#theartofredemption

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 14)

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—————

Eden's cousin leaves halfway through the group class.

For students Eden's age, most of the caregivers don't hang around to watch the class. Stan's grandson Marek and three little girls Nikolai doesn't know are also in the class and they don't have any adult caregivers present either, so Eden being there without an adult family member isn't odd from Nikolai's point of view. It's the fact that the cousin would just get up and disappear before class was over that unsettles him, particularly because now class actually is over and another one will be starting soon, and there's no sign of anyone coming to collect Eden.

For his part, Eden doesn't seem bothered. Once he has his skates off, he happily climbs onto the bench and plops himself down next to Nikolai with a cheerful, "So, what did you think? Everybody in our class is really good, right?"

Eden is so tiny, the toes of his boots aren't touching the floor, and Nikolai has to remind himself that the boy is only a few months away from turning eleven. He smiles. "Everyone in your class is really good, but I'd say you and that red-haired girl are the best."

"Oh, that's Everleigh," Eden says. "She totally is the best. She wants to do pairs when she gets older, and she has a big crush on my friend Marek, but he thinks girls are gross. I like girls, but sometimes I think I like boys too, but actually I don't want to date anybody because I have to think about my career first. Are you dating anybody?"

"That's a lot, Eden. Are you always this talkative?"

"No," Eden says, casually swinging his little legs. "But, I like you."

"To answer your question, I'm not dating anybody. I'm married."

Eden nods sagely. "My dad says marriage is sacred, but I don't know about that. I think it just means you have to pay a lot of bills and complain about things like having to change the oil in your car or somebody leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor."

Nikolai laughs. "Not going to lie, I like your definition better. It's more accurate, from my experience."

"Does your wife complain about you leaving towels on the floor?"

"Yeah, and sometimes I complain about her doing it too. She complains about my cat shedding, and I complain about how long it takes her to get ready to go anywhere."

His and Anya's problems aren't nearly that trivial or innocent, but he's not about to tell a ten year old child that his marriage is in shambles and he's all but made up his mind to ask his wife to agree to a divorce. This is assuming he can work up the courage, of course. He doubts Anya will make it easy for him in any case, and he's not looking forward to the confrontation.

"I'm never getting married," Eden declares.

"Good choice," says Nikolai.

"Yeah. Yi-Joon says I'm probably going to be too high-maintenance for anyone to handle anyway, but y'know what? I'm okay with that."

"Yi-Joon?" Nikolai inquires.

"My stupid cousin," Eden clarifies. "He came here from South Korea last summer to stay with us for a year and learn English. He's so annoying. All he does besides go to language school is watch K-dramas and talk to girls on the phone and go to expensive coffee places. I don't think he even likes sports."

"We aren't all going to like the same things," Nikolai says. "Life would be kind of boring if we were all into the same stuff, don't you think? Our differences are what make us interesting."

"Maybe, if people respected what other people were into."

"Do you respect what your cousin is into?"

"He can like K-dramas if he wants to. I don't like them, but I don't try to stop him from watching them, and I don't make fun of him for it."

"That's all anyone should reasonably ask for."

"I think so too, but it's like I'm asking too much when I want people to respect what I like. I want Yi-Joon to stop making fun of me about skating. And my parents... they don't even get that It's not just a hobby. I really want to do this. Like, to be a real athlete."

"You want to know something?" Nikolai says. "My parents don't get it either. They've always supported me, but I'm not sure they've ever really understood my love for skating."

"At least they supported you," says Eden. "My parents want me to stop skating."

"Yeah, so I heard."

Nikolai glances down at the ice, where Beth-Anne has just returned and is now setting up her orange cones for the next class, which is a group of preschoolers. A different group than the one Gabriel Torres is in, he'd learned. Beth-Anne has two preschool groups, and this morning on the way to the rink she told him she's hoping that he'll be able to take over teaching one of them by autumn. He wonders if he will be.

"You know what I'm worried about?" Eden is saying.

"What is it?"

"I'm a kid. I'm not allowed to decide anything important. If my parents decide I have to stop skating, I'm gonna have to, and by the time I'm old enough to decide anything for myself, it's gonna be too late." He sighs, sounding far older than his ten years. "If Beth-Anne can't make them understand, my dream is basically dead. My parents are gonna kill it, and if that happens I don't know what I'm going to do with my life."

There are probably a thousand different responses Nikolai could make to this. He could say there's life beyond skating and that Eden's too young to stress about what to do with the rest of his life, or he could just offer some platitude about trying not to worry. But, he realizes he doesn't want to say any of that, because Eden is right.

If Eden's parents make him quit skating now, by the time he has the autonomy to make his own choices, it will be too late to be competitive in the way he clearly wants to be. Nikolai recognizes Eden's passion for the sport and his drive to succeed. It's the same energy and intensity Nikolai had; the same obsession that carried him to six top-three finishes at the World Championships, to his two Worlds gold medals, right up to the moment when he crash-landed in Taiwan.

