Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

Hungover

Chapter Two

"Come on, Shell, higher! Higher!" Dad's claps are muffled by the fur-lined mitts hidden underneath the puffed sleeves of his winter coat. "You have to get that leg up faster or you'll lose momentum!"

I let go of the cold blade between my fingers and my foot clashes to the ice. "I know, Dad!"

"Then why aren't you doing it?"

"I think the transition's too slow," I reply.

He sets his hands on his hips and ponders for a moment, glancing around the vacant arena. "You just need to get your legs stronger."

I just breathe. Though it's a factor, my timing's not really the issue. It's the throbbing headache I've had all morning since my spine seemingly has been replaced by a steel rod.

Dad shakes his head and tosses a water bottle my way. He waits for me to take a swig before he says, "Alright, from the top. I want to see the Death Drop into Back Sit Spin again."

My natural response is to groan, "Dad, seriously? Can we please do this after school tomorrow? I have to meet up with Pete in an hour."

Dad stretches his arms out, leaning forward onto the white fence separating the rink from the dugout. He lets the frosty air conditioner nip at his nose and then repeats the same phrase he's been saying since I was two.

"I didn't raise a quitter."

There are only two reasons my Dad ever says this. The first is because of the reply he expects from it, and the second, because it gets results. This is his psychological way of motivating by guilt, and it works, every damn time.

Dad waits with his thumb on the stopwatch as I flip around and proceed to the middle of the rink.

I've toed this spot so repetitively that my skates have started a sculpture in the ice.

"Well, can we start? I'm starving," and so incredibly sore, but I don't admit that aloud. I simply let my arms rise toward the lights like the wings of a swan, and for a sliver of time, the air is calm.

When I hear the click of the timer, my arms drop and I begin to glide. The beginning of the routine includes a lot of arm motion as I simulate ballet on ice. Each move is supposed to be fluid and light while I gain speed for the opening Double Axel.

I take off, and the red and white bleachers are a blur until my blades slice the rink again. My knee trembles from the pressure when I hit the ice, but I have to urge forward like the tremble never occurred.

Growing up, I'd never imagined being a skater. I wanted to act, to be in the spotlight on a stage in New York, but Dad had a different plan. It was a plan hatched when I was at the ripe age of six; during the very moment he caught me twirling on a frozen puddle at the bottom of the driveway.

"Focus, Shelland!" Dad calls out, and I pump faster around the arena. After two more seconds, I pick up my right leg to swing it around. As I bend my left for the Death Drop, my knee begins to quiver again, but I'm already swinging my leg in the air by the time I can rethink the execution. My left blade smacks into the ice as I switch the weight between legs, and my knee simply blows out like a gust of powder.

It's silent as Dad watches me fall on my side, waiting for some indication of pain or distress when I come to a stop.

"I'm fine," I say, brushing off the ice shavings from my sweater as I stand.

"Alright, we're done here," he growls, thrusting the stopwatch into his coat pocket. "You know that we have less than a month until Nationals, right? You got so lucky, Shell. Do you know how many alternates actually get to go to Nationals?"