughs. “Have a good night, Espi.”

  “You too. Bye,” I say.

  I take in the events of this day one last time before going to sleep.

  I woke up to find out I made the Olympic team.

  I was on television and did press all day, because I, Esperanza Flores, am going to the Olympics.

  I got a phone call from People magazine’s Hottest Winter Olympian to offer his friendship and support as we both head to the Olympics as part of Team USA.

  Notice how the Olympics keep coming up on that list?

  I pinch myself again on the arm to make sure this isn’t all a dream.

  “Ouch,” I say, letting go. I reach out and turn off the light on the bedside table, then snuggle down into my blankets and pillows, a smile on my face, Hunter Wills floating in and out of my brain. But for some reason Danny Morrison skates in out of nowhere and edges Hunter out as sleep comes and takes me away.

  “Arms as far back as you can get them! That’s it….” Coach Chen is saying as I spin on the ice. “Careful not to bend too far forward … now shift!”

  I do what I’m told … and I land on my butt.

  At least it wasn’t my head.

  I pop up quickly, brush the ice from the edges of my skating skirt, and wait for Coach Chen to make her way toward me. Today she’s wearing red, with a headband holding her long hair away from her face.

  “Okay, Espi,” she says. “Make like a table so I can show you the technique one more time.”

  With my left leg straight out behind me, I bend forward so that my body is parallel to the ice. It’s called a spiral position. I’ve been practicing a camel spin, but not just any camel spin. During this one, if I can master it, midspin my body will morph so that by the time I come out of it, my back will be arched toward the ice and my outstretched leg will be bent toward my head.

  It’s really beautiful, but it’s also really difficult. You practically have to be a contortionist to do it.

  Which is the point, of course.

  Coach Chen places a hand on my side. “All right, Spiñorita,” she says, showing me how to roll onto my back, as well as how the slight curve in my outstretched arm and the bend in my knee will ease me into the right position. The tug along my muscles is very distinct, and I wonder if I can re-create it while moving. “You may be turning fast, but the shift is gradual,” she says. “That’s what makes it so pretty to watch.”

  I got the nickname Princess of Spin after Worlds last year. I’ve loved doing spins right from when I first started to ice skate. They make all the blood in your body rush out toward your fingertips. There are sit spins and upright spins. It helps when you’re as flexible as a noodle like me.

 
; Coach Chen steps away, and I straighten up. “Got it?” she asks.

  I go over it one more time in my mind and nod. “I think so.”

  “Good. Now try it again.” Coach Chen crosses her arms.

  I push off the ice and skate into the curve of the rink, gaining momentum until I am ready for the leap that begins the spin. Fans of ice skating always want to know if the spins make you dizzy. They certainly look like they would when you’re watching them from afar, and when I was first teaching myself to do them, half the time I would end up sitting on the ice, the world turning as fast as I was. But then my brain got used to spinning and things just clicked. I pick up speed and start my spin, gathering momentum, faster and faster until I am feeling my way into the arch Coach Chen was showing me. I roll onto my back midspin, and almost lose my balance in the process, but I make the transition and manage my way out of the spin without toppling over.

  Coach Chen lets out a whistle. “It wasn’t pretty, but you did it! Now do it again. We need to get to the point where it’s pretty too.”

  I gear up to go again. I’ll probably do this element five hundred more times today, but I don’t mind. It’s nice to return to some semblance of normalcy, like practice. When I’m here at Coach’s rink, the place where I’ve spent half the waking hours of the last six years of my life, it feels like home. There aren’t any reporters watching or curious onlookers anxious to decide whether I have what it takes to medal at the Winter Games. It’s just me and Coach Chen and the ice.

  The way I like it.

  “Why don’t we break for lunch, Espi?” Coach Chen says several hours later after I nailed the spin ten times in a row. Prior to this, I spent a good deal of time getting up off my butt. “Are you going home, or do you want to have lunch with me?”