Life on the Edge (21 page)

“The stress of competition could come between us, and the last thing I want is to fight with you.” He came closer to me but kept his arms at his sides. An invisible force field existed around me.

“I don’t want that either.” I chewed on my lip. “So, I guess I should go, then, since I shouldn’t be here.”

I started forward, but Sergei blocked my path. “It’s not that I don’t want you here. My feelings haven’t changed,” he said softly. “I just think we need this separation.”

He moved aside, and I trudged to the door. Sergei followed me and scanned the hall, while I lingered inside the room, waiting for a show of affection that never came. Sergei’s sad eyes watching me leave was the last image I saw before I walked away.

Chapter Sixteen

I tapped my foot and checked the clock behind the hotel registration desk. Chris was never late, and he knew how anxious I was for our first Grand Prix Final practice. Had he set his alarm wrong? We’d both synched our watches with Tokyo time when we’d arrived the previous day. I paced the length of the narrow lobby and dialed Chris on my cell phone.

“I was getting ready to call you,” he said, his voice tight and raspy. “I’m burning up. I hope I don’t have the flu.”

“Oh no.” I dropped into the nearest chair. “I knew you weren’t feeling great last night, but I thought it was just a cold.”

“I feel like someone’s sitting on my chest.”

“You sound terrible. Have you called Dr. Parker?” Our team doctor took care of all our aches and pains, from a case of the sniffles to broken limbs.

“He’s on his way. I already talked to Sergei.”

“Let me know what the doctor says. And call me if you need anything.”

I slunk down in the chair and blew out a long breath. We had two days until the short program. Would that be enough time for Chris to regain strength? The Grand Prix Final’s unique format, requiring two long programs in addition to the short, could be problematic for someone not in top condition.

I went upstairs and soon received Chris’s diagnosis–a respiratory infection that required antibiotics and rest. With Chris quarantined to his room and Sergei keeping his distance from me, I spent the next few days hanging out with some of my American teammates, singles skaters I knew casually from other competitions.

Our group explored the city, and I put my new digital camera, a birthday gift from my parents, to good use. Tokyo’s skyscrapers and bright electronic signs reminded me of Times Square in New York City. After touring downtown, we left the bustling streets and visited a Japanese landscape garden, where we enjoyed a peaceful walk among the koi ponds and meticulously manicured trees.

I met Chris for practice the morning of our short program, and he scrolled through the pictures on my camera with a frown.

“My first trip to Asia, and I spend it in my room.” His voice still resembled a heavy chain smoker’s, but his fever had broken.

“Maybe we can do some sight-seeing after our last event,” I said.

Chris coughed into his bicep, and his chest rattled like a clap of thunder.

“I should wear one of those surgical masks,” I joked.

We took the ice, and I smiled with each crossover, relishing the sting of the cold breeze on my skin. The two-day break had put extra spring in my legs. I flexed my knees and generated speed with the slightest push. Chris kept pace with my movements as we warmed up, and Sergei gave us instructions for our program run-through.

“Skip the jumps and the throw, but do everything else full out. Chris, you feel good?”

He inhaled and nodded. “I’m good.”

The music operator cued up our piece, and we performed the choreography as if we were being judged. Chris held me with his usual strong grip in the lift, but during our final element, the death spiral, his labored breathing struck my ears. He must’ve held in the coughs for two and a half minutes because the moment the music ended, he succumbed to a long spell.

We drifted toward the boards, and I patted the back of his black T-shirt. “Are you okay?”

He began wheezing and couldn’t answer me. As he bent over and put his hands on his knees, I shot Sergei a look of panic. He’d already signaled the medical staff, who quickly scooted onto the ice in their sneakers. Two paramedics held Chris’s arms and guided him to the exit while he continued to breathe in shallow gasps. I followed them to the boards and wrung my hands as they disappeared backstage.

“Stay loose,” Sergei said. “I’ll check on him.”

I stroked around and practiced the triple Lutz and triple toe loop, but my legs weren’t as steady as earlier. Being alone on the ice with two other pairs unnerved me. Especially since one of the other pairs was Oksana and Denis, who always reeled off their big elements right in front of me. I missed Chris’s calming presence and the comfort of his hand around mine.

Sergei returned
rinkside
, and I raced over to him as fast as my skates could take me.

“He’s breathing normally now,” he said. “They gave him oxygen, and Dr. Parker is monitoring him.”

I hopped through the ice door and covered my blades with their guards. “Will he be okay?”

“Doc’s going to check him again before the competition.” Sergei held my Team USA jacket open for me, and I slipped my arms inside. We walked backstage to the medical room, where Chris reclined on an exam table. A clear oxygen mask sat at his side.

He smiled between coughs. “You came to visit me.”

I lightly punched his arm. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“I was testing you to see how much you’d miss me.”

“It sucked out there without you.”

His grin grew wider. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

We went back to the hotel, and the doctor paid Chris a visit in the afternoon. He declared my partner fit to compete, so I put on my game face and prepared to skate.

The enthusiastic Japanese fans greeted us with fervor as we positioned ourselves to begin our short program. Chris’s broad chest expanded and contracted, his tight black shirt stretching with the deep breath. I squinted up at the bright lights and prayed,
Please, Lord, watch over us the next two and a half minutes.

