After failing to think of anything else to pass the time, Esther laid out on her bed and thumbed aimlessly through her phone. Her mind was racing, wouldn't stay still no matter what she did. Just after her room service arrived, her phone started buzzing—a brief glance at the caller ID had her heart doing a quick flip-flop in her chest.
"Hey, Beka." She sat on the mattress, legs tucked under her, dinner forgotten, not that she was feeling that hungry anyway.
"Hey. I hope you're not busy."
"No, I'm just in my room."
"I wanted to wish you luck. For tomorrow."
Her pulse spiked again. She took a deep breath, fought it down and tried not to think about it. "Thanks." There was a brief pause. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"How do you…be friends with your competitors?"
A brief silence. "I try to see them like they're just other people. We're all skaters, and sometimes that means we compete against each other, but it also means that, in some ways, we understand each other better." He paused, briefly. "I'm curious…about why you would ask me." He sounded…embarrassed, almost. "I'm friendly with my competitors. I wouldn't say that I'm friends with any of them."
Esther bit her tongue on the contradictions that instinctively arose; he was speaking introvert, and "friend" was something reserved for the people closest to your heart. By no means did it diminish the other relationships in life—the role of friend was simply more specific, narrower than it was for some others. The connotation didn't translate very well, though, and thus, she was used to accommodating terminology, saying my friend when she meant my acquaintance, who I enjoy the company of. She forgot, sometimes, that she didn't have to translate for Otabek.
"You'd probably have more luck asking Leo."
"Yeah." She picked at a stray thread on her comforter and tried to avoid the urge to start chewing on her cuticles. Emanuel would kill her if she showed up to breakfast with ragged fingers. "I wanted to ask you, though."
Pauses in their conversations weren't atypical. Usually, they felt familiar, comfortable and lived-in, but they were doing nothing for her at the moment.
"Thanks for calling me. I should probably hang up now. Get an early night."
"Okay. Sleep well. I'll be watching tomorrow."
You and the rest of the world. Esther swallowed her heart back down, and said goodbye.
She stomached as much of her dinner as she could stand and proceeded to lie awake for hours, her mind full of so much that it felt utterly empty. She turned over, kicked the covers off, pulled them back on, then pushed the comforter onto the floor. She looked over at the clock, beheld the red, accusatory 4:18 with a kind of curious, mounting dread that she refused to contemplate too deeply.
She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she woke up again at eleven in the morning, drifted off again, and came up at half past two, wherein she finally dragged herself out of bed, feeling slightly dead on her feet.
It was a problem for her future self—right now, she was going to watch the men perform.
Her event card got her into the Megasport without trouble, and near the rink. She stopped short as she spotted Aileen and Ntombi, already there.
It seemed that the entire ladies' singles bracket had a vested interest in the men. Of course. The singles skaters are always friends, nothing weird about that…
"Oi, Markowitz!" Aileen waved her over. Esther climbed up and took a seat beside them. "Feeling any better?"
"Yeah." After so much exercise throughout her life, the lie came easy. "Who's up first?"
"The Korean buck. Seung-gil Lee." Aileen reclined in her seat, watching Group One down below. "He was at NHK with you, wasn't he, Bee?"
"What?" Ntombi shook her head. "Oh. Right. Yeah. He's really good."
Not as good as my Beka. Esther eyed him, curious. His costume's purple trousers looked almost comical protruding from his black jacket.
"Don't tell me you're buying into all of that nonsense. Everyone and their mother these days, it's all 'oh, Seung-gil Lee!'"
Esther thought, briefly, of Chuenchai. Were she in a better mood, she might have laughed.
"What? No! I don't like Seung-gil."
"Good. You need another man like you need a hole in your fuckin' head."
Just like that, the warm-up was ending, Seung-gil was skating to the side and handing his jacket over to his coach before turning aloofly away and taking his place at the center of the ice. He was the picture of control, even as the music started.
It was different, here at the Rostelecom Cup—everyone's secrets were already out. Their routines had all been performed before. Seung-gil's quadruple loop was certainly impressive, even more so in person, but the only surprises left were the ones that had no tether to their plans: he fell on his triple axel, which had Esther hissing in a breath. Oh, God, I hope I don't do that. Her knee bounced compulsively beneath her balled-up fist.
In the end, he still set a new personal best and took an early lead, one that Emil, right after him, failed to breach.
Michele was up next. His sister was at the rink side with him, and he kissed her hand before skating out.
Ntombi giggled. "He really is oblivious." Esther, absent three years from the ladies' circuit, thought of asking what she meant, but her mind was foggy enough to be overtaken by Aileen.
Aideen just made a thoughtful noise, and Ntombi gave her a look. "What?"
Ntombi pushed at Aileen's arm. Esther swallowed down a sudden wave of nausea. God, what the fuck is happening to me? She didn't remember anything of Michele's performance, and after it was over, Ntombi reached around and touched her shoulder.
"Esther, are you okay?"
"Yeah. I'm fine." She looked up to see Yuuri Katsuki down at the sidelines, leaning on the wall as his coach tied up his skate. I'm going to be.
Viktor Nikiforov was back on his home turf, and it showed—even as Yuuri took the ice, it was Viktor they were cheering for. He waved to his adoring public with a smile wider and more relaxed than anything Esther remembered from past performances.