No, it didn't end there, whispers a small, insistent voice in his mind. You still love the sport that much, and you can still succeed in it, just in a different way.

He turns to fully face Eden, who's starting up at him expectantly. "You know how I said I'd like to be your coach some day?"

"Yeah," Eden says.

"I meant that."

"I believed you," Eden tells him. "But, what's that got to do with my future if my parents make me give up skating? If I'm not skating, what'll I need a coach for?"

"Exactly," Nikolai says.

Eden looks perplexed. "This isn't helping."

"Don't worry," Nikolai says. "I am going to help you."

"How?"

"Your parents are worried about you getting hurt, aren't they?"

"Yeah," Eden confirms. "Like, all of a sudden, for some reason. It's not like I just started doing jumps or something. I could do a waltz jump when I was six and I did my first single jump when I was seven, and I fell loads of times before I got it right. My parents have seen me fall a bunch of times, but they never seemed too worried about it until this January or so."

"Maybe because it never occurred to them before that a fall could completely change your life."

"What do you mean?"

Nikolai gestures down at his leg. "I mean, it could literally change your life. I'm never going to compete again because I seriously hurt myself when fell at the Four Continents back in January."

"Wait..." Eden frowns, his delicate brows scrunching together in concentration. "You got hurt in January? Do you think my parents know anything about that?"

"I don't know," Nikolai says. "Your parents and I have never met. Do they watch competitions on TV or read sports news online?"

"They watch competitions with me sometimes, but I don't know if they watch stuff by themselves or look at anything on the internet. But... you don't think they're trying to make me stop skating because one person they don't even know got hurt, do you? 'Cause like, that's kind of stupid."

"To tell you the truth, I have no idea why they're trying to make you stop," Nikolai admits. "All I know is, somebody has to convince them that it's not a good idea."

"Somebody... like you?"

"Yeah, that's kind of what I had in mind."

"Really? You'd really do that for me? You don't even know me very well yet."

"Not yet, but I'd like us to get to know each other. Besides, you've got way too much talent to throw away your opportunities. Plus, I've seen you on the ice and it doesn't take a genius to know how happy you are when you're skating and how much you love it."

"I do love it," Eden says. "If skating was a person, I'd probably marry it."

"I thought you said you're not getting married."

"I'd make an exception for skating," Eden says. "You know, 'cause I'd want us to live happily ever after with all our medals."

"And you wouldn't complain about wet towels on the floor, or damp, stinky skate stockings?"

Eden giggles. "Maybe a little bit about the stockings. They do get pretty gross. Beth-Anne says when I get a little older, I won't have to wear them any more. She says I can just put my bare feet in my skates if I want to."

"That's pretty gross too, honestly," Nikolai says. "Trust me, I know. But, you'll be able to feel your edges better with nothing on your feet. That'll be important when you start competing."

"If I start competing."

"When," Nikolai repeats.

Eden hesitates for a beat, but then looks up to meet Nikolai's eyes and echoes. "When."

"Good," Nikolai praises him. "You have to believe in getting what you want. That's part of how you succeed."

"You're already coaching me," Eden says, sounding a little amazed. "You really did mean it."

"I'm not..." Nikolai begins, but then quickly realizes Eden isn't wrong.

How many talks has he had with Stan and Beth-Anne over the years about things only tangentially related to skating? Coaching is more than helping an athlete perfect his technical skills. It's also about helping him with his self-confidence and his overall attitude. It's about being a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on, a teacher about life as well as sport, a mentor, a confidant, a friend, and sometimes a disciplinarian. Beth-Anne has done all that for him and she's still doing it, and the thought that he's already able to pay her kindness and wisdom forward fills him with an emotion that feels like a mixture of astonishment and pride.

He smiles and offers, "You know what they say. Practice makes perfect."

Eden returns the smile. "I think you're going to be a super great coach, Nikolai."

"Thanks," he says.

"When my parents come to pick me up, you should tell them you're going to be my coach."

"I don't think—"

"Yeah, you should! You want to do it, and you said it's important to believe in getting what you want."

Nikolai grins. "So, you're obviously paying attention."

"I'm a great student," Eden says. "Anyway, the way I see it, you can't be a coach without a student, and Beth-Anne already said I'm gonna need a different coach when I get to Junior division, so I think we have to help each other get what we want."

"Okay," Nikolai says. "I'll talk to your parents when they come to get you, but maybe leave the strategy to me for now, all right?"

"Okay," Eden agrees. "This has got to work, though! With you and Beth-Anne both talking to them, they have to change their minds!"

Nikolai has to concede that Eden's enthusiasm is infectious, and he wants to be as optimistic as his potential future student, but he has the unfortunate reality of experience looming over his shoulder. He hopes the parents can be convinced to let their son continue skating, but he's enough of a realist to know that it may take more than the opinion of a stranger to sway them.

"Like I said before," he tells Eden. "I can't make any promises beyond promising to do my best."

Eden reaches over and pats his hand. "I believe in you."

Unexpectedly, Nikolai feels a lump in his throat. He barely knows this kid, but for some reason he already feels a connection with him.

