Chapter 11: Once Upon a Time
Private Ice is Best Viewed in Firefox.
"Salut! You see, I have braved your lair again, old man!" With an excited grin on his face, Etienne bounced into Jonathan's office and tossed a pile of papers onto his desk. "And Voila! I bring you gifts."
Ignoring the greeting, Jonathan reached over and picked up the papers. It was the program layout for the exhibition skate during the Grand Opening Gala. "Where did you get this?" he asked, suspiciously. Etienne had no conception of privacy, he was quite capable of taking things right off Jake's desk.
"Jake, he had them, he wanted you to see them, but he is busy with the electricians. There is a problem with the lights in the main rink. So I think that I will make myself useful." He peered at the program from his upside down angle. "Looks good, no?"
The layout did look good. Jake had engaged an excellent firm for this task. Western Pennsylvania Figure Skating Club would be across the front in embossed silver letters over a dark blue background. The inside front cover had a photo of the architect's and interior designer's models. These were followed by a letter from Jake Swanson, writing in his official capacity as rink manager, and a letter from the Mayor of Pittsburgh, who made some basic political statement about supporting local youth sports. A few pages of obligatory advertisements were next, and in the center, the order of skaters and groups who were to be performing. The back of the program had full-page glossies of Donna Delmonico, Etienne, and a hastily taken one of Kincaid & Neill. Smaller photos were included for the younger skaters, and the coaches.
Gina ought to be in here too.
He still hadn't broached to her the suggestion of skating in the gala. He looked up at Etienne. "Did Jake say when this goes to press?"
"Ah, yes he did, in fact. He said to me, 'Etienne, this goes in tonight, so if you are going to change your mind on what you are skating, do it now." He gave Jonathan a hurt look. "Do you think that is a thing I would be doing?"
"Was it you who changed your program six different times during the last tour?"
Etienne laughed. "But I get so bored with one. Programs, they are like women. They need to be changed very often or they will smell."
"I think that's diapers." Jonathan muttered, still looking at the program. There was no time to put together a publicity spread on Gina. But he could at least add her numbers into the list at the middle.
"Diapers. Women. It is all the same," Etienne said airily, as he wandered around the office, straightening paintings and wiping dust off the shelves.
Jonathan took that to mean that Etienne was fighting with Donna again. He wasn't interested in LeClerc's life enough to ask for any details. But Etienne didn't used to be this bad. Don't you remember that his dreams once included marriage and family? For a very brief moment, he regretted bailing out of Etienne's friendship. But what else could he do? Etienne was a living, walking, skating reminder of the past.
Jonathan turned his attention back to the program, and then, with a black felt tip pen, he wrote "Gina Logan, 1991 World Junior Champion, Piano Concerto Number Two, by Frederic Chopin," and "Gina Logan, Fragile, Sting." Justice would have her closing the show, but Jonathan knew that even he couldn't get away with that. She would be fourth from the end of each act, in front of Kincaid & Neill, Etienne, and Donna. "Etienne, if you could give this back to Jake, please."
Etienne took the papers and looked at the changes. "Gina Logan. Gina. Gina. Ah, Gina, she is the girl in the snack bar, yes? I knew she looked familiar. She is a skater."
Jonathan ignored this recitation of the obvious. "Just make sure that Jake notes the changes." Hopefully, Etienne would take the hint and leave him alone now.
But he never does, does he? Only once did he ever back off when I asked him to, and look what happened.
![]("../images/Phantomshrule.gif")
Cyndie Neill had whispered that she had heard that Prince owned this club. Jonathan, Etienne, Cyndie, and several of the older skaters on the tour had decided to go dancing (and drinking) there. Both Etienne and Jonathan had been particularly pleased that the name of the club was "The Rogue."
"For that is what we are, old man," said the twenty year old Frenchman. "We are Rogues, yes?"
Lydia Davies, the British Ladies champion had smirked at that comment, and then said, cuttingly, "Nothing so romantic, gents. You two may fancy yourselves ladies men, but you are nothing more than dissipated rakes."
"Well, hell, Lydia," Cyndie had drawled. "Are you still takin' out your annoyance about Cody on the rest of the world?" To everyone else's laughter, Lydia flounced off to the bar, where she could be heard ordering a "Campari and Soda" in loud strident tones. Many of the rest of the group dispersed to the dance floor, where the Russian pairs teams were awing the locals with a series of complex dance lifts-completely out of synch with the music. More on the beat was the Russian Ladies Champion Katia Dyakonova. Etienne had been slowly wooing the American skater Amanda Barrett, and he whisked her off to a quiet corner. Jonathan, who had had an uncharacteristically off night, was in a dark mood. Tequila in hand, he had huddled at the corner of the bar, drinking quickly and steadily.
How could I have been so stupid as to fall on a triple salchow. It's such an easy jump. From that point on, he'd felt behind the music instead of in it. It was frustrating. Furthermore, he shouldn't even be touring at all. He should be back in Pittsburgh, working on a quad. He'd never win another title without one. Worse than never winning an Olympic Gold medal would be being unable to defend it.
"You're Jonathan Griffin, aren't you?" a voice said at his shoulder.
Jonathan looked down to see a young blonde girl. She couldn't have been much older than 21, if that. At first he was going to simply ignore her, but when she leaned closer, purposefully showing off deep cleavage, he reconsidered. "Yes, I am. And you are?"
Laying her hand on his arm, she breathed, "Heidi Tangedahl. I saw you skate at the Target Center tonight. You're awesome. I thought I was going to have an orgasm when you landed that triple flip." She giggled a little. "Oh my God, did I actually just say orgasm to you? I muss be really drunk."
