Gold Medal Winter Page 6

  “Thanks.” I’ve been trying to drink this lavender herbal tea stuff with no caffeine, since added jitters are no good for a skater. We have enough to worry about without our hearts and heads racing extra fast.

  Inside our kitchen cabinet is an assortment of skating mugs I’ve collected and that people have given me over the years. A number of them have prettily drawn ice skates surrounded by various embellishments — snowflakes or a few stars or pink and red hearts. There are a few with little cartoon ice skaters with their legs in impossible positions, doing spins or simply with their arms outstretched. Then there are the ones with sayings on them, like your basic I LOVE SKATING!, but also:

  PEACE! LOVE! SKATE!

  FIGURE SKATING TRIPLE THREAT

  I ONLY SPEAK ICE SKATING

  I DO MY OWN STUNTS

  One in particular catches my eye this morning and my hand goes for it automatically.

  IF FIGURE SKATING WAS EASY,

  IT WOULD BE CALLED HOCKEY.

  “Mamá should be down any minute,” I tell Betty, grabbing my plain yogurt and fruit from the fridge. “She’s still getting ready in the bathroom.”

  When I turn around, Betty is eyeing my mug choice, a slight grin on her face. “Thinking about hockey players this morning?”

  I slide into my chair a bit uneasily. “What do you mean?”

  Before she can answer, my mother enters the kitchen, beaming. “We need to talk about your skating dress today!” she sings. She has on her Luciano’s waitstaff uniform, which consists of a white pressed oxford shirt, knee-length black skirt, black stockings, and comfortable black flats. “For the Oh-lym-picos!”

  I want to hug her for many reasons right now, skating dress enthusiasm being only one of them. “I already have my skating costume,” I point out.

  My skating dress for the short program is black with a matching skirt and a halter neck, plus a swirl of sparkly beading all up the front. For my free skate, I have this hot red number with gold rhinestones that decorate the neck and all the other edges. They are both simple and classic — classic in the sense that Coach Chen once wore them, actually.

  I’ve always worn Coach’s old dresses after they’ve been altered to fit me. Even with her generosity, it’s not like my mother and I have the money for fancy tailor-made costumes like the ones Stacie and Meredith wear. Besides, my mother can sew like the best seamstress around. We started altering Coach’s dresses out of necessity, but now it’s more of a tradition.

  A good-luck charm.

  At least in my head. And we know how superstitious athletes can get about such things.

  My mother does a quick little salsa dance, which elicits applause from Betty. “Espi, you are getting new and improved skating costumes for the Olympics!”

  “We can’t change my skating costumes now!” I cry out. “It could cost me the gold! Or the silver! The bronze even!”

  All applause and dancing halts. “What if I told you they were specially designed skating costumes?” my mother asks. “Like the kind you used to dream about.”

  “I like having Coach Chen’s.”

  “These new ones will be Vera Wang.”

  I almost knock over the jam jar on the breakfast table. “Vera Wang?”

  “The one and only, mija.”

  “But she designs for Stacie Grant.”

  My mother puts a hand on her hip and gives me a why are you being so difficult look. “She called last night. She wants to design for you too. I thought you’d be happy.”

  “I am. I think. I’m more startled than happy.”

  “I always wanted a Vera Wang wedding gown,” Betty comments. She’s been quietly sipping her coffee while my mother and I go back and forth. “Maybe she’ll make you a beautiful white strapless one.”

  “Um, strapless would fall down,” I point out. “I can’t be flashing anyone during a program.”

  “It won’t be white either,” my mother says, and joins us at the table, coffee in hand. “She wants to make a red one to highlight your Spanish origins.”

  “But we’re Dominican.”

  “I know, honey. I think she meant your music.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Technically, my music selections are French and Cuban,” I say. My short program, where I wear the black costume, is set to music from Carmen, which is a French opera with Spanish characters. Katarina Witt used it when she skated in the 1988 Olympics, and Coach Chen always says she sees a lot of Katarina Witt in me. My free skate music is salsa and it’s kind of awesome, which is why the hot red dress I usually wear is perfect. My mother helped me pick the music out, which is also why her seamstress efforts seem important to preserve for the Olympics.