Is this how Beth-Anne felt about me that first day? he wonders. He files the idea away so he can ask her about it later.

His very next thought is, I cannot let this child down.

He has no clue how he's going to do it, but somehow he has to make Eden's parents understand what's at stake. It's not just competitions and medals. It's Eden's well-being, his sense of purpose. His raison d'être, as Anya's coach Isabelle might say.

Nikolai remembers how he'd felt, hearing the doctors in Taiwan saying that he'd never skate again. To say his very soul had been crushed wouldn't be enough. It'd been as if his entire world shattered into a million pieces around him. He'd barely been able to survive that, and maybe he's not completely out of the proverbial woods yet. If it's this difficult for an adult, he shudders to think of what losing something so important would do to a young boy like Eden.

And what sort of second chance would Eden get? Unlike Nikolai, he doesn't have a new opportunity waiting for him to transition into.

Nikolai recognizes he's lucky. Coaching is a natural progression for him, especially with the knowledge that he'll be able to return to the ice soon and with Beth-Anne ready and willing to train him. It all became more tangible when his doctor here told him that not only would he make a full recovery but that he'd still be able to skate. His aching heart had swelled with hope at that news.

Now, it's growing again with a new surge of determination. He wants to succeed for Eden, but even more so for himself. The future doesn't seem as bleak and scary any more, and he wants more than anything to make it evolve into a scenario in which he isn't merely settled and unafraid, but happy, thriving and fearless once again.

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 16)

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—————

This morning, Nikolai is seeing Beth-Anne, Brett and Brett's guardian Jordy off to South Korea, to the World Junior Figure Skating Championship.

Despite his initial concerns that he wouldn't cope well with this situation, he's doing all right. Admittedly, he was a little anxious about Beth-Anne leaving, and he's still slightly envious of Brett's opportunity to compete at one of the most important international skating events of the season, but neither feeling has proved overwhelming enough to prevent him from staying calm and behaving like a normal adult.

A few days ago, Nikolai suggested it'd make sense if he brought Beth-Anne, Brett and Jordy to the airport instead of Jordy or Beth-Anne having to leave their vehicle in the airport parking lot for a week. Beth-Anne agreed it was a good idea, and apparently Jordy had seconded her opinion. Brett, on the other hand, hadn't seemed quite as impressed with the plan as his coach and tutor were, but Nikolai suspected that had more to do with Brett not wanting to show any weakness in front of Nikolai than with any lingering animosity between the two of them.

In fact, Brett had offered him such a sincere apology for his outburst at the rink a few weeks back, Nikolai is inclined to believe there had never really been any animosity at all. He'd had to remind himself that Brett is only fourteen, and even the simplest upsets can seem enormous and insurmountable at that age. They'd both been trying to process some big emotions, and the combination of Brett's anger and frustration and Nikolai's pain and anxiety had the inevitability of disaster written all over it.

Brett understood that too, in hindsight. He said he'd been so focused on himself and his own feelings, he hadn't even considered Nikolai's, and he said he genuinely felt bad for hurting him.

Nikolai could forgive that. After all, Brett is still learning and growing, and no one is perfect anyway. He'd praised Brett for recognizing what went wrong and for acknowledging it. That had earned him a tentative smile from the teenager, and a promise that he'd try to do better in the future.

"I"m sure you will," Nikolai had told him. "I'll do better too. We'll try to do like Beth-Anne says; respond, not react. Okay?"

"Okay," Brett had agreed, and the two of them shook hands.

The handshake had been unexpected from Nikolai's point of view, and he'd guessed it was something Brett had seen his parents do with their business associates. Still, it felt significant to Nikolai, like he and Brett were making a pact of mutual support and respect. They might never become close, but at least they'd agreed that they shouldn't be adversaries, and Nikolai is more than satisfied with that.

Today, he has a feeling their agreement is about to meet its first test.

They took Beth-Anne's truck to the airport, and Beth-Anne drove on the way there. It's the sort of truck that has a small backseat in the cab, so there was adequate room for all four of them, but Nikolai hadn't considered that he and Brett would be the ones sitting in the back. Jordy is easily 190 centimetres, if not taller, and they decided that he should sit up front with Beth-Anne so he could adjust the passenger seat and have some legroom.

Brett's acquiescence was clearly grudging, and he spent most of the ride alternating between staring out the window and shooting annoyed looks at Nikolai. Nikolai didn't take it personally. When he was Brett's age and travelling to a competition, he's sure he would've preferred to sit next to Grandpa or Allison on a long drive rather than beside some guy he only tolerated.

When they got to the airport, Nikolai helped Beth-Anne carry her stuff even though she insisted she could do it by herself. Brett and Jordy each had a backpack, and Brett had his skate carrier, but it seemed they were sharing a suitcase. The thing Jordy heaved out of the back of the truck was huge, but he didn't appear to have any difficulty with it. The last item was a red garment bag that Nikolai knew would have Brett's costumes in it. Jordy handed that to Brett and took charge of the gigantic suitcase himself, and then the four of them trooped into the airport together.