We motored through the twist and the jumps, and I watched Chris for any sign of struggle. His eyes were set in concentration. As we sped backward into the takeoff for the throw Lutz, I heard a tiny wheeze behind me. Chris propelled me upward but with not enough air.

My blade landed on the ice, but I was tilted. A jolt of adrenaline hit me as my body anticipated the fall. I tumbled down, and my right hand slammed into the ice. A burning pain shot up my arm, causing me to gasp.

I gritted my teeth and wiggled my fingers as I stood up. Able to move them, I figured nothing was broken, so I nodded to Chris to finish the program. He gripped my hand for the death spiral, and my wrist felt like a log on a bonfire. I screamed on the inside but kept my forced smile intact through the remainder of the program.

Sergei waited at the edge of the ice door with his hand out toward me. I held my wrist close to my body, and Sergei circled his arm around my waist as we sat down in the Kiss & Cry.

“We’ll get you to the doctor in a minute,” he said.

He massaged my back, and I tried to focus on his touch rather than the ache spreading from my fingertips to my elbow. Chris started to say something but dissolved into another coughing fit.

“You okay?” I asked while Sergei handed him a bottle of water.

He sat up straighter, allowing more air into his lungs. After chugging the water, he panted. “I’m sorry about the throw.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. No apologies, remember?”

Coughs consumed him again, interrupting his reply.
Thank God this isn’t live on TV back home.
Our families would surely freak out if they saw our current state. I’d call my parents as soon as I found out the extent of my injury.

The fall put us in fifth place out of six teams. We hustled backstage after the last score was read, and Dr. Parker gave me a quick examination. He wanted an X-ray, so I changed out of my costume, and an event volunteer offered to drive us to the hospital. Sergei ordered Chris to rest at the hotel while he accompanied the doctor and me.

The other patients in the emergency room regarded me with curiosity as I still wore my heavy makeup from the competition and my hair shone from the glittery hairspray. I sat between Dr. Parker and Sergei, listening to the babble of Japanese around us and wrinkling my nose at the pungent antiseptic odor.

After a short wait, a petite nurse brought me to a small curtained area, where a technician took images of my wrist. Dr. Parker waited outside for the attending physician, and Sergei came in when the technician left. He pulled the green curtains tighter and placed a soft kiss on my forehead.

“How’s the pain?” Worry resided in his eyes.

My lips formed a tiny smile. “I’m trying not to think about it.”

He skimmed his fingertips along my swollen skin, and for a moment, the throbbing sensation disappeared, supplanted by a deep yearning to pull Sergei against me.

The curtains flew open as the two doctors entered, and Sergei backed away.

“You have a mild sprain,” Dr. Parker said. “We’ll get it wrapped and then talk about treatment.”

“Will I be able to skate tomorrow night?”

The doctor scratched his gray-bearded chin. “We’ll have to see how the swelling looks tomorrow and how you feel.”

I straightened my spine and glanced at Sergei. He’d said he wanted to see “more heart.” If Chris could skate through illness, then I could skate through pain. I was going to show Sergei just how much heart and desire I had.

****

Between icing my wrist and keeping it elevated, I didn’t get much sleep. I’d lucked into a single room, so I had no roommate to bother during my restless night. By morning, the swelling had decreased, but my wrist ached as if someone had twisted it with a wrench. Dr. Parker looked at it before practice, and I held my breath, waiting for his opinion.

“Test it off the ice first to see if it’s strong enough for the lifts.”

I exhaled and smiled. “Will do.”

With my arm rewrapped in a tight bandage, Chris and I walked through our free skate backstage at the arena. Sergei hovered nearby, observing with a keen eye. Chris took my hands and swung me up into the lasso lift, the one that required the most strength. I grimaced as my right arm burned, supporting all my weight, but I maintained my upright position without wavering.

“How did it feel?” Sergei asked after we finished the walk-through.

“It’s sore, but I think it’ll hold me.”

“We’ll do each lift once on the ice for practice.” Sergei rested his hands on my shoulders. “Let me know at any point if something doesn’t feel right.”

We survived a shortened practice with no coughing spells or other disasters, and I retreated to my hotel room to apply more ice to my wrist. As I lay against a pile of pillows and watched the sole English station on the television, I thought how wonderful it would feel to be nestled in Sergei’s arms right then. Why’d he have to insist on the separation?

My attempt to nap was unsuccessful, and I headed to the arena with a swirl of nervous energy. While Dr. Parker secured my wrist with a new dressing, I fidgeted on the exam table, anxious to show everyone the injury wouldn’t keep me down . . . anxious to show Sergei I could thrive under adversity.

Chris and I charged onto the ice for the six-minute warm-up. He pressed me up into the lasso lift, and I balanced myself with my right hand clasped in his. My forearm wobbled, sending a wave of unease over me, but I kept my posture stiff and we completed the element.

“That was a little shaky,” Chris said.

I fingered the edge of my bandage. “I just need to lock in the grip better.”

We skated around the two other pairs and into our second lift, a lasso with a change of position. I went up with the support of two hands but had to let one go and rely on my injured wrist to hold myself up. This time, the wobble escalated into a forceful tremor, and my arm began to collapse.