Author's Note: Hello my lovely readers! I present you with a new story! I basically got the idea from becoming really interested in figure skating because of the Olympics, and had to write it down. I haven't thoroughly planned out the story, but there are plans! ALSO IMPORTANT: this story deals with a verbally abusive relationship between a father and son. It's not the main focus of the story, but it does shape Adam as a character.
Just as a warning, I am not an expert in figure skating, but I tried my best to read up on the sport through various Wikipedia articles, so I hope to be accurate as possible. Please excuse any inaccuracies!
Enjoy!
Pain.
All he knew was the pain.
It had taken only a fraction of a second, and the world had stopped. He couldn't remember what had happened – or what followed.
But he was flat against the ice – that much he knew. He blinked a few times, trying to catch his bearings. A hot liquid blurred his vision, and when he rubbed his eyes it took an amount of effort he couldn't comprehend.
Then his hand came away red, and he started to panic.
That was when he registered the screaming – was it Agathe? Where was she? They had been skating only a second ago. Terrified gasps echoed off the walls, so loud he could hardly hear the music.
The music was still playing – did they know what had happened? They must, there was so much screaming. But Dvorak's Symphony No. 9 continued to swell, and Adam tried to get up. He needed to finish the program – they needed to win the Grand Prix Final.
He needed to win.
A hand stopped him from sitting up, and a blurry face was speaking to him, but he still couldn't understand what was happening.
He tried to speak, only to have his voice catch in his throat. The music suddenly cut – and the announcer's booming voice echoed through the rink.
It all seemed like a garbled mess, and again he tried to sit, but the hand prevented him from doing so. A wave of dizziness swept through his body.
"Don't move," he managed to make out. The voice sounded an awful lot like his coach. Why would Lumière be on the ice? He was supposed to waiting for them behind the boards.
"The medics are coming."
Why did he need medics? Then he remembered his red hand. He was going to be sick, he knew it.
No, this isn't right.
I need to finish the program.
This isn't right.
This isn't –
His heart was beating out of his chest, his forehead drenched with sweat – or was it blood? The whole world blurred, and a sea of darkness welcomed him.
"On the ice – representing France – Agathe Desjardins and Adam Bilodeau!"
Adam threw up his arms triumphantly to the thunderous cheers filling the rink. Before taking his position on the ice opposite his partner, he flashed a golden smile at a few women holding up the French flag. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Agathe roll her eyes in the way she always did when he catered to the crowd. She would give him hell for it, after they were done.
Both skaters took their positions and the arena quieted. Adam took a deep breath as the music started, and concentrated on the program, and his partner.
They had come in first after their short program with a season's best score, far ahead of the other teams. All they needed to do was replicate the countless times they'd practiced their free skate at their home arena, and the gold was as good as theirs.
The first element – a twist lift – was executed perfectly as Adam caught his partner by her waist and set her back down on the ice. Applause erupted around them. He couldn't help but flash a smile at the crowd. Next was a series of side-by-side jumps. When their skates landed on the ice simultaneously, the crowd roared. The second time, the cheers grew louder, and when they landed the third, the screams were deafening.
The program's next elements passed by like a dream, the throw spin and a lift. Adam was drinking in the adoration of the crowd. They were so close, he was so close.
Adam and Agathe prepared for the press life, but as he was lifting his partner he could tell something was not right. It was nerves, he told himself.
It was only nerves.
Then it happened.
Agathe was above him, but he felt his arm buckle. He could have sworn he heard a snap, and a sharp, brutal pain shot up his arm.
Agathe was falling –
Falling –
More pain raced down his face, his shoulder.
And down,
Down,
Down, he fell.
He woke in a darkened room, and immediately felt sick. He mustn't have eaten in a while, because he was only retching up air and bile over the side of the bed.
The hospital bed, he realized.
A nurse rushed in, cleaning away the mess he made on the white tiled floor. He wanted to ask what had happened, what was going on, but his voice turned to a fit of coughs in throat.
When his coach rushed into the room sometime later, he found his voice again.
"What… what happened?" Adam rasped, followed by another fit of coughs.
Lumière pulled a chair up beside his bed, his expression pulled down in defeat. "You dropped Agathe on the final lift," he said solemnly. "You suffered some pretty grave injuries."
Adam couldn't comprehend what he was hearing. Injuries? And how had he dropped his partner in the first place? He had never done that, not even during practice.
"How bad is it?" He asked, though he didn't really want to know.
"You should focus on resting and recuperating, then we can talk about–"
"How. Bad?"
After a long sign, Lumière spoke again. "Fractured arm, fractured wrist, fractured ankle, and lacerations on your face and shoulder."
Adam leaned back against the hospital bed, wanting it to swallow him whole. "Will I be able to skate again?" Another question he was afraid of.
