Adam, absorbed in his earpiece, inserts the key card into the locking mechanism. The light flashes green and he opens the door. Adam flips the light switch inside. He extends his hand into the hotel room, signaling the young man behind him.
"Entre," he prompts sans the proper accent. Jack Frost steps gracefully around him, emerging into the room totting his luggage along. The plush carpet, granite counters, coffee and cream colored walls, stainless steel kitchen appliances, and opulent furniture await him, as does a bathtub big enough for three people, a washroom with two sinks, and a luxurious bedroom. He has seen too many of them not to know exactly what is in store.
"Hang on, Tia," Adam says into his Bluetooth. To Jack, "Freshen up, kid. I'll text you when it's time for dinner."
Jack pivots on his heel just in time to see the door close. He closes his mouth. Jack lugs his suitcase into his bedroom and hoists it onto the edge of the bed. He ghosts his fingers over the thick red comforter embroidered in gold. There are enough pillows to drown in and enough drawers to stash a lifetime of clothing. The room is stunning, silent, and spacious. It is the perfect reminder... of just how utterly lonely his life is. He shrugs his backpack strap off his shoulder and drops it on the floor. He goes to the window and pulls back the curtains. He stares out over the city, basking in the last of daylight's glow. The sun always sets earlier in the winter.
Jack hears his phone buzzing. He hurries to his backpack and rummages around until he finds it under his favorite sweatshirt. His excitement is crushed when the sender line reads Adam Russell.
Don't forget we are eating with veterans, sponsors, and maybe some judges. Dress to impress.
Jack is seventeen. Dressing to impress is his least favorite hobby. His entire life is lavish parties where he is not allowed to eat anything, garish gatherings where Adam constantly interrupts him, and gigantic hotel rooms in which he must abide alone. The irony hangs over his head like a waiting anvil in a cartoon no one can laugh at. Adam wades through gossip and navigates unfamiliar streets for him. As the years go by, Jack thinks less and less for himself. His life is an agenda, and it is all typed in meticulous detail into Adam's Blackberry.
Life was fantastic before he was scouted. Life was full of friends and fried food and Friday night fun. He was plucked out of Juno and put into a strait jacket. Prankster to perfectionism. Party fiend to total bore. But this is his dream, right? … Right? This is a question he has tried to ignore for some time. He makes good money. He has built quite a reputation for himself. Adam is his personal representative. Pierre is his coach. Jack has learned much and come so far. He cannot quit now. The world championship is only four days away.
Eyes on the prize, Jack. Focus.
He is glad his friends cannot see him now. They would hardly know him.
Jack kicks off his traveling sneakers as he meanders into the bathroom. He plugs up the drain and turns on the tub facet. The water heats up immediately. He undresses. Adam always says the cure for his "moods" is a good soak in the bath. Jack has yet to experience an instance where this is true.
They are right on time for their five star affair. Jack's khaki slacks and blue button-up apparently meet Adam's standards, because the man gives him no grief, not even for his puka shell necklace his friend Marina gave him before departing. He rarely takes that off. The Italian restaurant in their hotel is dimly lit and expensively decorated. It emphasizes his ice blond hair. Jack and Adam are led to a long table where several other guests are already seated. They hang back so Adam can give a disgruntled mumble. "Damn. Bad luck."
"What's wrong?" Jack asks, blue eyes concerned for Adam's sudden lack of confidence. Adam stoops down closer to his ear. Jack, to his chagrin, is not an especially tall individual.
"See that man in the tailored Armani? They call him the dark judge. His name is Pitch Black, and that guy is treacherous as hell, Jackie. A real vulture. He is known to give brutal critiques and pick at a skater's weakest points. I don't think he has ever scored anyone above a 3. Just let me do the talking tonight, alright?"
Before Jack can answer, Adam adopts a giant smile and strides towards the table. "Not like that's any different from every other night, right?" Jack mutters.
Introductions are made. They take their seats. Jack makes brief eye contact with each prestigious member of their dinner party, but only one image truly sticks with him. Pitch is ghostly pale, casting a ghoulish glow into his amber eyes. His hair, appropriately jet black, is slicked back with gel. He has a sharp, sophisticated look to him. He doesn't seem quite alive, but he moves much too fluidly, sits too straight, to be dead. To make matters worse, he has a rich accent that sounds like melting chocolate, or at least that is what Jack envisions melting chocolate to sound like… if it made a sound.
There is also a woman in red and an older couple whom Jack recognizes to be former champion partner skaters. Jack has always been a solo act. Adam often swears there is magic in his feet. Duos are pointless when none can keep pace with him, right?
Jack's eyes dart to Pitch occasionally. He sits at the head of the table. Adam sits at the other, closest to Jack. The couple sit on one side. Jack is next to the woman in red who tells him he looks handsome and gives him warm smirks every once in awhile. She is older than Adam is, but her face retains its youthful allure. Her hair falls over her shoulder in long red waves. Jack immediately likes her. She reminds him of his mother.
She was presented as Cynthia Black. Jack assumes Pitch is her husband until their status as brother and sister is revealed. By the snarky way they nag at one another, he suspects their relationship is a tumultuous one. Pitch could be in his twenties, but his lofty vocabulary and classy mannerisms paint him as older than that. He is strange. Jack does not know why, but the man's image lingers and looms in the darkest corners of his mind even when he is not looking at him. The buzz of political chatter as they look over the menus is somehow buffered by his presence. It has been awhile since Jack has found anyone so simultaneously interesting and intimidating.
