The short program gets 101.90. The free program gets 212.53. In combination, they might get gold . . .
At night, in a dorm at the 2022 Olympic Games, British figure skater Ciel Phantomhive dreams of winning, of springing onto the podium with that gilded circle heavy against his sternum as "God Save the Queen" echoes through the stadium, as his entire body thrums with the applause and cheering of countless spectators.
Is this what winning gold tastes like?
By morning practice, of course, the thrill of victory has drained away. As Ciel weaves his way around the rink, rehearsing a particularly finicky step sequence, his mind flits away from the ice, over and over again. He daydreams about going to the cafeteria and eating cake, or getting a massage from a physical therapist, or talking to someone who isn't a figure skater, for a change . . .
"Hey!" Grell, his coach, waves both arms in the air. He glides over to her, hands on hips, twisting to stretch out his sore spine.
"Ciel, Ciel, darling," she tuts. "You're on autopilot again."
"Wasn't the footwork right this time?"
"The footwork was right. The footwork was so damn precise it makes me want to shake you."
"So . . ." Ciel raises his eyebrows, "the problem is that I was correct?"
"No. Yes! You need to loosen up. Lose the robotic quality. Ack, how do I deprogram you . . ." She shakes her head, digging two hands into long red hair. "You're a hypercompetitive nut, right?"
Ciel sputters at that. "Sometimes I'm a little intense, but . . ."
"Well, I challenge you to out-skate your competition," she claps her hands together and then scans the rink, where his competitors zoom around. "Be more artistic than, oh, I don't know— Sebastian Michaelis! Battle him, destroy him on the ice!"
He pauses, glancing over at Sebastian. His old rival whirls at the opposite edge of the rink, deep in a layback spin that most male skaters would never even try, easily the most flexible and graceful athlete on the ice. After a moment, Ciel rolls his eyes. "Sebastian's a friend now, and I only wish him the best."
"Ciel," Grell groans, "you're killing me here. Come on, skate with panache and elan and vim! I want you to be extraordinary!"
"I wouldn't mind that either," Ciel remarks dryly, knowing full well that he ought to pull off a stellar performance at these Games. His routines play to his strengths, while his music is dramatic enough to mask his own lack of charisma. His body has never been stronger, has never before been capable of plowing through so many jumps without tiring . . .
Ronald Knox, the champion of the 2018 games, also had a brilliant routine and sheer physical power at the start of this season, and yet he's now in traction after breaking one of his legs and both his hips on a quad jump just a few weeks back. He's also now in retirement.
"Okay," Grell interrupts Ciel's reflections, "practice the quad flip, with a dollop of actual grace this time."
Batting away thoughts of broken careers, Ciel pushes back to the center of the rink and practices his peskiest element.