Chapter 1: At the Hospital
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"Twenty-four year old, Olympic Gold Medalist, and World Champion figure skating star, Aleksei Rocmanov, is resting comfortably after breaking his leg while mountain climbing with friends in Yosemite National Park. Aleksei's coach, Frank Whittaker's oft-heard comments that 'Aleksei's devil-may-care attitude regarding his off-ice activities would eventually catch up with him, and land him on his butt in the hospital' apparently have come to pass. Doctors expect the skater to be released from the hospital tomorrow, with a recovery period of approximately eight to twelve weeks, barring any unforeseen complications. However, knowing this skater's tendency toward pushing the envelope, and his lack of patience, don't be surprised to see him back on the ice in half that time. This is Mark Foster, Channel 5 news. We'll see you back here at ten o'clock."
Everyone broke into cheers and applause as the packed hospital room erupted into noise at the end of the sports broadcast.
"Coach, is that anyway to talk about your favorite athlete? You make me sound like an accident waiting to happen," Aleksei growled good naturedly, his dark eyes flashing mischievously as he threw a handful of smuggled popcorn toward his coach of eleven years.
Aleksei's six-foot two-inch frame barely fit the hospital bed, his long legs reaching beyond the end of the mattress, the sheet forming a tent over his feet. His broad shoulders nearly spanned the width of the twin-sized bed, his elbows reaching into air as he folded his hands and rested his head on his hands. The full, firm muscles of his chest and shoulders flexed visibly through the fabric of his hospital gown as he sought a comfortable position against the pillows. His face was the stuff that women envisioned in their fantasies; a strong chin, a full upper lip that begged to be nibbled on - and often was - and frequently displayed a rakish smile, a straight nose, high cheekbones and his trade-mark ebony-black eyes. Eyes that gave away his every emotion, whether flashing dangerously in anger, smoldering in passion or sparkling in mischievous wickedness, as they were now.
"If you'd listened to me in the first place, you wouldn't be here now. We're looking at a twelve week training delay because of your latest stunt," Whittaker stated gruffly, more than a little serious.
His coach, Frank Whittaker, was a good six inches shorter than Aleksei and outweighed him by at least seventy-five pounds. His hair had thinned and grayed, his speed had slowed and he didn't look as good in tight pants as he once had, yet he was still considered to be one of the best coaches in the world. Aleksei continued to prove that fact each time he stepped on to the ice and brought home another championship. In his hey-day he'd won his own fair share of figure skating competitions, but had decided his real love was in teaching and so he'd taken Aleksei on as a student more years ago than either of them could remember.
"You heard the sports guy, I'll be back in half the time they're expecting," Aleksei responded smugly, running his hands haphazardly through his dark, wavy hair.
"You hope you will. You're not some young buck any longer that bounces back like a rubber ball. Your bones don't heal like they did ten years ago!" Coach Whittaker referred to the time when Aleksei had tried ice hockey without the pads and broke his shoulder when he'd been checked into the wall by some kid.
"That was just being stupid and cocky," Aleksei stated.
"And this wasn't?" his coach argued, waving his arm toward Aleksei's left leg, fully encased in a heavy cast, now covered with questionable comments and pictures from his friends still crowding his hospital room.
"My leg was fine until Viktor fell on it," Aleksei argued, pointing at his friend, now filling his mouth with garbage pizza. Viktor only smiled, shrugged and continued eating.
"Aleksei, you're missing the point," Whittaker stopped, took a deep breath and trudged on. "Your off-ice escapades are catching up with you. I can't keep wondering if every time I see you leave at the end of the season I'll get a call from some hospital administrator letting me know where to come pick up whatever is left of you. You're going to have to make a decision to either skate or be a wild-man. I'm not going to wait for those calls any longer."
Abruptly the room became silent; thirteen pairs of eyes all focused solely on Coach Whittaker.
"What exactly are you saying?" Aleksei asked quietly, his voice dangerously low.
"You have a choice to make, Aleksei. You come skate with me on my terms, under my rules, or you find yourself another coach. It's time to decide what's important."
"Clear the room!" Aleksei demanded, his tone leaving no room for questions. Within seconds the room was empty save for Aleksei and the only coach he'd ever known. Fixing Whittaker with an unflinching gaze, he stated clearly, "That was un-called for."