At such an early hour, there wasn't much of a lineup yet and check-in was relatively easy. Nikolai waited for them. He decided he'd go with them as far as he was permitted, which was all the way to security. That's where they are now.

Standing in the large, open space near the doors to the security area, Brett looks terrified. There's no trace of his typical bravado. He seems far younger than his fourteen years, and he's clinging to Jordy like his life depends on not letting go.

The image of Brett as a frightened child is made even more pronounced by Jordy's physical size. The top of Brett's head only comes up to his broad chest, and his arms are nearly twice as big around as Brett's.

Regardless of Jordy's imposing stature, however, Nikolai is certain there isn't a mean bone in the man's body. He gives the impression of being a natural-born caregiver, and Nikolai can't help admiring his patience with Brett's behaviour.

But, just because Jordy doesn't seem frustrated or irritated, this doesn't necessarily mean he's tolerant of Brett's nonsense. When Nikolai starts to talk to Brett, to wish him luck, the teenager turns away from him and hides his face against Jordy's chest. Jordy's immediate response is to admonish him.

The big man leans in to speak quietly to the boy, the beads at the ends of his braids clicking together gently as he bends his head forward. "Brett, that's not how we behave. Your friend is speaking to you."

"Don't wanna talk to him," Brett mumbles into the fabric of Jordy's coat.

"Don't be rude, please," Jordy says. "There are lots of things we don't want to do in life, but we need to do them because it's the right thing to do."

"I just wanna go," Brett says. "Hanging around here is stressing me out."

"We'll go through security in a minute, Brett," Beth-Anne interjects. "Just let Nikolai say what he wanted to tell you."

"All I wanted was to say good luck," Nikolai says. "You're going to do great, Brett. It's always stressful beforehand, but you've been looking awesome in practice and you know what you're doing, so just have fun with it and the rest will fall right into place."

Brett finally looks up at that. "You actually think I'm worried about the competition?"

Caught off-guard, Nikolai stammers, “You're... not?"

"It's not the competition. It's the flying," Jordy explains. "He doesn't like it, and we can't give him anything to help with the airsickness because... y'know. Drug tests."

"Sorry." Nikolai says. "Yeah, I do know, actually."

"Oh, that's right," Brett ventures, finally letting go of Jordy and standing up straight. "Beth-Anne said you don't like flying either."

"That'd be an understatement." Nikolai says. "I'd call it a win if I made it through an entire flight without throwing up."

Brett wrinkles his nose. "Eww... At least I've never done that."

"Consider yourself lucky. Throwing up and crying on an airplane full of strangers is definitely not a good look, and nobody wants to be next to the guy puking on the plane."

"Gross," Brett says, but then he flashes a quick, cheeky grin. "So, I guess that means I handle flying better than you do."

Nikolai returns the grin. "Gold medal to you for that. And I meant what I said. Have fun, and I hope you kick ass over there. It's your last season at Junior level, so make it one nobody forgets."

“Don’t worry. I will. When I debut in Senior division next season, everybody’s already gonna know my name,” Brett declares. “Too bad you’re not gonna be competing. It’d be fun to challenge you.”

“It’s lucky for you I’m not competing. I’d polish the ice so thoroughly with your scrawny butt, everybody'd call you Zamboni afterwards.”

“You would not.”

“You don’t think? When my leg gets better, maybe we should find out.”

Brett turns to fully face him. He meets his gaze and holds it, and Nikolai sees the unmistakable gleam in his eyes of a true competitor who can't resist any challenge, no matter how big or small. “Is that an invitation to a competition? ‘Cause if it is, you’re on."

"Absolutely," Nikolai says. "Beth-Anne can be the judge."

"There’ll be plenty of people around the rink who can be judges for us, but I think we probably won’t need much help figuring out the winner.”

"You're right." Nikolai can feel his smile spreading across his face. “No question, it'll be me."

"We'll see," Brett says.

This is the point at which Beth-Anne intervenes.

"Okay, boys. That's enough." She gives each of them a stern look. "Nikolai, you should know better, and Brett..." She trails off, shaking her head. "No, you know what? Never mind. We'll discuss this when we get back."

Undeterred, Brett says, "Yeah, we can discuss how I'm gonna make him look like yesterday's news."

"Brett, weren't you in a hurry to get through security?" Beth-Anne asks. She waves in the direction of the wide glass doors. "Why don't you and Jordy go ahead? I want to talk to Nikolai for a minute, and then I'll catch up with you, all right?"

Brett looks like he might protest, but seems to think better of it when Jordy lifts their carry-on bags from the floor and passes Brett's to him. "Come along, Brett. It'll be hard to win anything in Seoul if you're not on the plane when it leaves."

They head off toward the security area, and Brett walks calmly beside Jordy for several steps, but then he puts his bags down and runs ahead. Once he's built up some momentum he does a neat little one and a half rotation jump that brings him back down to face in Nikolai and Beth-Anne's direction again.

He waves at Nikolai and calls out, "See you later... Zamboni!"