Yuuri grabbed at his tie and pulled him back around. "Oh, my," Aileen said, under her breath. He spoke something in Viktor's ear, and he didn't wait for a reply, just skated out to the middle of the ice. Esther took a deep breath, wondered if she'd be able to suck in some of his confidence. Silence, except for the thunder of her heart, as they waited for the music to begin.
What was immediately clear was that he was in top form. He'd progressed beyond even the Cup of China—his jumps were flawless, his footwork was crisp, and his performance was scorching. Esther was breathless by the end, had forgotten everything else.
He set a new personal best, again. Viktor leaned over to envelop him in a tight hug. Esther thought of the kiss in Beijing, and found her heart was aching, even as Aileen was laughing at Viktor for kneeling and kissing his skate. Is that what you can do when you don't feel alone?
She tried not to think about it; when she did, she felt stupid and selfish, because she wasn't alone, she knew that, she had friends and her coach and plenty of other people in her life. To sit and long for another kind of love felt…ungrateful, in a way, but at the same time, it was an ache so deep, so fierce, that it sometimes got too big to ignore.
Almost like coming back after three years and wanting gold right off the bat.
Her throat seized up; she couldn't breathe. "I have to go." She stood, quickly; Aileen and Ntombi gave her concerned, puzzled looks.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, Plisetsky's about to go on."
"I'll see you guys later." Esther shuffled out of the seats, went down the steps, and walked quickly into the lobby, where she stood breathing until the flash of panic had passed her by. She got a cab back to the Star, half-stumbled up to her room, collapsed onto the bed, bizarrely close to tears. What is wrong with you? You wanted to see him, and you had to go to your room and cry. Will you make up your mind? You're the one who told everyone you were going to win, you can't feel sorry for yourself now. You did this to yourself, you weak idiot, you stupid piece of shit…
She didn't know when she fell asleep, just that she woke up to Emanuel's knock. "Esther?"
"Coming, hold on." She jumped up and sprinted to the door, best she could in the confined space.
His face changed when he saw her; his head tilted. "Have you been sleeping?"
"Yeah," she waved him in. "Why?"
"You have red marks all over the side of your face." Once the door was closed, he examined them, tutting. "All right, into the chair. I assumed you were out with the others."
"I was. I came back early."
She waited for his commentary, but he said nothing, just began gathering her hair for the braid along the back of her skull. He worked in silence, and Esther sat still, somewhat grateful that there was nothing to distract her from breathing in seven, holding seven, breathing out ten—but it contributed, too, put her in a space to wonder what was in his head as well as her own.
"I don't know why they put you on so late," he complained, as they entered the Megasport. Esther was the last in group one—Sofia was on first.
Her performance, solid as it had been at the Trophée de France, had evolved overnight—Esther didn't know much about her, just that she was notoriously reserved. Tonight, it seemed like her whole heart was on display. Every movement of her body was steeped in emotion, full of longing, completely at odds with who she was off the ice. The music was slow, yearning; she seemed so tight, wrapped up in a tension that seemed like it would never resolve—and it didn't, ended bittersweet and gave her a new personal best.
The short program score for Sofia Borisova is 69.25. She is currently in first place.
Esther swallowed. Emanuel rested his hand on her shoulder. It failed to be the comforting weight it usually was.
Aileen went up next—she really looked exquisite in green and black. Her music was soaring, energetic, very nearly majestic, and almost too much for her routine. There were moments that left her waiting for jumps, but Aileen was nearly a dancer on the ice.
The short program score for Aileen Ahearne is 63.89. She is currently in second place.
Aileen's brow creased grimly as she received her score. Her coach leaned over and said a few things to her; both got up and left. Aileen wanted badly to qualify for the Final; she'd never needed to say as much.
And then it was her turn.
Oh God. Her throat squeezed up so suddenly that her heart skipped beats. The rink faded in and out, Emanuel was speaking in front of her and she couldn't hear him.
Her eyes darted to the exit. I can't do this, I can't, I can't—
It was a half-faded memory, get out on that ice, or so help me, I will, that sent her away from the wall, into the middle. Okay, deep breaths, Esther, oh shit, that's my cue.
It was off. Fuck, it's off, fuck, fuck, fuck—every moment felt like she was about to fall out. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this way on the ice; before Skate America, certainly before Emanuel. Oh God, oh God, oh God—
She stumbled coming out of her spin, skidded until she could get ungracefully to her feet and hurry into the step sequence. Don't cry, don't you dare cry. Her legs were weak as she approached the end; her signature triple axel was barely a single.
Somehow, she finished. How the fuck do you fuck up on a spin? Who falls on a spin?
It was her worst performance yet. No one had to tell her that—she could feel it in her bones, could see it in Emanuel's eyes as she exited to the kiss and cry.
They were silent on the bench. "What happened?" he asked her, softly, sounding bewildered and sad all at once. It broke her heart afresh, and she could only shake her head and bite her lip.
The short program score for Esther Markowitz is 61.57. She is currently in third place.
It wouldn't last, not with Mila Babicheva and the gold medalists yet to go.
She dodged the cameras on her way out, didn't stop until she reached the bathroom, until she'd locked the stall door behind her and collapsed onto the rim of the seat, buried her face in her hands to muffle the noise. Within moments, her palms were slick with tears, her eyes stung with salt.
Esther was, at the very least, efficient with these things. In a few moments, it was over: she wiped her face with toilet paper, and proceeded to the sink to scrub away the makeup that had run—not too much, thankfully, Emanuel's stuff was resistant. Once she was relatively composed, she returned. By that time, Mila had only just finished her performance, to raucous applause from her home country.
