Chapter 1: The Man in the Shadows
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The hockey game had ended over an hour before, and the rink was finally silent. A fresh coat of new ice sparkled in the still bright lights, contrasting with the littered seats and stairwells. The smell of beer and stale sweat lingered heavily in the damp air--Jonathan was convinced this odor would continue long after the Pittsburgh Partisans moved to their new arena downtown. This move was greatly anticipated by both the hockey team and the figure skating club that uncomfortably shared the two rinks in the building. Within two months, all the ice would be reserved exclusively for the rapidly growing (it was gratifying how quickly a club would expand when it housed the top pro male skater, and the heiress apparent to the National Ladies Title, not to mention a highly regarded Dance Team) Western Pennsylvania Figure Skating Club. To add to the tension, the building was crawling with contractors and builders, as the rink transformed itself into a training center. People were always tripping over loose boards, or upending ladders. In short... chaos.
However crowded it was during the day, at this hour, the building was nearly deserted: in rink B only Megan Kincaid and Robert Duras were putting in some late practice time to get ready for Grand Opening Exhibition. Jonathan tried to ignore the faint sounds of Jim Croce coming through from the other rink, making a mental note to soundproof the wall between the two of them. He'd have Jake Swanson, the rink manager make some calls to contractors in the morning. Leaning heavily on the cane, he looked out over his ice.
My ice!
Once he thought all of the ice was his. Once he had thought the world was his, to do with as he pleased--ice, women, fans, medals... Now he was content.... No, content was not the word.... Now he just was.... a businessman. Where he once had prized the crowds, the adulation, he now wanted only privacy. Only in the quiet moments like this, could he look out on his silent, empty kingdom and remember what once was without regret.
And even now, his quiet moment was denied him, when the sounds of the locker room door clanging shut and then blade guards flipping across the rubber hallway reached his ears. Wondering who could possibly be using this rink at midnight, he inched his way further into the shadows, forced to hide out of sight. From there, he observed this infiltrator to his sanctuary, resenting her presence, even as his curiosity was aroused.
The woman was not familiar to him, although the Western Pennsylvania Arena Staff T-shirt she wore over her unitard indicated that she was one of his employees. Some vestiges of his playboy past dispassionately noted the mature figure, the long legs, and well defined arms. Hair was unknown at this point, as she wore a Pirate's baseball cap. She stretched her arms over her head, rolled her shoulders, and then bent over to remove her skate guards. Then she stepped on the ice and stroked around it to warm up.
Jonathan wondered who she was. Not the WPFSC's star, Donna Delmonico, who, as last year's National Bronze medalist, would be expected to rise in standings since both the silver and gold medalists had turned professional. As far as Jonathan knew, Donna was currently in Arizona on the post championship tour. Nor could this woman be one of the other promising skaters that coaches Toby Michaels and Mary Jo Zimmer swore they had in their stable--she was too old. Jonathan also eliminated the possibility of an adult hobbyist skater, when she leaped into a perfectly centered flying sit spin.
Very nice. OK, my girl, what else can you show me?
Whoever she was, she had been well trained at some point. Her spins were fast and well centered, her footwork was innovative--and in time to the sounds of Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown that bled through from the dance team's practice session. Triple loop. Good. Triple salchow. Good. Triple toe. Low, but nice form. Double axel. Some hesitation on the take-off, but landed. Triple fli--
Splat.
Try it again.
Again, the flip tilted in the air from a rough take off, and dumped her onto the ice.
"Sugar!" The girl muttered, and then got up and tried a double.
It wasn't pretty, but she held onto the landing. She continued to fight with some rough double flips for a few minutes, before trying one final triple. The height was there. The landing was not, and after wobbling off the edge, she put her hands down to prevent losing her balance completely.
She paused from the jumping, returning to her spins for a while.
What about the lutz?
Following the spin break, she worked on a triple toe, double toe combination jump.
That won't get you to nationals, girl. Donna Delmonico does a triple flip - triple toe.
Still, now that she was warmed up, it looked to be a solid combination for her. Jonathan gave her points for form, if not for revolutions. After practicing the combination jump, she went back to the triple loop, apparently happy to practice this one for the fun of it--or to build confidence? Then, the long back outside edge entry....
Lutz?
She held the edge to the corner, lifted her picking foot, and then aborted the jump. She stroked around the rink and started again. And again she stopped herself. On the third try, she slammed her foot into the ice, managed a two revolutions, and then crashed onto her hips.
Don't like that one, do you? Ha! The lutz was my best jump. I even did one in the 'Tano position.
Jonathan wasn't sure what she was doing wrong--it looked like she was just plain AFRAID of the jump. The hesitation on the axel, too..... that could be fear. Well, clearly she was an edge jumper, not a toe jumper--her salchow and loop were lovely. But that was no excuse.
The girl on the ice checked her watch, shook out the kinks in her body, and then retrieved a tape from her gym bag and placed it in the old ice-side boom box. She tossed the baseball cap on top of the machine and gathered her shoulder length dark hair into a sloppy ponytail. Then she skated to center ice, and waited for her music to begin.
Silence. In an attitude of self-consciousness, she laughed at herself, skated back to the box, and switched on the speakers. Music blared out mid song, so she rewound the tape and began again. It was a vocal piece, Jonathan recognized Sting as the singer, though the song was unfamiliar. It was a slow ballad with a jazz beat, and the main lyric used the phrase "how fragile we are"..... but that didn't matter. What Jonathan saw was that this girl felt the music, that she, with her skating, was like a musical instrument, accompanying the song, becoming the song.