"I disagree. You need a wake-up call and shocking you seems to be the only way to get through that sludge you call brains. You take everything as a joke, Aleksei, and there is not a damn thing funny about any of this," Whittaker cursed angrily.
"I've never looked at my skating as a 'joke.' It's my life, Whittaker, and I have you to thank for it. But I can't live by ultimatums. I have a right to an off-ice life. No one can eat, drink and breathe skating all the time. There has to be more to life than that. I have a right to more than that!"
"I agree, you have a right to a life other than skating but not things that can take away everything you've worked your entire life to attain. Your body is a God given gift and you can't keep taunting him to take it away. Where will you be when you fall off the next cliff and they don't find you or if they do manage to find you you're so mangled you never walk again? Where will you be then? Is putting a little zing in your life worth losing everything?" Whittaker ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "Christ, Aleksei, get a dog, or a hobby, write a book or God forbid, find a girl -- but stay the hell off of mountains, motorcycles and bungi cords. Life can be exciting without being life threatening!" he roared.
"Whittaker, I'm on a damn bus for nine months a year touring. Hardly the makings of a stable relationship with either a wife or a dog."
Whittaker shook his head in frustration. "I didn't say a wife -- I said a girl. Someone to hang out with, be friends with, maybe even soften your hard edges a bit," he suggested.
"Generally speaking, soft edges are not what the girls I meet seem to have any interest in," Aleksei replied smugly.
"I have no desire to know about your sex life, what I hear is enough to send me running screaming in the opposite direction as it is! Find a ..." he scrambled for the right words, "a companion; someone you can talk to, laugh with, share books and go to movies with. Share popcorn - not necessarily a bed," he suggested.
"Sounds rather boring," Aleksei grumbled.
"Right now, I want you boring. Boring and in one piece."
"Suppose I take your advice? Where would you suggest I find such a paragon of womanly virtue?" Aleksei demanded, scowling at Whittaker's smug grin.
"Leave everything to me. I've got a few ideas."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Aleksei grumbled. "The last time I 'left everything to you', you forgot my skates in the locker room in Canada and I had to run through that maze of tunnels back to the dressing room to get them."
"That's hardly a momentous occasion, and it warmed you up quite nicely, as I recall," Whittaker offered.
"Yeah, it warmed me right up, especially after I tripped over the 'Ice Queen' and her blade sliced my leg open," Aleksei complained.
Aleksei's comment drew Whittaker's undivided attention. The less than complimentary title had been attached to only one person he knew of. "It was Jordan Jamison you body-checked?" Whittaker choked in disbelief.
Aleksei cast a bewildered look at his coach. "This is old news, coach. I told you she tripped me."
"No, you said some 'snotty bitch' tripped you," Whittaker corrected.
"Same thing," Aleksei answered, shrugging his wide shoulders. "They shouldn't let babies compete anyway."
"She's hardly a baby," Whittaker mumbled, making notes in his ever-present notebook. "Why she must be about sixteen or so."
"Which would have made her twelve at the time. Like I said -- a baby."
Whittaker sent Aleksei a disgusted look and silently scribbled more notes. Aleksei watched his coach; curious at the frantic writing and felt the small hairs on the back of his neck start to tingle, surely a bad sign if past occurrences were an indicator. "Whittaker, what are you up to?" Aleksei questioned suspiciously, his voice low.
Whittaker looked up from his notebook, scratched his head with the end of the pencil and with great enthusiasm stated, "If it can be done - you're about to become half of a pair."
"Bull shit!"
"No bull shit here, son. Your body won't hold up to the rigors of singles right now, but dollars to donuts, you can make it as half of a pair."
"I've - we've - never even done pair skating in an exhibition. Come on, Whittaker, I'm the biggest of all the male skaters. Who's going to risk letting me partner them? For that matter -- who's missing a partner? No one worth a damn's available." Aleksei prayed his last statement was true.
"Let me worry about that. I'm the coach - the one in charge - remember?"
" Yeah, I remember, and let me tell you, it's starting to scare the hell out of me!" Aleksei stated firmly, shaking his head at his predicament.
"Good, you should be scared. It'll give you an edge!" Whittaker declared reasonably and left the room to head for the pay telephone.
Text Copyright © 2000 by Constance E. Moynihan