Esther had seen her performance at NHK: the music was a delicate, masterful blend of oboe, strings, and voice, and the routine matched, lending power a grace and elegance many could only dream of. It was a well-known fact that Mila Babicheva landed her jumps with both arms raised—her GOE was obscene.
The short program score for Mila Babicheva is 73.93. She is currently in first place.
She found Emanuel as Ntombi prepared to go on and sat beside him. He didn't look at her, and she was disappointed and grateful all at once.
Ntombi's music was perfectly suited to her personality. Her performance at NHK had been nothing short of electrifying.
What became clear almost right away was that this performance was not the one from NHK. Ntombi two-footed the landing on her first triple Lutz, wobbled, and went crashing to the ice. Esther winced in sympathy. Her combination in the second half, a triple Loop-double salchow, turned into a mere single. When she sat in the kiss and cry, Josef Karpisek wrapped his arm around her shoulder.
The short program score for Ntombi Kotze is 57.91. She is currently in fifth place.
Ntombi put her face in her hands. Josef stood and left, taking her with him.
Sara Crispino was the last to go on. Her routine had been one of the most unexpected, an alternative number that seemed to contrast directly with her established, lyrical style. She'd embraced it beautifully, though, and provoked many discussions about her evolving capabilities.
The crowd thundered as she landed her signature combo, smiling brightly through her flawless red lipstick. Something clicked into place as she watched her stick the landing, some ember of determination that ignited within her.
I have to be better than this. I am better than this.
The short program score for Sara Crispino is 71.93. She is currently in second place. Her brother was in the kiss and cry with her, and he hugged her tightly when the announcement came.
She and Emanuel returned to the hotel. Through the ride, he said nothing, and she was too wrapped in her own head to try and coax him out—when they reached their floor, she didn't go into her room, followed him, instead, to his.
"I'm going to do better tomorrow."
No reply, save for a weary sigh that left his shoulders drooping, like he'd been consciously carrying them high all night. He shrugged off his jacket and began undoing his tie, his back to her all the while.
"Coach?" her voice sounded thin, and she wrestled it under control before she spoke again. "What's on your mind?"
"I know by now that nothing I ever say to you could be harsher than what you tell yourself."
Esther's brows furrowed. It was an answer, but not to the question she'd asked. "Be honest with me, here. You're my coach. I'm asking for you to coach me. Tell me what you're thinking." If only to make sure I'm not crazy.
Emanuel sighed, seemed to gather himself before turning to face her. At once, she bore the full weight of his tired, disappointed gaze. "Your performance was exactly as it was at Skate America, weeks ago. If anything, it was worse. You and I both know it's progressed miles since then." He pulled his tie from his collar and wrapped it loosely around his hand. He looked steadily, then, at the floor, continuing with a mixture of reluctance and bitter honesty. "I don't know why you can't nail this routine in competition."
It hit her like a shot in the gut. She breathed through it, nodded. "I'll do better tomorrow."
Emanuel looked up, but it was her return to examine the carpet. "Esther, you know I—"
"I should go."
"…right. It's late, after all." Emanuel turned away, looked, ostensibly, out the window.
Esther left him. When she returned to her room, there were several message notifications on her phone. There was only one that she really cared about.
B: Saw your short program. You okay?
She must have composed at least half a dozen replies, before she finally settled on one. She hit send, showered, and climbed into bed without bothering to check for a reply.
E: Tomorrow is what matters.
Pairs bridged the gap between the men's and ladies' free skate, but Esther wasn't there. She appeared on time for Emanuel's ritual dolling-up, trailed three steps behind him and one to the left as they entered the arena.
She'd paused once to view Yuuri Katsuki's free skate via the livestream—Viktor was nowhere to be found, and Yuuri on Ice was lackluster, messy, barely able to scrape into the Final, which he did merely by virtue of his silver from the Cup of China. But he'd made it, nonetheless.
Let's both make it. Her fists tightening until they burned. She stored it inside of her, set her phone aside and went back to it.
Aileen found her by the rink side as Ntombi prepared to open. "Ntombi's been feeling low since yesterday. I gave her a bit of talk. We'll see if she took it to heart."
"Hm," said Esther.
Ntombi's routine was a shadow of what it had been at the Trophée de France. She came off the ice looking disappointed, but resigned. When she received her score, she stood and blew a kiss to the stands and headed out, flanked closely by her coach.
And then it was her turn. "Knock 'em out," Aileen told her, and Emanuel patted her once on the back as she put her blade to the ice.
The crowd faded to a distant sound as she headed to the middle, and there she waited, eyes shut. The music began, the lights were blinding as she looked up at them.
Everyone here is more experienced than me. She fell into the steps, more than second nature by now. They've all got their thing, and me? I'm just the upstart who thinks she can kick her way right into the middle. First combo, the doubles—
She could feel the change in energy as she touched down, lowering her arms from where they'd stretched above her head, landing with her hands spread wide in display. How about that?
Her first solo jump approached. I may not know who I am yet, but I know what I can do. The triple loop was perfect, and her arms had been raised for that too, but she wondered if she'd imagined the gasp of surprise. It had been a triple axel at Skate America.
I belong here, I'll prove that if it's the last damn thing I do. Her skates bit into the ice when she went in for her flying sit spin, she was nearly out of her mind with it, burning up in a blaze, she had to die first to be reborn, a phoenix out of the ashes. Triple Lutz, arms up; triple flip, arms up, landing with a flourish.