  Mamá takes another long gulp of her coffee. “I’m not sure it matters, mi cielo. And you’ll look beautiful in a red Vera Wang on the ice. Just think about it!”

  “Vera Wang did an entire line of red wedding dresses recently,” Betty says. “They were very pretty.”

  Both Mamá and I turn to Betty. “So you’re that big of a fan?” I ask.

  Betty nods. “When a famous designer picks you for something special, sweet pea, you should go for it. It’s like those Hollywood actresses who have designers give them dresses for the Oscars. How often does a chance like that come along?”

  I look from Betty to my mother, both of whom have stars in their eyes at the thought of Vera Wang dressing me for the Olympics. Superstition is just that: superstition, isn’t it? I should get over my irrational fears and simply be grateful that someone like her would notice me. So even though it doesn’t quite sit right, I decide to go along with it.

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me,” I say. “And you’re right, Mamá. It is what I’ve always dreamed about. I’m sure it will be beautiful. Amazing.”

  “Good,” she says, draining the rest of her coffee. “I’ll send in your measurements.” She and Betty get up. “We’re headed to Luciano’s.”

  “See you later, Mamá. Bye, Betty.”

  “Skate well today, mi vida,” my mother says, and off they go.

  Today must be the coldest day of winter, I decide, shivering and picking up the pace on my way to the rink. I should have worn a hat, but I hate how hats always press my ponytail down into my head, giving me a headache. I suppose I could wait until I get to the rink to put my hair up for practice, but I always tell myself it’s not a long walk and I’ll survive.

  That is, until I am literally shaking in my boots. Like right now.

  I practically sprint the rest of the way, leaving a trail of tiny white puffs behind me from my warm breath in the icy air. When I arrive, I fling myself at the heavy door of the rink. The temperature inside seems balmy compared to outside, which should tell you how truly freezing it is today, since the rink is a pretty cold place in general.

  The clock on the wall says 7:45 a.m., which means I am fifteen minutes early.

  This makes me smile. I love having the rink all to myself, even for only a little while.

  I strip off my winter gear, piling everything on the nearest bleacher. Then I pull off my boots, my warm-ups, and the sweater I have wrapped over one of my favorite old costumes. It’s lilac and silver, with delicate chiffon capped sleeves. When I’m gearing up for a big competition, wearing something I’ve actually competed in helps get me in the mood. After lacing up my skates, I run right out onto the rink, relishing the welcome sound of my blades scraping against the ice and the feel of my skirt flying against my legs and up behind me. I actually say “Good morning!” to the rink, in greeting. I’ve been talking to the ice since I was little, but I only do it if I’m totally alone, so it minimizes the embarrassment factor.

  Except now I hear someone laughing.

  Which means I’m so totally not alone.

  “Good morning to you too,” Danny Morrison calls back, the laughter still plain in his voice. He’s in full hockey gear, except for the helmet and big fat gloves, in skates at the other end
of the rink. “Or were you not talking to me?” He skates toward me like a hockey player, all brutish and unpretty and fast. When he comes to a stop, I’m lucky not to get covered in all the ice his blades throw up into the air.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” I say out of stupidity, and because my brain has apparently fled the building.

  “Oh?” He looks around. “But I’m the only one here.”

  “Why are you are here, exactly? Did you pick the lock?”

  “Your coach let me in. She’s up at the house.”

  “My coach knows you’re here? She didn’t tell me you would be.”

  “It is her place. Maybe she didn’t have time. I got the call this morning. And I’m not some delinquent who breaks into private hockey rinks.”

  “Figure skating rink.”

  “Right.”