Nikolai loses it. He doesn't even bother attempting to stifle his laughter as he watches an exasperated Jordy gather up Brett's skate carrier and backpack and hurry after him. Brett is jogging backwards, probably so he can see Nikolai's reaction. Nikolai sticks his tongue out at him.

"Cheeky little shit," Beth-Anne says, but she's laughing too.

"I can tell you love him," Nikolai says.

"What can I say?" she responds. "Apparently, I have a thing for troublemakers."

Nikolai feigns innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Like hell you don't," she scoffs. "You're the biggest goddamned troublemaker of all, Nikolai Pavlenko." But, a second later her arms are around him and she's hugging him tight. "Thank you."

He laughs as he reciprocates the embrace. "Way to send mixed messages, coach."

"Brett's probably going to be thinking about that ridiculous challenge all day," she says. "You know how reckless that was, challenging him like that? But, I'd much rather have him obsessing about how he's going to come up with a way to beat you than for him to dwell on how much he hates flying."

"So... what I'm hearing is that you think I can win the challenge?"

With her arms still around him, she swats him lightly on the back. "Fuck off! That's not what I said at all. And who says I'm even going to let either of you do it?"

"You mean... you can stop us?"

"Oh my God. I'm about to fucking disown you," she says, but no sooner than these words are out of her mouth, she's squeezing him once again. "For what it's worth though, I do think you'd win the challenge. I also think it's a fucking stupid idea, but it if motivates Brett and gives you something to look forward to, then I guess I'll agree to it."

"And you'll help me get ready for it?"

"How about I train the two of you together?" she says. "You can see up close how I work with someone at Brett's skill level, and I think he'll learn a lot from watching you. But," she adds, her tone suddenly no-nonsense. "All this is conditional, do you understand? If the doctor and the sports therapist fully clear you, we'll do it, but if they say no spins and no jumping..."

"I hope they don't say that."

"Do everything they tell you and keep your fingers crossed, and maybe they won't."

"You know what I want? I want to be able to do everything on the ice that I could do before. I wouldn't be able to keep up with a competitive training schedule, obviously, but... I want to jump again."

"I know you do," she says quietly.

"And I really want to do this challenge with Brett if I can, even if it is kind of stupid."

"I know that too." She's trembling a little, and he wonders what she's thinking. They stand together silently until she composes herself and lowers her arms at last. She takes a step back. "Okay, I'd better go. I'll give you a call when we get there."

"Okay," he says.

"You take care of yourself while I'm gone. Do your physio exercises, and don't forget about your appointment at the sports medicine clinic. Hang up your wet towels, and eat real meals, not just peanut butter toast all the time, and—"

'Beth-Anne, I'll be fine," he says. "If I need anything, I know who to call, and I promise I'll do all my exercises and go to my doctor's appointment and eat lots of protein. It'll be okay."

"Sorry. It's just... I'm not a hundred percent okay with leaving you. Plus, it's strange, being at the airport with you but leaving you behind."

"Yeah, but you don't really want to get on a plane with me and my delicate equilibrium."

"Delicate equilibrium," she echoes. "Well, that's one way of describing it. And maybe I don't love sitting next to you on a long flight, but it's being at the destination with you that I'm going to miss."

"Me too," he says. "But, you know what? Brett's not that much older than Eden, so maybe if everything goes the way we think it should, there'll be a day in the future when we'll be travelling to the same destinations again. You never know, right?"

"If I didn't already say so, it's good to see this side of you," she says. "I was beginning to wonder where my sunshine went."

"Just stuck behind a cloud for a while, that's all."

"Fucking clouds, always messing things up."

They always disappear eventually, though." He picks up her backpack and skate bag and hands them to her. "Here, you'd better take these. Not that I'm in a hurry to part ways, but you might miss your flight if we keep trying to have a long goodbye like this."

"Right," she says as she takes her things from him. "Christ, I'm fucking awful at goodbyes. I better haul ass before this gets any worse."

"I'll see you in a week. Good luck, and don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That leaves it wide open, doesn’t it?”

"Go on," he says. "Brett and Jordy are waiting for you. You got this. Tell Brett I'll be watching on TV and cheering him on."

She offers him a grateful smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he says, as he watches her rush off.

The drive back to town feels long and lonely. Even with his favourite classic rock music blasting from the radio and a beautiful early morning sky overhead, he can't help feeling a little sad. He hadn't wanted to say anything to Beth-Anne since it was clear she was already worried, but being left behind feels strange to him too. Naturally, Beth-Anne has travelled without him before, with her other students and for her own personal reasons, but this was the first time they'd been at the airport together without both having a ticket for the same flight. He'd gotten through the actual experience at the airport, but now that he's on his own, he's not at all confident about it.

I'm just going to have to keep myself busy while she's gone, he tells himself. That's what Beth-Anne would tell me to do. Keep busy, so I don't dwell on stuff.