All of the day had been spent in one of the dime-a-dozen ice rinks that dotted Moscow, sweat pouring off her skin as she drilled, mercilessly, stopping only so that she'd have the energy to get through the night. Even so, adrenaline had chased the pain away, and now she was only burning, blazing,
Watch this. She approached her combination, and at the last moment, swiveled around, faced it head-on.
Esther threw her arms up and kicked off.
She'd only managed the triple axel with her arms up about three out of four times, and that was by itself, not even chasing it with the Lutz, but by some miracle of the moment, she landed it—a little shakily, her ankle wobbled, and there was a single, heart-rending second where she was sure it would twist under her, but she landed it—to deafening applause.
Anything you can be, I can be greater, she grinned, thinking of Nava's program, and swung into her butterfly spin. My name is Esther Markowitz. I walked away once, but I came back, because I'm the best figure skater in the world. I'm the only one who can show them that.
Her final axel felt like flying cut short, like a shackle that went taut and returned her to the ice before she was ready—but the crowd was roaring, and her routine was over, so she raised her arms to them and bowed.
She turned and skated to the kiss and cry, and nearly stopped dead at the look in Emanuel's eye. A chill ran through her, and it had nothing to do with the ice. In the end, her hesitation only lasted a moment.
"We'll talk about this," he said, when she took her seat next to him, and nothing more.
The free program score for Esther Markowitz is 123.67. Her overall score is 185.24. She is currently in first place.
It was a new personal best. Somewhere, Esther found the wherewithal to smile and wave—the exhaustion was setting in, and they had four performances to go, and a medal ceremony.
Emanuel stood up, and she hurried to follow him. He looked meaningfully at the door, and started for the lobby. He waved off the journalists that approached them. "Excuse us, please. Not right now."
He led her to a relatively secluded corridor, glancing around for eavesdroppers before facing her with folded arms, hissing through his teeth, "What was that?"
At first, Esther couldn't speak, too shaken by his sudden show of anger. "That?" She couldn't tell what she was feeling—indignation, hurt, anger? God, I don't know, it's like—fog, oh fuck, oh fuck—
"Because, from where I stood, it looked like you switching up your choreography at the last minute, without speaking about it with me, your coach—it looked like you taking absurdly foolish risks, is what it looked like!"
"Everyone here has a thing!" she retorted. "They are all better than me, they all know what they're doing, if I don't take a few risks, I'm never going to be able to beat them."
"You could've sprained your ankle coming out of that combo, or worse. Don't think no one noticed; you can sweep it under the rug now because you're young and you think you're fucking immortal, but I will not let you endanger your career with stupid moves like that."
Esther Deborah, I will not let you—
Her breath was coming far too quickly, but she couldn't stop it; it felt like fire, and there was nothing to do but be consumed.
"Right, we can't have that. I break my leg and that's not just me, that's you too." Her fists clenched until her palms were stinging; she didn't know if her nails were cutting in, but it felt like they were. "Because you need me as your fucking proxy up onto the podium."
"For Christ's sake, Esther!" he spat, "Are you really not able to see what this is about?" She fell silent, shaken, but Emanuel just shook his head, muttered under his breath and left her alone in the corridor.
Even Sara Crispino fell short of her score. She congratulated her as they took their photos. Esther acknowledged her with a brief, pasted-on smile and a nearly-inaudible grazie. Mila had won gold, and she was positively radiant in front of the cameras—radiant enough, Esther hoped, that her own less effusive appearance would be glossed over.
It was a hollow victory. I'm going to the Final, she reminded herself, but it wasn't enough, it was never enough, it was just the same as it had been at Skate America, and she wasn't content to be second best.
She wasn't really content to be anything, not while Emanuel wouldn't even look at her. When they returned to the hotel, he shut himself in his room, and Esther let him. Her phone buzzed: there were messages of congratulations from her friends. Jay had even sent her a snapchat of the ladies' singles qualifiers for Barcelona, with her own name circled and underscored by exclamation marks.
She didn't have it in her to answer any of them, nor to feel much of anything, really. The fog was closing around her, reaching for her with misty tendrils, but her fear was drowned in cough-syrupy sweet exhaustion. God, she was so tired, but her eyes just wouldn't stay closed.
Her phone buzzed again. Then, again. She sat up and looked at the screen, felt her heart in her throat at the contact name. He can't see me like this, she thought, and let it run out.
Seconds later, he was calling again. Please no. She trembled as the phone buzzed, accusing, this is what you did last time.
Before she could change her mind, Esther jabbed accept.
Otabek's face came onto the screen, grainy and poorly-lit, but smiling. "Hey."
"Beka, I did something terrible," she said, without preamble—and her voice shook, the tears were starting to spill over, but it was a glorious relief, as the fog receded for the rawness of feeling.
He was mostly quiet as she cried, breaking the silence with an occasional, "It's okay, let it out." When she'd finished, blown her nose and wiped her eyes, he asked her, "Are you all right?"
"I'm okay," she assured him. "Well, I'm not, but I'm not hurt or anything. Nothing like that."
"Is this about getting silver? Because your routine was amazing, you know that was just something I was saying, about the gold—"
Esther took a deep, quivering breath, shaking her head. "No. No, Beka, it's not…" another deep breath. "It's…a lot of things." Suddenly, she swallowed, "I'm sorry, I don't want to unload all of my shit—"
"Esther," he cut in, firmly; in that tone that always stopped her dead in her tracks. It really wasn't fair. "You're my friend. I want to do what I can to help you, even if it's just listening."