  We stand there, blinking at each other. I’m starting to feel underdressed. My skating costume seems awfully skimpy next to all that neck-to-shin hockey padding. Also, I’m kind of chilly since I haven’t warmed up, and we are standing on a block of ice. My wrap sweater is on the bleachers, but I can’t seem to move to go get it.

  He sticks out his hand, like to shake. “We never formally met the other day. I’m Danny Morrison.”

  I look at his hand. “That’s because you showed up late, then left without bothering to say hello.”

  This actually makes him grin. “So you were disappointed?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Not directly. But you implied it.”

  “I implied nothing.”

  “I think you did.”

  “Did not.” Dios mío. What am I? Six years old?

  Danny’s grin only gets wider. Meanwhile, his arm is still stuck out toward me. So I sigh, relent, and shake his hand.

  “I’m Esperanza Flores,” I say.

  “Nice to finally meet you.”

  “Um, why are you here again?”

  “The press is coming to film us this morning.”

  If eyes can bug out of one’s head, that is definitely what mine are doing right now, and I’m certain it isn’t pretty. “What? The press? But Coach Chen and I have a lot of work to do. We don’t have time to be entertaining reporters.”

  He cocks his head. “You think I’m any different?”

  “But hockey isn’t choreographed like figure skating.”

  “So you’re saying your sport is more difficult than mine?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “No. But you implied it.”

  Here we go again.

  Danny turns and skates off toward the place he left the rest of his gear. I follow after him, feeling awfully dainty and small. We reach the other side of the rink, and he puts on his gloves. When he looks at me again, hockey stick in both hands, eyes narrowed, I skate backward a few feet. “At least I’m not a Cinderella,” he says.

  My eyes narrow now. “Aren’t you, though?”

  He whacks his hockey stick a couple of times against the ice. “You think I look like a Cinderella?”

  I roll my eyes. “I meant in the classic sports underdog way, given that both of us have replaced injured team members.”

  This silences him.

  “Ha,” I actually say out loud triumphantly. I meant to gloat silently. Oops.

  “Whatever,” he says.

  I decide to change the subject before this gets any worse. “You never said why the press is coming to film us.”

  He shrugs under all that shoulder padding. “You know how they are.”

  “Not really. I’m new at this.”

  “Me too. But I’ve watched enough Olympic coverage to know that they’re trying to turn the two Rhode Island underdog teens who are off to the Olympics into some romantic story.”

  He said that with such a straight face and this who cares tone, like it doesn’t even bother him that the press would do this. “Seriously?”

  “Probably.”

  “You and I, um, we’re not going to be, like, The Cutting Edge or something. You know that, right?”

  “What’s The Cutting Edge?”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course you’ve never heard of them.”

  “Them?”

  “They’re movies. The original one is classic as far as figure skating goes. Right up there with Ice Castles. Then there are three remakes,” I explain to him, while a part of my brain is shouting: Quit now, Esperanza! Quit while you’re ahead! He doesn’t need to know this! “The Cutting Edge: Going for the Gold — that’s the second one. The Cutting Edge 3 — that’s Chasing the Dream. And The Cutting Edge: Fire and Ice, which is number four. They’re all the exact same story. An Olympic-level skater for pairs loses her partner and needs a new one. A down-and-out injured hockey player reluctantly agrees to try being her partner. At first they hate each other. They fight. Sparks fly. ‘Toe pick!’ and all that. Eventually they start getting really good together. They fight again. Then they win gold and fall in love … um …” I trail off.

  Have I mentioned Danny Morrison has started to look at me with fear in his eyes? My cheeks are hotter than my mother’s Chimichurri sauce.

  “Esperanza! Danny!” Coach Chen’s voice rings out loud across the rink.

  “You and I aren’t like The Cutting Edge was all I was trying to explain,” I say before skating as fast as I can toward Coach Chen.

  When I reach her, she takes one look at my face and her eyebrows go up. “Oh, Esperanza, what did you say to him?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. Did you forget to tell me something this morning?”