The waitress makes her appearance, reciting specials and wine brands. They order. Adam orders for him, which is common place. Jack stares at his plate of leafy greens while the others dine on bread and oil. Cynthia asks him if he would like any several times. Jack can only smile and shake his head. A skater's figure is crucial, kiddo. Those uniforms won't look killer on just anyone – Adam always says.
"So, Jack Frost," Pitch says without looking up from his meal, punctuating the prompt with an especially venomous snap of the tongue. It's an electric jolt to Jack's system. "Is that your real name? Or merely part of your flare?"
Jack doesn't bother opening his mouth. Adam is ready with a reply, "You know, I asked him the exact same question when we met. No gimmicks though. This guy is the real thing, name and all."
"Is that so?" Pitch drones.
"I swear on his birth certificate," Adam laughs after dabbing at his lips with his napkin. Jack pushes a cucumber around his plate.
"And how is it you came to be a skater, Jack?" Pitch inquires, sounding genuinely disinterested.
"Well, to be honest, we're pretty sure the boy was born with skates on," Adam chimes in.
"I assume you mean he's a "natural talent". That is a pitfall for many an aspiring champion. Nothing comes without pain and effort. Moreover, from what little I have seen of him, I can tell you that is not the case."
If Jack felt small before, he has just been reduced to the size of a teacup.
Adam takes a sip from his white wine. "If I may, the competition he has been up against has been pretty weak. He saved his A game for the big leagues. Isn't that right, sport?" He winks at Jack who manages a fake smile back.
"hm. Well, there is no room for holding back here, young man. I suggest you shelve your triple axels in the competition. They're weak at best. Your turns are sloppy as well." Jack swallows thickly, finding himself unable to look up from his house salad. His cheeks are hot with shame.
Adam laughs it off. "You must have watched last year's tapes. He's been practicing harder than ever, smoothing out all the rough edges. We won't be holding back this time."
The table is silent as Pitch gracefully sets his silverware aside and folds his hands over his plate, propping his elbows on the table's edge. "I believe I was addressing the boy," he says. "In fact, I've been addressing the boy for some time now." A chill falls over them all.
Adam assumes an undeterred grin. "As his personal rep, I usually take the questions, sir. Takes the pressure off of him."
Pitch's eyes are fixed on Adam's face, his harrowing expression locked in place just as solidly. "Best ease up on that, lest he forget how to talk altogether."
Adam's smile wanes. He nods to Mr. Black with an uncharacteristically tight lipped smirk.
Cynthia takes the reins of conversation from then on. Jack is somewhat mortified when he is actually allowed to speak, his tongue fumbling for the right words. Pitch makes him nervous, more than any other person on the planet. Jack has mixed feelings about the man not talking directly to him again.
Their time together is coming to a close. As the waitress is collecting the plates, Jack reaches for the last complementary cherry cordial in the bowl by the candelabra.
"Oh, you don't want that," Adam says, whisking the plate away and handing it to the waitress. "I'm pretty sure it fell on the floor."
They say their goodbyes as the doormen help Cynthia and the rest with their coats and shawls.
"Oh. And Jack," Pitch says, turning towards him. Jack looks up into his face from a business distance, still rather abashed from dinner. "It is in your best interests to take my advice." Fronting a polite smile, "I fear your guidance may not be adequate." He nods to them both and turns, meeting Cynthia at the glass doors revealing a waiting limousine on the curb.
The elevator ride is painfully silent. Jack folds his arms tightly, braced against a verbal assault that never comes. They split off at the fork in the hallway, each headed towards their rooms for the night. Jack has practice with Pierre in the morning. Jack uses his card key to open his door. He quickly shuts it behind him. Even as his eyes brim with tears, he reminds himself that he needs thicker skin. He has no one but himself to cushion the blow. Still, the hours of practice and the blood and sweat and strife he has put into mastering his form makes it hard for Pitch's cuts not to sting. He knows his triple axels are not up to par. But are his turns really sloppy too?
Determined not to cry, Jack flops down in bed and hugs one of the many pillows as close as he can. He is just drifting off when he hears a knock at the door. Jack frowns. He crosses through the bedroom, the kitchen, and the sitting area. He opens the door, met with nothing but an empty hallway. He peers outside and looks left, then right to no avail. By chance, his eyes dart downward. He discovers a small ivory box on the floor, trussed up with a red satin bow. Jack curiously takes the package inside. He climbs back onto his bed. He unties the bow, uncovering a card underneath. He opens and reads it.
I assure you, these have never met the floor.
Jack searches for a signature, but finds none. He opens the box. Inside, he finds six perfectly arranged cherry cordials in their own individual wrapping cups. A grin explodes onto his face. He immediately goes for his phone, punching in a text to Adam –
Thanks for the gift. :)
Jack pops one into his mouth, the chocolate immediately melting over his tongue. It has to be the best thing he has ever tasted. Adam's usual instant response alert buzzes onto the screen. Jack opens the text. His brows knit together as he reads it.
What gift?