For a moment, she hovered dangerously close, again, to tears.
"It's just…" her voice wobbled, watery. "I'm frustrated. I know I'm better than this, but it's like…I'm self-sabotaging, so I just…I tried to find a way to be better, you know, but now Coach is pissed off at me, and I freaked out and I said something really terrible—"
"Coaches and skaters fight all the time," he took over for her, when she had to get herself under control again. "You're going to be fine."
"I know that. But Emanuel isn't…" she rubbed her hand against the fresh batch of tears that fell when she blinked. "He's not just…a coach to me."
She opened her blurry eyes—Otabek was regarding her with caution, but he didn't look judgmental. "Does he know that?"
Miserably, she shook her head. "I don't know. I feel like such an idiot. He said he believed in me, and we started living together, and he gives me life advice, and…somewhere along the way I was stupid enough to start fantasizing about what my life would've been like. If he would've been my father instead."
Otabek blinked and looked off to the side. He seemed…oddly relieved. "I think you should talk to him."
"Really?"
"I think so. I don't know what's been going on between you two, but there's usually nothing better for it than honesty." He shrugged. "It worked for us."
Esther felt a weak smile coming through. The fog wasn't gone, but it was at bay. "I guess it did." She raised her sleeve to swipe over her eyes again. "I don't know why I was afraid to let you see me like this. I guess I thought…if you knew how much of a mess I was, you wouldn't want to hang around."
His eyes were so soft when they looked at her, she thought he was about to say something like you know I would never…
"I wish I was there," he said.
"You…here?"
"Yes. So I could be with you."
She smiled, soft and fond, at the crease in his forehead, the brooding tilt of his brows. He never had been good with words—he'd always been more of a shoulder; to lean on, to cry on. Unbidden, the warmth of his hands came back to her from Chicago, and she had to swallow through a suddenly very dry throat.
"You'll see me," she reminded him, "In Barcelona."
His eyes were soft again. "I can't wait."
She smiled at him, curling in around the warmth that ignited like a glowing ember under her heart. "Me too."
"You need to talk to your coach."
"I know."
"Promise me you will?"
"Yeah. Okay. I promise."
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Esther reclined on the pillows and sighed. "I don't know, Beka. I think…first I'd have to know what okay means, but…as it stands, I don't think I'm ever just okay. Sometimes I'm better, other days…everything is going right for me, and I feel like I should be happy about it, but it just kind of feels like a whole lot of nothing." She looked up, observed where the wallpaper was coming loose at an edge. "Right now I'm feeling…alone."
There was a brief silence from the other end. "I could get on a flight to Moscow, you know."
"No," she shot him a stern look, knowing full well that he'd do it, too. "It's not just…that. I can deal with being alone. It's weird. When I get like this. Like my head fills up with nothing, and there's no room for anything, not even my thoughts, even though there's nothing there. Like being stuck in a soundproofed room. So quiet, I can't hear myself think." Her throat tightened, threatening more tears. "I know there are people who care about me, but I can't trust that, even when they tell me themselves. I'm alone, and it feels like I'll never be not alone. Anymore." She covered her face in her hands. "God, it's so—I'm so—"
She took a long moment to breathe, remembered, faintly, what Dr. Patel had told her for this. It was a long moment before she resurfaced: she'd forgotten Otabek, still on her screen, watching her with a sadness so deep, she couldn't bear to look at him for more than a moment.
"Esther." The gentle invocation of her name brought her back from where she'd turned away in shame, and when she faced him, his expression was schooled into something more familiar. "I want to help you. Is there something I can do?"
She took a deep breath, and went still with the force of her own realization. It took another iteration of her name to bring her back.
"There's…not really anything you can do," she said, dully. "I…I'm never going to get better. There's no recovering from this. All I can really do is…keep trying different coping mechanisms, find the ones that work the best, but no matter how good they are, I'm still going to have to deal with this. For the rest of my life. My brain just…doesn't work the way it's supposed to. I have to live with it."
Otabek was completely silent—not one of their content, thank you for being here with me and understanding me silences, nor an I'm listening and I know you know I'm listening and I understand what you're saying silence, or—
That's it. I've finally scared him off. Now I really will be alone. In a flash, grim acceptance threatened to change into gripping panic. No, no, no, breathe—
"Okay," he said, finally, startling her into heart-pounding stillness; like if she moved an inch, she would miss what he was about to say. "We can talk about it in Barcelona. You tell me what I need to learn about. When you're feeling up to it."
Esther blinked. Visions of clinic pamphlets danced behind her eyelids; Your Depression and You. She winced. "I don't—"
"I'm not giving up on you." He said it with the same quiet assuredness that he did everything, but somehow, this time, it reached deep inside of her and brought the tears up like he'd tapped into a vein. This time, she let them come, leave hot trails on her cheeks and drip onto her arms. Then, she let out a small, incredulous laugh, sniffled unattractively.
"Are you feeling better?"
"I…yeah." She nodded. "I am."
"Good. I mean it, about sending me things."
She nodded again. "Okay. You've convinced me." They fell silent, smiling at each other across thousands of miles. She wanted to say something, could feel it fighting its way from her heart and into her throat.
Otabek stifled a yawn. Esther looked quickly to the clock, face warming, moment forgotten. "Oh, shit. Beka, it's late. You need to go to sleep."