  “I sent you a message!”

  “You did?”

  “I did.”

  “Oh,” I say as I realize my phone is still probably on the coffee table where I left it last night. I spent fifteen minutes debating whether I should call Hunter Wills back, but ultimately chickened out. “I guess I didn’t get it.”

  “I guess you didn’t.” Coach’s eyes are on the boy in hockey gear I can hear skating up behind me. “Hi, Danny. Welcome.”

  “Hi, Ms. Chen,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You can call me Lucy.”

  “He can?” I ask her, surprised.

  “Of course.” She gives me a calm down look, then glances at the clock. “Channel Ten will be here any minute. I’m sure it won’t take long,” she says to Danny, then turns back to me. “It had better not. You and I have a ton of work to do.” She notices what I’m wearing. “Nice costume,” she adds with a smile. The lilac dress was one of her favorites too back in the day.

  Coach’s iPhone lights up with a message. “They’re here,” she says.

  Within about six seconds, the rink is swarming with cameras and tech people and Joanie McNulty. “Hello again, you two!” she sings, all smiles.

  Then for the second time this week, she is peppering me with questions, but this time while holding a large microphone in her hand with the number 10 and the NBC peacock symbol stamped at the base. She’s all bundled up in a coat with a fur-lined hood, and I have to admit, she wears it well.

  Happily, with all the chaos, Danny and I don’t have many more moments alone for conversation. We just do what we’re told, which is basically him skating really fast and hockey-player-like around the ice, while I do figure-skater-like activities in the center.

  Then they actually have us race each other. We tie. Ha!

  This time I remember to say that to myself only inside my brain.

  As we are catching our breath at the far end of the rink, Danny turns to me. “You’re fast,” he says with something that sounds a lot like admiration.

  “You are too,” I say, holding my tongue back from alternative commentary like, What? You thought skaters weren’t as good as hockey players? or What? Just because I’m a girl, I can’t beat you?

  “If you let yourself take just a couple more power strokes into those jumps, you’d get more height,” Danny says, and he sounds totally serious.

  I look at him funny. “H
ow do you know that?”

  “I’m a hockey player.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t need to worry about jumps.”

  “Hockey players know how to jump,” he says. “When another guy goes down in your path on the ice, you’d better be ready to fly over him, or you’re going down too.”

  “Oh,” I say, because my tongue is tied again. “Thanks for the tip.”

  Danny looks toward the other end of the rink. The television crew is packing up. “Guess we’re done. Gotta go. I have practice too. Nice to finally meet you, Esperanza.”

  “Espi,” I say. “You can call me Espi.”

  “See you, Espi,” he says, and I watch him skate off.

  During practice, I make little adjustments here and there to try out what Danny suggested.

  And wouldn’t you know, he was totally right?

  “Guess what came in the mail for you?”

  Coach Chen is holding a big brown box with US Postal Service tape all over it. She’s just walked back into the rink from the house, where she was supposed to be getting drinks and a snack for break during our second practice of the day, which has been blissfully without press reporters and television cameras. Just work, work, work, the way we both like it. She tilts the package so I can see that it’s addressed to me, care of Lucy Chen, and it’s from US Figure Skating.

  “What do you think it is?” I ask, rather suavely and calmly if I do say so myself, even though I feel like doing a little salsa dance. I have a feeling I know what’s inside.

  “Let’s open it and see.” Coach Chen and I sit down on the bleachers, the box between us. She hands me a pair of scissors. “You do the honors and I’ll watch.” She takes out her iPhone and readies it for a picture.

  I cut and rip and cut some more, finally freeing the flaps so I can open up the top. Inside there is a lot of paper, which I toss onto the floor. I have to admit, the sight that meets my eyes causes me to let loose a rather girly squeal, coupled with some foot stomping for joy on the bleachers.

  Coach Chen is capturing this for all posterity on her phone. Hopefully not as video. I wouldn’t want to scare posterity with all the noise I’m making.