She sounded so pleased with herself that Jonathan didn't have the heart to tell her that he didn't have a triple flip in his exhibition program (or a triple salchow, tonight). She must have meant the triple toe loop. But it didn't bother him at the moment. She looked so earnest, with her bright blue eyes and her wavering blond curls. Wavering? Hair doesn't waver, Jonathan. But look... it is wavering, doubling, dipping, flipping, falling, ... "Thank you, Heidi."
In the bar, the music changed tempo, slowed into some ballad. He put his arm around Heidi and led her to the dance floor. Eagerly she closed her eyes, and leaned close, rubbing her body against his. He crushed her closer, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. Already she was raining light kisses on his neck. He bent his head lower and found her lips with his own. She responded by capturing one of his legs between hers. He couldn't believe his luck in finding a girl this hot. Perhaps tonight he could lose himself in her, drown out the memories of the fall, and the thoughts of the future.
The lights suddenly went up in the bar, and Jonathan blinked in the abrupt glare.
"Last call. Last call for alcohol," the DJ intoned.
Jonathan squinted at his watch. "What the hell? Is not even one o'clock!"
Giggling again, Heidi said, "Yeah, bars close here at one. Sucks. But hey! I've an idea. We can go to... to... Wizconsin. Bars there stay open longer."
"I like the way you think, Heidi. Hey! Etienne, Amanda," he said as the two joined them. "You two wanna go to Wisconsin? Bars are open later." He searched his pockets for the keys to his prized Jaguar. The car accompanied him on all the American tours; he refused to ride a cramped bus.
Etienne started to say something, but was interrupted by Heidi, who chose just that moment to throw up all over the floor.
"Oh yuck," Amanda said as she hopped back a foot.
"I don feel so good," Heidi moaned, turning to Amanda for support. "I need to use the bafroom. Help me fine it!"
Amanda crinkled her nose in disgust, but she complied with the request, helping the wilting girl towards the ladies room. Jonathan slammed his hand against a barstool, sending it to the floor. "Brilliant. There goes my night. And it's not even one o'clock." He felt for his keys again. "Maybe I'll get lucky in Wisconsin." He started for the stairs.
Etienne grabbed his arm. "Come on, old man, you don't really want to go to Wisconsin. We have to get up early tomorrow. Let's just wait for Amanda and walk back to the hotel, yes?"
"Easy for you to say, Etienne, since you'll have the lovely Amanda warming your bed tonight. So if you'll excuse me." He tried to shake off Etienne's arm.
Etienne simply gripped him harder. "No, I don't think so, mon ami. I am worried for you and for your car. I think maybe you have had too much to drink."
Wrenching himself free, Jonathan said. "I am fine, Etienne. Just fine. I had a rough show tonight, and I'm not ready to lie in bed thinking about how terribly I skated. Now, let go of my arm, before I throw you across the room."
Slowly Etienne had removed his hand. "If you are sur-"
"I'm fine, LeClerc. I'll see you tomorrow."
But, he hadn't been fine. On 94 west, he'd misjudged a turn, spun the car out of control, until it hit a cement divider and flipped into the oncoming lanes. It took the emergency team an hour just to remove him from the car. If Heidi had been with him, she'd probably have been killed. As it was, Jonathan was half dead when he arrived in the emergency room of Hennepin County Medical Center.
They had thought he wouldn't live.
Unfortunately, they were wrong.
They had thought he would never walk again.
Fortunately, they were wrong.
They had known that he would never skate again.
Unfortunately, they were right.
Etienne interrupted his horror film through memory lane, again. Gazing at the notes in the program, he said, "Ah, so you are taking my advice and coaching, mon ami. I knew you could not hide forever. I told you your life is not over. You will be a perfect teacher for pretty Gina."
With a snarl, Jonathan gripped the edge of his desk and pushed himself to a standing position. "This has nothing to do with you, not now, and not then. So stop hounding me with your misplaced protestations of friendship!" He took a deep breath and continued. "I'm just making sure that the reputation of this club grows. A skater as good as Gina looks good on the roster."
"So she's good, yes?" Etienne latched onto the comment.
"Extremely," Jonathan said, prompted into honesty. "Possibly the best in a long time."
"I'll have to check her out then," Etienne said lightly, as he eased himself out the door.
Over your dead body.
The worry that Etienne would make a move on Gina clung to Jonathan all day. But in all the confusion of the final repairs to the building, he forced it from his mind. Besides, as cocky as Etienne was, Jonathan knew when the man was joking. His comment about Gina was simply made to be annoying. He hoped so, anyway.
Besides-perhaps Gina and Etienne would be good for each other. Etienne wasn't a bad sort; at one time he and Jonathan had been close friends. If Etienne would settle down, stop chasing women, (and Jonathan was fairly certain that Etienne was partly all talk anyway), he would be good for Gina. His easy-going friendliness would help her out of her shell. Her dark hair would be striking against his blondness. He winced when that thought led to an image of blond hair and dark curls intermingled on a silk pillowcase.
Someday Gina would be the golden girl of the Ladies figure skating--a golden girl deserved Prince Charming, and not a man who could have killed several people on that highway. Jonathan was no woman's ideal of Prince Charming. But, perhaps that Prince Charming was Etienne.
They would be good for each other, he told himself.
And then, because that thought made him feel unaccountably depressed, he told himself again.
Text Copyright © 1999-2000 Karen Frank