With Beth-Anne away, her group classes will be cancelled for the week, as well as the individual lessons for Eden and the two Novice level girls, Ruby and Katie. It's highly likely that Mariah will come to the rink to skate on her own, and perhaps thirteen-year-old Ruby might do the same, but Nikolai isn't allowed to work with either of them without Beth-Anne's supervision. He can watch, but that's about it, and now that he's started helping with the group classes and with Eden's and Katie's individual lessons, he's not sure he'll be content to simply watch any more.

So, if I'm not going to the rink, what am I supposed to do?

He makes a mental list of the possibilities. He'll visit his parents, of course, and he'll probably have dinner with his sister and brother-in-law at least once. There's his doctor's appointment, his daily walks on the treadmill, his and Ginger's planned bowling and pizza night, and he's positive that Grandpa wouldn't mind if he came over to hang out.

At first, this seems more than sufficient to occupy him, but he quickly realizes it's not going to fill an entire week. He pictures himself doing a lot of reading and playing a lot of video games to pass the time.

Then, he thinks about Anya. He's seen her at the arena a handful of times over the past few weeks, but they haven't spoken, and they only text each other sporadically now. This week might be a good time to meet with her and discuss their relationship. Maybe later in the week, because has to talk himself up and somehow convince himself he's brave enough to do it, and that might take a bit of time.

Ginger might be able to give me a pep talk.

He pictures Ginger's reaction if he asked her to do that, and he wants to laugh. She'd probably tell him to march in there like there's no way he could lose. "Approach it like a competition," she'd say.

Oddly, this sounds like good advice even if it's only in his imagination and not technically from his friend. Maybe he can do it, even if he's scared. He's been scared before competitions too, but he's come out on top more than he hasn't, so there must be some merit in that idea.

By the time he gets home, he feels better.

He thought it'd be weird to stay at Beth-Anne's house without her, but the moment he walks in the door it occurs to him that he thinks of it as home just as much as he does his own place. Inside, the air is warm and smells faintly of the French toast he'd made for breakfast. Their empty breakfast dishes are still on the table, and Beth-Anne's blue oversized cardigan is slung haphazardly over the back of a chair. Elvis the cat is asleep in his favourite spot atop the fridge.

Nikolai shrugs out of his coat and tugs off his sneakers. The kitchen is going to need some attention, but it can wait for an hour or two. First, he wants to write in his journal and then take a nap.

He wouldn't normally nap in the morning, but his knee hurts and he thinks the best cure would be an ibuprofen and some rest. He can sort out the mess in the kitchen after that, and then try to find something to do for the rest of the day.

In his room, he changes out of his jeans and sweater and into a comfortable pair of sweatpants and his favourite t-shirt. As he's folding his sweater and putting it back into one of his suitcases, something at the back of the closet catches his eye. It's the cardboard box he'd noticed when he first came to stay; the one with his costumes from the Four Continents in it. He'd meant to go through it and see what else was inside, but he'd been so caught up in going to the rink with Beth-Anne, learning to cook and do his own laundry, doing physio, and working on his new blog that it hadn't crossed his mind.

Well, no time like the present, I guess.

He really is curious, now that he thinks about it. Slipping quickly into the room's adjoining bathroom, he downs two ibuprofen tablets with lukewarm water, and then returns to haul the box out of the closet. He places it on the bed and climbs up after it.

With a pillow tucked under his sore knee and another behind his back, and the cardboard box beside him, he takes a deep breath before grasping the flaps of the box and pulling them open.

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 10)

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—————

Nikolai thinks he’s starting to develop a greater appreciation for how it must feel to be a piece of luggage, being transported from place to place and spending lots of time in guest rooms. In the warm and welcoming atmosphere of Stanislav and Milena Kovac’s house, however, it’s difficult to find a reason to complain about it. Thanks to Milena's superb cooking and the couple's lifelong creed that anyone who eats and sleeps under their roof is family, Nikolai's belly and heart are full — a fully-packed suitcase? — and for the first time in weeks, he feels almost completely relaxed.

Stan had invited both him and Beth-Anne to spend the night. He would’ve been perplexed by this seemingly random proposition if he hadn’t already been staying at Beth-Anne’s house. Admittedly, he hadn't been in a fit state to notice much of anything during his first few nights at her place, but the longer he's there, the more he observes.

Although Beth-Anne hasn't said anything directly, it's obvious she's struggling, maybe even more than Nikolai is himself. Psychologically speaking, he's still not feeling one hundred percent, but due in no small part to Beth-Anne's love, friendship and steady, nurturing presence, he's getting better each day. What worries him at the moment, though, is that taking care of him may be too much for her. He's nearly made up his mind that as soon as he's off his crutches, he's going home.

It shouldn't be much longer before the sports therapist and the doctor clear him to start consistently bearing weight on his injured leg. It had hurt when he'd put weight on it at the rink several days ago, but the pain hadn't been intolerable and his leg had supported him. He's been testing it tentatively each day since then, and he's sure it's improving. Maybe next week he'll be able to walk further than from his room to the bathroom without needing the support of crutches. Maybe just the knee brace will do.

