Life on the Edge

Chapter One

elbow whacked Chris’s forehead for the fourth time during practice. He grunted and caught
me
before I hit the ice. Though
I’d
skated over half of my nineteen years, I’d never had so many collisions. Of course, until a year ago,
I’d
never skated with a partner.

cringed and touched Chris’s sweaty brow. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He raked his hand through his thick dark hair. “A little head trauma never hurt anyone.”

laughed wearily and arched my neck, stretching the sore muscles. The cold air
wasn’t
helping to loosen them. Looking up,
my
eyes honed in on the red, white, and blue banner above the rink:

Only four months had passed since Chris and
I
placed second at our first national championship, but it seemed like a lifetime. The triple twist, the high-flying element we needed to learn before next season, continued to elude
me
.
If we
don’t
master this move, we’ll never compete with the top teams in the world.

grasped Chris’s hand. “Let’s try it again.”

We took matching determined strokes across the ice, and the burst of wind cooled
my
face and loosened damp tendrils from my long ponytail. With a quick motion, Chris squeezed
my
hips and launched me into the air. I wound myself tight and spun but fell into
Chris’s
waiting arms before finishing three revolutions. A sigh heaved
my
shoulders.

Sergei glided toward us around the other practicing skaters. Our coach was often mistaken for one of us because of his youth. He nodded and regarded us with his deep blue eyes. “The rotation is getting faster. Focus on what you did right today. I see a lot of improvement.”

relaxed into a smile. Before
I’d
started working with Sergei, I’d heard many horror stories about Russian coaches. Sergei demanded discipline and maximum effort, but his energy stayed positive, and he provided constant encouragement.

Chris and
I
left the ice and sat on the short set of wooden bleachers.
My
ankles thanked me as I untied my skate laces and gave them space to breathe.

“I guess it’s an improvement I didn’t give you another black eye,”
I
said.

Chris poked his swollen freckled cheek. “I
kinda
like my shiner.
Makes me look tough.”
He grinned, displaying his dimples.

“You’re going to need more than that to make you look tough,”
I
teased as I walked away.

Inside the locker room, the musty scent of sweat and metal contrasted with the cool freshness of the ice. After stowing
my
skates in my locker and slipping on a pair of sneakers, I pulled a fitted T-shirt over my leotard and winced as I bumped the fresh bruises on my arms. If people only knew how much pain went into chasing the Olympic dream . . .

needed to talk to Sergei before his next lesson, and I found him in the rink’s upstairs lounge, which overlooked the ice. He was holding a cup of coffee and talking to a couple of the skating moms. As usual, they sat captivated, totally engrossed in his words, and I
couldn’t
blame them. When
I’d
met Sergei, I stammered through our introduction, spellbound by his captivating eyes and gleaming smile. His personable manner had quickly put me at ease, though, and
I’d
gotten past staring at his good looks. Important, obviously, if
I
wanted to get any work done on the ice.

As Sergei spoke to the moms,
I
remembered I had to phone my own mother. She expected a daily call once
I’d
moved from Boston to Cape Cod a year ago.
I
lingered near the water cooler and read the announcements stapled to the bulletin board until Sergei finished his conversation and moved toward the stairs.

“Sergei, do you have a minute?”

“Sure.” He glanced at his sport watch. “I have about ten. What’s up?”

“I was thinking of doing some coaching in the afternoons like I used to in Boston. Just a few kids, but I wanted to see what you thought.”
I
toyed with my silver cross and chain.
“If it might be too much to take on right now.”

He took a long sip of coffee and gave
me
a pensive look. “I might have a better idea. Walk with me.”

followed him down the narrow steps to the rink, and he set his paper cup on the boards. Skaters swooshed past us, creating a chilly breeze.

“Would you be interested in helping me with one of my novice teams?” Sergei asked. “Teaching them the pair elements would reinforce everything you’ve learned.”

bobbed my head with vigor at his show of confidence. “That sounds like a great idea.”

He spread his hands apart. “Don’t I always have all the answers?”

“Yes, Oh Great and All-Knowing Coach.”
I
performed a playful bow.

“I’ve never had an assistant before. Maybe you should call me ‘Mister
Petrov
’ when we work together.” He lifted his cup to his mouth, a hint of a smile on his lips.

“You’re joking, right?”

His eyes widened with innocence. “Why would I be joking?”

“You’re only six years older than me.”
I
laughed and started for the weight room, and Sergei chuckled behind me. “I’m not calling you ‘Mister.’”

****

Within a week,
I
began assisting Sergei with his newest and youngest team of twelve-year-old Courtney and fourteen-year-old Mark. They were struggling with their double loop throw jump, so
I
acted as Sergei’s partner to demonstrate the technique. The kids stood next to the boards while Sergei’s strong hands grasped
my
hips and vaulted me across the ice. A double felt light and easy compared to the triples
I
normally did.

Courtney and Mark studied us attentively and tried the throw on their own. Attempt after attempt, Courtney failed to land on a clean edge. Her pink cheeks deepened to crimson as she huffed with frustration.

“It’s alright.” Sergei patted her shoulder. “Mark, she needs a little more height. Make sure you’ve got your weight balanced on the takeoff.”

“Courtney, also try pulling in tighter and quicker.”
I
brought my arms sharply against my chest.

Our students worked on the element each afternoon, some days having more success than
others
, but Sergei never lost patience. Watching him handle Courtney and Mark’s roller coaster of emotions with gentle authority gave
me
a new level of respect for him. He knew just how to reassure the kids and light up their eyes with understanding.

After Courtney and Mark’s sessions,
I
often stopped at the Starbucks near the rink on my way home.
I
learned Sergei was a frequent patron, too, and every time we ran into each other, our conversations grew longer.

One afternoon, we finally gravitated to one of the tiny tables and had been sitting there over half an hour. Sergei had gone to the counter for a refill, and when he rejoined
me
, he caught me softly singing Sting’s “Fields of Gold” along with the piped-in radio.

“Are you a Sting fan?” he asked, stirring a packet of sugar into his black coffee.

“Huge.”
I
sipped my latte. “Are you?”

“I have all his CDs. ‘Fields of Gold’ is one of my favorite songs.”