He finished yawning, ran an absent hand through his hair. Esther hesitated, drawn to the motion, and swallowed. "You should too." Guiltily, she looked away, fearing, absurdly, that he'd noticed. "You have your exhibition tomorrow."
"Yeah," she agreed. "I'll call you tomorrow, before I get on the plane."
He gave her one of his small smiles. "Okay."
Esther swallowed, again, stretched out on the bed and stared at him in the grainy picture on her screen, tried to memorize his face down to the last detail. "Night, Beka."
"Goodnight, Esther." The picture wobbled, froze, and then went black. Esther shut her phone off and set it on the bedspread next to her, and didn't move for a long time.
The following day, Emanuel was silent beyond the occasional, perfunctory answer or statement. He turned on the charm for the cameras, but Esther knew him well enough by now to know when he was faking it. His English was most certainly passable, but foreign enough to him to cover up any ingenuine sentiment that might have come through.
Esther conducted her interviews in Russian, borne of long habit and courtesy to the local anchors—it had the added benefit of being indistinguishable to her coach, so that, when she was asked by one of the reporters, how would you describe your relationship with your coach? she could look over at him and answer, "He's more than a coach to me. He's been my first and most important supporter, on and off the ice."
If only it were that easy to tell him that. The thought occurred to her, briefly, of allowing the translated interview to make its way to him through the internet, but it was never something she considered seriously. I might be emotionally vacant and severely mentally ill, but Esther Markowitz is no coward.
Still, the exhibition came and went without her ever finding a chance to bring it up. She passed the hours before the banquet pacing in her room, trying to think of something to say. The hour came; she admitted defeat and put on her dress. Emanuel didn't come to her door—they left separately and arrived alone. She spotted him across the ballroom as she came in, considered going to him, but he was currently deep in discussion with Yakov Feltsman, and her nerve failed her.
Instead, she found Aileen and Ntombi, standing around near the refreshment table. Oh, thank God, a country that's going to let me drink. She tossed back a flute of the champagne, pausing to wince at the taste—shit, now I really sound like Emanuel—and immediately picked up another.
"What're you drinking like that for?" Aileen cocked her eyebrow.
"Aileen," Ntombi shot her a reproachful look.
"Sorry." Aileen sighed, and offered her hand. Her dress was green; it shone like an emerald and brilliantly set off her copper hair. "Congratulations on making it to the Final."
"Thank you." Esther shook it, awkwardly. Aileen had missed qualifying by only a few points.
"You're going to do great," Ntombi added.
Esther took another large swig of her champagne. "Please…don't say things like that now," she said, and immediately regretted it as Ntombi's face fell. "I'm sorry. It's been a rough couple of days."
With a small sigh, Ntombi folded her hands in front of her. "I know what you mean." For a long time, they stood in silence, until Aileen inhaled deeply, letting it all out on a gusty sigh.
"Sorry, girls, I'm gonna call it a night."
"But you just got here," Ntombi pointed out.
"Yep." Following in Esther's vein, Aileen picked up a champagne flute and drained it in seconds, setting it back on the table and folding her hands under her arms. "I'm not really feeling it. I'm sorry, Bee." She looked at Esther, said, "Good luck in Barcelona," and headed straight to the exit.
Esther glanced sidelong at Ntombi, afraid she might deflate, but she just sighed and shook her head. "She always wants to fix everyone else, but she'll die before she admits there's anything wrong."
"She disappointed?"
Ntombi chuckled bitterly. "You think?"
Esther looked at her, slowly rotating the stem of her glass between her fingers. "You are too."
"Yeah," she admitted. "In myself, for falling apart the minute they weren't here. Aileen was right. I'm too dependent. This was supposed to be my year. I built an entire program around that, and now I look like an idiot."
"No one thinks that," Esther said, so quickly that she nearly forgot to remember where she'd heard those kinds of self-deprecating words before. "The season isn't over. You've got your nationals, and 4CC, Worlds…"
Ntombi stared down at the carpet. "Yeah," she said, finally. "You're right. I know that. I just…still hate that it happened this way."
Esther nodded. "Yeah. I…I know what that's like." She looked out over the ballroom, eyes lingering on the dance floor before they found Emanuel. "If it's any consolation, things aren't really going the way I'd like them to, either."
Ntombi just hummed in response. They never do, Esther thought, and looked again at the dance floor.
"Can I ask you something?" she spoke up.
Ntombi turned to her, curious. "Sure."
"Your boyfriends," Esther reached up to fiddle with her Magen David. "How did you know that you loved them? When did you realize it?" She turned to her, chewed her lip and awaited her answer.
She'd worried that Ntombi would think it was an odd question, but if anything, she looked happy to contemplate it. "I think I fell in love with Chris the moment I saw him. Of course, I didn't understand it at the time. But as I got to know him, I wanted to be around him all the time. I wanted to share everything that I was with him, and learn everything about him in return. I wanted to go to sleep next to him and for him to be the first thing I saw when I woke up. Make breakfast in the morning and tell each other everything that we did that day."
Esther tilted her glass to and fro, stared into the swirling depths and hoped Ntombi couldn't hear her heart pounding, where she was standing.
"Matthieu was different, in a way. Slower. I was older when I fell for him. I mean, like eighteen is so much older than fifteen!" she laughed. "But…I knew I was in love with him, because I felt the same way about him that I had about Chris for years before that." She turned to Esther, and she was radiant, glowing from the inside out. I wonder if I ever look like that. "Does that answer your question?"