He does the mental equivalent of shaking his head. Really, he should already be walking without crutches. His healing process was set back by his fall on the stairs, and despite the fact that the doctor had determined it likely wouldn't affect the outcome of his recovery, he's still upset and annoyed.

During his last checkup, which was just this morning, he'd received the news that he'll be able to walk and run normally once he's fully healed, and that there's a high probability he'll eventually be able to skate again too. Not competitively, of course. He'd already known his competing days were over, but the revelation that he might not have to give up skating entirely fills him with hope. It makes the loss of his competitive career a little easier to accept, and the idea of becoming a skating coach more attractive as an option.

Now, he's not so much depressed about being kept off the ice as he is irritated that his return to it has been delayed by his mishap on the stairs. Mostly, he's mad at Anya, because the reason he's still hobbling around on crutches instead of walking independently, exercising on the treadmill, and building up his leg strength is her fault.

Well... maybe not totally Anya's fault, he amends.

True, Anya did hide his crutches in an upstairs closet, essentially confining him to the first floor of their home. She had left him alone for three days and only thought to come back and check on him when he stopped replying to her texts. His fall on the stairs had happened ostensibly because he’d been trying to go up to get his crutches, but he'd also been looking for his cat, Tangerine.

Tangerine is old and no longer the athlete she once was. Her latest obsession is sleeping in the laundry hamper, but the problem is that once she gets in, she sometimes has trouble getting back out. After calling her repeatedly and getting no response, he feared that she might be trapped yet again, and he wanted to find her. Unfortunately, he didn't get that far.

It was hours later, after a dozen frantic texts to his absent wife, that he learned Anya had taken the cat with her. Tangerine was fine, which was more than Nikolai could've said for himself.

Still, he reasons, he shouldn't lay all the blame for his setback on Anya. He could have called somebody for help. Grandpa, Natascha, Ginger, Beth-Anne... somebody. His family and every one of his friends would've come to his rescue, if only he'd been thinking clearly enough to reach out.

But, you weren't thinking clearly, he reminds himself. He'd been so distraught over everything that had happened to him, he'd felt the only solution would be to pour himself a stiff drink, use it to chase down every single tablet in the vial of painkillers the doctor had given him, and then lie down and drift gently into oblivion.

Thank God for Beth-Anne. She hadn't hesitated for a moment when he finally called her, desperate and terrified, in the middle of the night. The bottle of pills had been in the pocket of his shorts. He'd been touching it while he was talking to her, and he'd kept his hand on it until he heard the low rumble of her truck on the quiet street.

Her arms around him as they sat together on the floor in his front hallway felt lifesaving to him. Her embrace didn't take away the pain, but it did make him glad to be alive and able to appreciate it. It took away the lonliness and some of the fear.

You're saving me, he'd wanted to tell her, but all he'd been able to do was cry, too exhausted and broken down to even find the words to thank her.

Everything has improved since then for him, but now it seems Beth-Anne is the one who's fading.

Currently, they're lying side by side on the queen size bed in the Kovacs' guest room, watching a movie on the flat screen TV that's mounted on the wall above the wide, low dresser. Nikolai had picked something at random from the basket of DVDs on the bookcase and popped it into the DVD player without even glancing at the title.

He supposes it's generous to say they're watching it. Really, they'd only put it on in the first place so they wouldn't be able to hear Stan and Milena upstairs. Apparently unconcerned by the presence of houseguests, the Kovacs hadn't gone to sleep immediately after retiring to their room.

It's such a typical Stan move, not to be inhibited by other people in the house, and from what Nikolai knows of Milena, she wouldn't be telling Stan to control himself. He suspects it's more likely she'd be encouraging him, not that it'd take much. Nikolai wants to laugh.

Good for them, he thinks. If they're still getting it on at sixty, they're winning at life, and far be it from him to judge them for it. He hopes he's as energetic at their age, and that he'll have an enthusiastic partner to help him burn off some of that energy.

Nikolai checks his fitness tracker. The little digital time display says it's 11:37 p.m. For him, it's late. He's usually in bed and asleep by half-past ten, and up again at five in the morning.

Beth-Anne is an early riser as well, and no doubt it's also past her normal bedtime. When he glances over at her, he sees she's still awake too, although she looks like she might doze off any second. He thinks about asking her if she's planning to head upstairs to the room Stan and Milena offered her for the night, but something tells him she'd say no.

They're both going to fall asleep right here, he realizes, together on this big bed, with their daytime clothes on, and some random film playing way too loud on the TV.

He's okay with that.

Determined that he's at least going to have a pillow under him when he crashes, he turns around awkwardly and crawls toward the head of the bed. He takes his glasses off and sets them on the bedside table, and then reaches down to retrieve Champion from the top of his backpack, which is leaning against the table's sturdy base.

He debates whether to get under the blankets or not. His hoodie and sweatpants would probably keep him warm enough without a blanket, but he'll be more comfortable in his t-shirt with a blanket over him, so he tugs the thick hooded sweatshirt off. Sweatpants are perfectly acceptable to sleep in, he decides. He doesn't feel like digging around in his bag for the PJ pants he'd brought, and he's way too tired to trudge to the bathroom to change into them anyway.