The way I used to be.
He couldn't watch anymore. She had something that he had once thrown away. And even though she was just a rink employee, clearly wasn't competing, wasn't even intending to compete, Jonathan hated her. He grabbed his cane, his now stiffened muscles in protesting the quick movement, and as silently as possible, limped out of the arena.
She hadn't even noticed he'd been there.
In the other rink, he saw the dance team, still trying to be peppy to "Leroy Brown," even though sweat gleamed on Megan's forehead, and Robert was wooden as usual. Their coach Svetlana was passionately explaining a move, using Robert as a tackling dummy, while Meg watched intently. But she was watching Robert , not her coach. The self-absorbed young man, was, as Jonathan once had been, clueless to honest affection. As long as it didn't affect the team's standings though, Jonathan didn't care.
A phone was ringing in the office. Jonathan ignored it for about ten rings, and then, when the ancient answering machine failed to click on, slammed into Jake's office and picked it up. "What?"
"Is this Western Pennsylvania Figure Skating Club?"
"Yes."
"Is Robert Duras there?"
Lovely. It was one of Duras's girlfriends. "He is here, but he's on the ice." Jonathan did not offer to take a message.
"Could you have him call Juliet Mason at the Sun Valley Figure Skating Club? No wait--I'll try him tomorrow, never mind. Bye." She hung up.
Juliet Mason had been one half of the National Dance Championship team of Mason and Carlisle. Carlisle, had recently blown his knee in a practice session (rumor said twizzle accident). Was Juliet shopping around for a new partner? Bad news for Megan--Duras would leave her in a moment for a chance to skate with Juliet Mason. Bad news for WPFSC too.
Jonathan took a moment to look around Jake's office. Photos of Megan & Robert, of Donna Delmonico, and of the club's latest coup, Etienne LeClerc: Olympic Gold Medalist, and current darling of the pro tours. Etienne was here out of friendship for Jonathan, though Jonathan swore up and down he didn't need any favors from his past competition. Looking at the photos reminded Jonathan of the mystery skater in the hockey rink, so he availed himself of Jake's personnel files to page though the employee files until he figured out who she was. He found it an informative endeavor.
Gina Logan. Age 21. Available to work full time in the evenings. Student at Duquesne University. Previously employed at Macdonald's. Next of kin, Matthew Logan, same address as above.
Father? Husband?
Further reading announced it was her father.
Hobbies: none.
No hobbies--not even skating? He wondered. Who was she? Women with triple jumps didn't just appear out of nowhere. He cursed himself for his curiosity, but once started, couldn't end the task. He started Jake's computer and scanned news archives for information on Gina Logan, figure skater.
Nothing last year, nor the year before--in fact, he had to go back seven years to discover that Gina Logan (Cincinnati FSC) had been Junior National and World Junior Champion. The year before, she'd been at the top of the heap in novice, and her name appeared regularly on the podium at various competitions. That had been seven years ago.
Seven years ago, Jonathan had been a feature attraction in Champions on Ice. He wouldn't have paid attention to a jail-bait junior. He wouldn't have cared, even if he had been told that he was a role model for the younger skaters. Nearly seven years ago Gina Logan was in the news as World Junior Champion.
Then nothing.
Although, that wasn't such a surprise. Seven years ago, very few newspapers had been online. It was only official records that were archived. So what ever had happened to Gina Logan hadn't been official, and it hadn't been big enough to make the New York Times.
Lucky Gina, he thought, remembering how his photo and the crumpled Jag had been splashed across the front page of every major paper.
Blood and vomit mixing with the sharp odor of antiseptic...
Once again, Jonathan consciously stopped thinking about Gina Logan. He didn't care. It wasn't any of his business.
It was getting late. He locked Jake's office, avoided Megan Kincaid in the hallway, not even caring that she still flinched when she saw the scar on his face, and let himself out the back door. In response to his automatic key, his car, a dark Mercedes chirped and flipped on the lights. Although he'd been careless with his life, he'd always been smart with his money, wisely investing his inheritance and endorsement fees. He could afford a different Mercedes every day of the week if he chose--practically, for every day of the year. Awkwardly, he lowered himself to the plush seat, and started the car. He fussed with the radio for a while, eventually finding a soothing public radio station.
As he eased out of the parking lot, the back door cracked open again, and the object of his curiosity exited the arena. With a tired motion, she hefted her gym bag over her shoulder and set off down the street.
She's not going to walk home is she?
He thought back to the address listed on her employee application. It was less than a mile away, but at this hour, it wasn't the safest walk. Cursing a previously unknown chivalrous instinct, this danger-courting female, and the pain that even now was shooting through his leg and back, he turned his car around, and slowly followed the girl as she made her way home. The streets were deserted, nobody bothered her, no one was even around, but Jonathan didn't let her out of his sight until she had entered her own house. Then finally, he drove himself to his condo, tossed his keys to the garage valet, and nearly collapsed in the elevator.
Luckily, no one was around to see his weakness.
The fact that his current predicament was his own fault in no way made it easier to take. By the time he reached his apartment, it was all he could do to make it to the couch. There he poured himself a shot of scotch, and used it to wash down three extra strength Tylenol, even then, wishing for the Percoset and Valium that Etienne had flushed down the toilet last year. Then, having no other recourse, Jonathan returned to feeling that was much more familiar to him than the curiosity that Gina had prompted earlier this evening.
Pain.
It had sustained him for the past five years. It would sustain him through the future.
Text Copyright © 1999-2000 Karen Frank