"Uh…yeah." Esther swallowed, took a sip of her champagne and looked desperately around for something she could stare at without it being weird. She took a deep breath, bit her lip and turned with her eyes closed. "Did you, um. You know. Want to…have sex with him? Them." She looked quickly away again, her face feeling about halfway to the merlot of her dress. "You don't have to answer that. I'm sorry."
Ntombi was giving her a curious look—Esther was too preoccupied swallowing the last of her drink to look at her, but she could feel it coming from her right side—"No, I don't mind," she giggled. "I mean…of course I wanted to have sex with them. You've seen Chris."
Esther suppressed her reflexive wince. "Yeah…"
Ntombi looked her over, humming. "Okay, I answered your questions. So, humor me…why do you ask?"
Esther contemplated picking up another glass of champagne, but her more sensible side won out. "No reason, really," she said, lamely.
"No?" Ntombi prodded, drawing out the 'o'. "You know, that's a really gorgeous dress. It really shows off your best features." She looked, pointedly, from the long slit up the side, to the clinging waist, to the low neckline. "I wondered if you were wearing it to impress somebody here." Her eyebrows shot up. "Is that why you're so nervous? Aw! Who is it? I promise I won't tell them. Wait, is it Emil?" she gasped. "Weren't you two in Juniors together? He seemed like he was really happy to see you, too! You two would be so cute."
"No!" Esther cut in, and Ntombi had the good grace to look apologetic.
"Sorry. I got carried away. You don't have to answer, if you don't want to."
She contemplated it, and quite seriously, staring intently at her hands. Another, increasingly vocal part of her was tired of running from it.
"It's Otabek," she admitted.
"I knew it!"
Esther looked at her through narrowed eyes. "You were just saying how I'd be cute with Emil."
"Well, I wanted to be supportive of your choices," Ntombi huffed. "I was secretly rooting for Altiwitz the whole time."
Esther blinked. "Altiwitz? The hell is that?"
"It's your couple name! That's what you'll tag all your pictures with. Like, Chris and I are Christombi, and he and Matthieu are Christhieu, and Matthieu and me are Matthieubi—"
"What do you do when it's all three of you?"
"Christieubi," she replied, as if it were obvious.
"Oh." Of course, why would I expect anything else. "Right. Did Phichit come up with these?"
"He usually does. He's gonna be so mad I beat him to it this time around. Serves him right for Milasara. I still think Crispicheva is better!"
"Milas…wait." Esther craned her neck and found the two on the dance floor. "Them?"
"Uh…yeah. It's pretty obvious."
"I've been a bit distracted for the past few days!"
Ntombi adopted a conspiratorial smile. "Of course. If you're not with him yet, I bet he's all you think about."
"Pretty much," she admitted, too dizzy with the relief of telling someone (even if it wasn't him) to be too embarrassed.
"Are you going to tell him?"
"I'm thinking about doing it." Her hands fiddled together. "In Barcelona."
"You should! If he's even half as crazy about you as everybody says, it's a no-brainer."
Esther chuckled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear; her go-to gesture when she was feeling self-conscious. "Hey…listen. The reason I asked you, about the sex thing…I wasn't being weird, I promise. It's just…I know I'm crazy about him. I've never felt the way I do about him for anyone else. I mean, I have, but it was never real, the way it is now. I just…" she took a deep breath. "I'm really not sure about…the sex thing." She couldn't read the look Ntombi was giving her, so she started to ramble. "I mean, he's stupidly gorgeous. I could stare at him for hours. And sometimes I feel like…like I want to. With him. But…I don't know." She wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing at her biceps. "I don't know. I don't want to disappoint him like that, if he wants to, and I…don't."
"So…are you ace?" She had to remind herself of the purely questioning, nonjudgmental tone of Ntombi's voice. The question still felt like it cut her open.
"I don't know. I've…done it before. Had sex. I just…I don't know." There was more, but some things were simply too personal.
"Well…" Ntombi sidled closer, took Esther's hand between her own. "That's something that you two should talk about. It might not even matter to him."
Esther couldn't look at her. "I know. I just…I think it would hurt even more than a rejection. If he felt the same, but we couldn't be together because of…that."
She took a deep breath. Ntombi let her hand go. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I'm gonna go outside, I just need some air." Esther left Ntombi by the table, skirted the dance floor and headed for the door.
The air outside the hotel was sharp, freezing, and just what she needed. She took a deep breath, sighed, and shut her eyes, perfectly willing to stand outside in snow-muted silence until she couldn't bear it a second longer.
A few moments after her exit, the doors opened again. Esther opened her eyes, prepared to assure whoever it was that yes, she really did want to be alone, yes, she was fine, but her words died in her throat the moment she met the eyes of the other person, because she was staring at Yuuri Katsuki.
He was wearing his coat, dragging his luggage behind him—leaving, then. It was only then that she realized she hadn't seen him at all at the banquet. Their eye contact lasted for only a split second: he was quick to look away, tug his mask over his face and hurry away in embarrassment.
For a moment, Esther stood, rooted to the spot. She regained her senses, took a single step forward, gasped, "Katsuki-san."
He froze like a deer in the headlights, turning slowly around, regarding her with wide eyes. Who, me?