At this, his coach's expression lifted slightly. "With a proper recovery and physio, you should be able to get back on the ice."
The question was how long would that recovery be? Years ago, when he was training for the Junior Worlds, he had sprained his ankle while attempting a triple loop. It had taken him two months to properly recover. He couldn't imagine being off the ice longer than a month.
He looked over at his phone on the bedside table, most likely turned off from the calls and notifications. Catching his reflection slightly in the glass, he used his free arm to hold up the phone to his face. He gazed at his reflection in the glass and resisted the urge to throw the device across the room.
Stiches ran up and down the right side of his face, and more around his shoulders. The cuts looked deep, very deep. His didn't have speak up for his coach to give him an answer. Lumière already knew what Adam was going to say.
"The cuts were severe, and the doctors say the scars may last for years." After a slight pause, his coach added: "At least."
Adam laid on the bed in silence, contemplating everything, every decision he ever made. Eventually, Lumière urged him to get some rest and left him alone. He had trouble finding sleep – every time he closed his eyes, flashes of the long program played before his eyes. Every triumphant jump, lift, and throw, until it had all come tumbling down.
It would have been their sixth consecutive Grand Prix Final gold medal, and now it was gone.
After hours of lying, motionless on the bed, Adam braved the onslaught of notifications and turned on his phone.
Twenty missed calls.
Over fifty unread messages.
Countless Twitter and Instagram notifications.
And article after article.
PAIRS FIGURE SKATERS ADAM BILODEAU AND AGATHE DESJARDINS'S PROGRAM ENDS IN TRAGEDY.
CAREER OVER FOR PAIRS SKATER ADAM BILODEAU?
FRANCE'S ADAM BILODEAU AND AGATHE DESJARDINS END GRAND PRIX FINAL WITH DISASTROUS FALL.
It all made Adam feel sick again, though this time he managed to keep it down. Ignoring the articles, he scrolled through the list of missed calls. Some were from skating acquaintances, at least a quarter were from Mrs. Potts, but none where from his father.
Adam put the phone back down on the bedside table. He didn't know why he was surprised, he shouldn't be. His father never even called him when he had a good skate.
Asshole.
Letting out a deep sigh, he told himself to forget about this father. Adam tried to relax as best he could on the bed, finding it nearly impossible. The stiffness of his ankle and arm and the constant pull of the stitches in his face were a constant, burning reminder of what had happened. A dangerous question formed in his mind.
Would he ever skate again?
No, it was ridiculous. Of course, he would. It was only a fractured ankle and arm. They would heal with time and physio. But he gazed over at the phone again, catching his reflection in black screen. Lumière had said the scars would last for years – who would want to skate with someone as disfigured as him? And if a potential partner wasn't scared off by his looks, they would be too afraid he'd drop her like he did Agathe.
Where was Agathe? What injuries did she sustain, if any? She would be furious with him. She was gunning for a gold medal in the final, just as much as he was.
He had taken that away from her.
Somehow, through the flurry of thoughts polluting his brain, he eventually fell asleep.
"You call that a quad toe? That was disgraceful!" A voice screamed at him, from somewhere.
Somewhere, in the stands, his father was yelling at him.
Adam felt hot tears roll down his cheeks, and with fury, he wiped him and stood from the ice. He skated with force to try the jump again, but he over rotated and had to put a hand on the ice to balance himself.
"Disgraceful, try again!" The voice shouted.
Adam tried the jump again. This time he rolled directly onto the ice.
"No son of mine will compete without a quad jump in his program! Again! Show me that I haven't wasted my money on you!"
"Shut up," Adam muttered, picking himself up from the ice.
"Again!"
"Shut up," Adam repeated, this time raising his voice.
"Excuse me?"
"I said… shut up!" Suddenly, his skate was in this hand. He caught his reflected in the pristine blade, and his ten-year-old self was staring back at him. In his fury, he threw the skate in the direction of the voice.
Adam didn't hear the impact of the skate but felt something wet on his face. Carefully, his touched his cheek, and his hand came away red. He looked down at the ice, which was now dotted in small red splatters. Heart pounding, he gazed back up at the stand, but his father was no longer there. Red started to cloud his vision, and soon he couldn't see anything at all.
Adam woke in a jolt, his breathing quickened, and eyes widened in fear. He was still in the sparse hospital room. He didn't know how long he had been asleep, but the sun was peeking through the blinds, the sky bathed in orange and pink. In the corner of the room, and small mounted TV was playing the news.
The last thing he wanted to do was watch the news. Adam reached over to the bedside table and picked up his phone. He texted Lumière to go to his flat and bring him his well-read copy of the complete works of Shakespeare. It always made him feel better.
Just as he set the phone down again, it buzzed. At first Adam thought it was the reply of his coach, but the phone kept buzzing. He picked it up and the screen flashed before him.
His father was calling him.