Winners Don't Have Bad Days (Watty 2020 Winner, Romance)

32. #FaceTheMusic, April 2018

Daya wasn't used to seeing Pavel relaxed. But there he was, leaning in his chair at a risky angle, his powerful legs splayed. To think of it, she rarely saw him at repose at all, even when stretching. She missed Mike's cheerful brand of idleness, especially when Pavel's fingers drummed a war march on the back of her chair.

"Irina Andrevna," he said. "I was hoping to skate to the City Golden for a while now. It's old as mountains, but I like it by whatever reason. No?"

Belousova shook her head. "Not this year, Sorokin. You can't skate to lyrics yet, even the foreign one. We're looking for neutral music, to get you the minimal scores. It'll make it easier to benchmark you against the other performers. No flashy costumes, no fighting famous singers for attention. All eyes must be on you skating clean. I want to hear people commenting how you connected to the music as the season progresses."

Pavel shrugged one shoulder. The drumming ceased. He gave up far sooner than Daya expected, so she darted a worried glance at his profile. He looked blissful with his head rolling back a little, soft eyes on the choreographer, a Quebecois of Jamaican descent going by Shanice. She was supple and said little so far, but Daya spotted provocative sparkles in her eyes whenever she pushed the coils of hair out of the way.

"Cinderella? Disney's?" Daya returned the conversation back to where it was before Pavel's interjection. Her mind painted a picture of twirling around in baby-blue to the cuts from Dreams come true and Bippitty-boppitty-boo while the other skaters tried edgy stuff in the post-Olympic year. "Isn't that... ah... young?"

Seriously, they were entering as a new pair, not juniors. Even juniors often chose heavier music to show how sophisticated their performance was regardless of the commentators' gushing about their youth.

The two Russians stared at her in exasperation.

"Prokofiev's Cinderella, I promise you that," Pavel broke the silence. 

Belousova turned on the music clip.

Faster than Daya could say oops, Shanice started thinking with her voice and her hands. "There is joy and magic in the music cuts, yes. But, Daya, we don't have to do it all about joy and magic. No, we can interpret this piece of music as a Cinderella that has doubts not about herself, but what happiness is, and what role a prince may play in it."

She regretted not keeping her mouth shut when the women fixed their gazes on her. 

Pavel called "Hey!" with a lopsided grin, then shrugged. "Okay, okay. I lift, she has her doubts up above me. I toss, and she flies away... we do a dramatic step sequence... I get the picture. As long as I don't have to drop on ice in despair at the end. I have a hard time with portraying despair."

"Despair isn't what the story demands," Shanice said smoothly. "Nor what the music demands. I'll lay the groundwork, it'll be good." And she still looked only at Daya as she spoke.

"And the music for the free skate?" Pavel asked.

"Why not Swan Lake..." Daya muttered under her breath. Inaudibly, she thought, but Belousova pinned her down with a heavy stare.

"That music can only be earned by years of excellence. Ideally, it should be the last thing you skate. Your swan song," Belousova said.

Daya cleared her throat, as Pavel's fingers gave a mighty flick to the back of her chair. Sheesh, don't break a nail there, partner.

Belousova went on. "I want you to take on Romeo and Juliet."

This time Daya let the music piece play before saying anything. Also by Prokofiev, she thought, should this even be allowed?  "We better rent a corner in the ballet studio."

"We have a bigger problem." Pavel ruffled his blond hair. "Me, a Romeo?"

"Oh, don't be silly. There are different phenotypes in Italy, ever heard of Titian beauties? They have red-gold hair--" She swallowed an unexpected constriction in her throat. She wasn't just missing Mike, she was quoting him.

Pavel patted her on the shoulder. "I was just kidding. The theme is fine, it had been fine for... what? Two hundred years?"

Daya choked up again. She should get a grip, because if she started falling apart every time someone mentioned anything remotely connected to history, Italy, libraries or whatever else that reminded her of Mike, she'd go crazy. But everything reminded her of Mike. She missed him terribly. She needed him here. And she didn't have him... and whose fault is that?

Shanice knitted her brows and asked Belousova if she wouldn't change her mind with selecting two pieces of music that were so close in style and feel.

Belousova seemed adamant. "It'll be easier on them. Range will have to wait."

"I can't believe that you gave up so easily," Daya told Pavel once they were out of earshot, setting up for their warm up.

He rubbed his forehead. "To tell you the truth, I figured Big B was right. The old warhorse music is good for now. We can make it mean whatever. Legs, upper body... that's drilled into us, learned finger by finger, toe by toe. Soul is a different matter."

Daya didn't expect a deep remark. She didn't have one of her own, so she chuckled. "Cheer up, it could have been worse. It could have been the Phantom of the Opera."

Pavel shuddered. "I know. And the moment she said no lyrics, I knew we dodged the worst."

"The Hallelujah?" Daya guessed.

Pavel closed his hands in a mock prayer gesture and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "I've made this far without doing it. I pray nightly, and my piety paid off."

Daya gave him a nudge on the shoulder. "Come on... it's not that bad and the tourists like that stuff."

He shook his head with a tragic mine before turning off the act. "Well, we are all set, except for the costumes and their price tags..."

"As to that," Daya said, "I have a plan. But it involves you eating a large dinner."

He groaned, letting his upper body wilt over his narrow midsection.

She was merciless. "I didn't say it would be easy, just free."

Pavel squinted suspiciously. "How large a dinner?"

"At a guess? A week worth of your regular ones. Heaps of chicken, generous servings of cream and butter."

A long sigh escaped his lips. "Replace cream with sour cream, and it sounds like my nana's cooking. I can sacrifice my body in the name of reasonably priced fashion."

Oh, Pavel, you're a trusty fool. Daya beamed at him. Dollars to donuts, his nana did not hold a candle to Amrita Dhawan, or used a tithe of the spices.