Yes, you. Esther followed him out onto the lot, arms folded against the cold. Oh, fuck. What was I going to say? I never thought this far ahead. Come on, Esther, he's looking at you—
"I just wanted to tell you," she blurted, remembering that she knew Japanese at the last moment, "How much you inspired me." She suppressed a full-body shiver, fuck, it's cold. "Watching you skate made me realize I wanted to come back." He was still staring at her, but with the lower half of his face covered, he was hard to read. "I'm glad we both made it to the Final."
For a horrifying moment, she thought that she'd made some horrible social faux pas, the way he was looking at her. Then, suddenly, she was being hugged, and it was all she could do to return it. Holy shit.
"Thank you," he said, stepping back. "What's your name…?"
"Esther," she said, too quickly. "Esther Markowitz. Maybe I'll see you in Barcelona."
"Maybe," he agreed, in that polite, mild way particular to Japan. "My taxi is here; I have to go now. But thank you," he said, again, "Esther."
"Bye," she waved, "Safe trip home."
She stayed long enough to watch the cab drive off, but after that she had to run back inside, shivering with cold. Still, when she entered the lobby, she was smiling. I did it.
Ntombi wasn't in sight when she reentered the ballroom—in fact, the first people she ran into were Mila, Emil, and Sara, with her brother nowhere in sight. "Have you guys seen Ntombi?"
Sara shook her head. "She went up to her room a little while ago."
"We thought you left too," Mila said. "I haven't said congratulations yet. You were fantastic today."
"Thank you," Esther replied, reflexively, unsure why it left her feeling so disoriented.
"When did you start raising your arms for jumps? Have you been practicing that?"
She rubbed at the back of her neck. "A little. I spent most of yesterday figuring out how to work it in."
"Really? That's amazing. It looked so natural."
"Yeah!" Sara chipped in, "Your comeback has been amazing to watch. I can't wait for Barcelona!"
They never hated me. Esther blinked, quietly shaken by the force of the realization—thankfully, the two had started talking to each other, and were absorbed enough in that not to notice her zoning out. It was all in my head.
Then again, when isn't it?
I'm looking forward to it too," she said, and for the first time, she meant it. "We should hang out while we're there, if we get the chance."
"We should! Here, let's swap numbers." Phones went around in a quick circle, contacts were put in, Emil swiped hers from Sara to add his in too.
"I've got to go find someone," she said, once she had it back. "I'll see you guys around?"
"You know it," Mila told her, with an evil little smile. "Let's give it our best."
"Nothing but," Esther agreed. She waved as she left them, and began looking around for Emanuel. Eventually, she spotted him, speaking to Josef Karpisek near one of the walls of the room. With a moment to summon her courage, she crossed the floor and strode up next to them. "I'm sorry to interrupt. Could I borrow my coach?"
Josef extended a brief, invitational hand. "Be my guest." He reached into his pocket for a cleaning cloth, began to wipe at his glasses as Esther led Emanuel to the nearest, unoccupied corner. Halfway there, she changed her mind and led him out to the lobby.
"Is everything all right?" he asked, a hint of concern coloring the gruff tone he'd taken with her since the prior night.
"I want to apologize," she blew right through him, but she'd had more than enough of people asking her, lately, if she was all right. "You're right. I shouldn't have changed the choreography without talking to you. I let it get to me, and I felt like I was alone, so I made the decision alone. And I'm sorry."
For a long moment, Emanuel looked at her. Then, he sighed, put a hand to his temple. "No. I'm sorry, Esther. It was wrong of me to lose my temper with you like I did. I should be supporting you, when you're in a bad spot, not making it worse." He lowered his hand, ran the other through his hair. "I haven't been the coach I should be. I've been holding back, and it hasn't helped either of us."
She folded her arms. "I'm not delicate, you know."
"I know. I think you're made of sterner stuff than anyone I've ever known." Oh. Suddenly, the tile was very fascinating. "It isn't that. I've…come to look at you as more than just my student, Esther. You understand, I was content to live my life alone. Then you came along, and…" Was he getting choked up? His voice sounded thick with unshed tears, and when she looked at him she found him turned to the side, mouth covered by his hand as he, for all intents and purposes, rubbed at his five o'clock shadow.
"…I didn't realize how much I had wanted a family, not until you were here."
Esther looked widely at him, all while he continued to stare off outside, through the glass lobby doors. The snow had begun to fall again, and it swirled in the wind like a dancer caught up in the music, like a skater on the ice.
You're off to a very good start. If you keep working like that, I believe you could be the best skater in the world someday.
Before she could second-guess herself any longer, Esther took a large step forward and half-crashed into him, wrapped her arms around him and held tight. He tensed, stood for what seemed like a short eternity. Then, he was hugging her back, so tightly that she felt a bit crushed.
It was perfect.
"Make me a promise," she said, into the space between them, and if her voice wobbled, neither of them mentioned it. "On the ice, you're my coach first."
"Deal."
"And when we're off the ice…" she took a deep breath, but she wasn't sure what she had been planning to say. I want you to walk me to my chuppah one day.
In place of words, she just hugged him tighter, and if the responsive squeeze around her shoulders was anything to go by, he'd heard her.
"Oh shit," she gasped, like she'd just had an ice-cold bucket of water thrown over her.
"What?" Emanuel let her go, alarmed.
"I just conducted an entire conversation with Yuuri Katsuki in the familiar tense. I went out there and talked to my role model like he was my best friend." She took a few steps away, covered her face with her hands, and felt a faint whimper escaping. "I can't ever come back to this country again."