"What're you doing?" Beth-Anne asks, just as he's clumsily situating himself and his teddy bear under the covers.

For half a second, he's confused by the question because what he's doing seems obvious. "Um... going to bed?" he says, somehow making it sound like he's questioning it now as well.

"Oh," says Beth-Anne. "Right. Good idea."

Then, with an utter lack of fanfare that still manages to astound him despite his having already half-expected it, she slips out of her own hoodie and drops it over the side of the bed. She's wearing a hot pink tank top emblazoned with the slogan 'LEZ GO!' in glittery rainbow text. According to her, she'd "never be caught dead in pink" but last summer's shirt of choice for the Brindleton Bay Pride Festival is evidently her one exception. He makes an inelegant snorting noise in his attempt to stifle a laugh.

"What?" Beth-Anne demands.

"Pink." It's all he needs to say.

"Shut it, smartass," she says, but she's smiling. He hasn't seen her smile in days, and he's strangely gratified that their inside joke from last summer has coaxed the expression out.

"Sorry," he says, but he isn't.

She wriggles under the blankets next to him and turns onto her side so that they're facing each other. "You gonna turn that TV off?"

"The remote is closer to you," he tells her.

She groans loudly, but rolls back the other way to grab the TV remote off the nightstand. She flicks the television off. His contribution is to turn off the small lamp on the table on his side of the bed. The room falls into shadow.

Nikolai closes his eyes. Beneath the blanket, he flexes his leg and discovers he can fully straighten it without any pain.

Soon...

He imagines walking on his own, running, lacing up his skates and stepping onto the ice. In his mind's eye, he sees himself doing complex step sequences, spins and jumps. There won't be any more competitions, but if he works hard enough, he'll be able to regain all his strength and rebuild his skills. Then, maybe he can teach someone else and watch them skate their way to a top-three finish at a big event.

He runs his fingertips over Champion's little plastic medal and remembers how good that very first victory had felt. For a kid who'd been told he wouldn't amount to anything as an athlete, he'd certainly proved that old coach of his wrong. Six World Championship medals in eleven full seasons at Senior level isn't nothing. He's somebody in this sport, and he's accomplished a lot, and...

And I'm not done yet.

The thought streaks into his mind like a lightning flash. He's not done yet. He can still be a part of the sport. He can teach and support someone the way Beth-Anne has done for him, and maybe he can make as big a difference in the lives of other people as she's done in his life.

In the darkness, he says softly, "Beth-Anne?"

"Hmm...?"

"I'm going to do it.”

"Do what?" she asks sleepily.

"I'm going to be a coach. I want you to teach me everything you know. Brett was wrong. I do belong at the rink, and I'm going back to show him exactly how wrong he is."

Beth-Anne doesn't reply immediately and he thinks perhaps she's fallen asleep, but then he feels movement under the covers. She slides her hand across the mattress until she finds his, and she grips his fingers with fierce strength.

Another second or two goes by before he realizes she's crying. He squeezes her hand and says her name quietly. "Are you okay?"

"No, but I will be," she says. "It might take a while, but I think if we stick together, we're both gonna be okay."

“If that’s what you need, then consider yourself stuck with me, coach.”

“Never stop calling me that, okay? It feels like ‘auntie’ or ‘mom’. I need that. I… I need… family.”

“If it means anything, having you in my life is like having a second mom. A bonus mom.”

“I like that.”

“Remember how you promised you’d stay with me as long as I wanted you to?”

“Yeah.”

“That goes both ways, you know.”

He already knows what the response will be, even before she whispers it into the darkness. “Forever.”

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 9)

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—————

"You would've made a great parent," Stan says.

Stan and Beth-Anne are sitting at a table by the window in their favourite waterfront café. From their spot, they can see the wide wooden boardwalk and the grey expanse of the mist-veiled harbour beyond it. The pewter coloured sky is promising more snow, but Beth-Anne doesn't mind. Winter is her favourite season. She loves how soft and harmless everything looks when covered by a fresh snowfall. The snow creates a dreamlike image with no deep shadows or sharp edges, and nothing that hints at the harshness of the real world.

At this time of year, the boardwalk is quiet and mostly deserted, and that's how Beth-Anne likes it best. She prefers an uninterrupted view of the sea, and it's much easier to gather her thoughts when there isn't a crowd. Even from behind a window, the sight of the empty boardwalk and the slowly undulating ocean water helps to settle her.

She's not entirely calm, but she reflects that she's certainly felt worse.

She has just finished pouring her heart out to Stan about the metaphorical roller coaster she's been on. She told him all about the confrontation between Brett and Nikolai, her chat with Brett afterwards and her misgivings about the stability of his home life, and her persistent worry that Nikolai isn't showing much progress in recovering from the incident, even after several days.

To add to her troubles, Eden's parents seem to have developed a sudden and deep-seated fear that their child will get seriously hurt at the rink, and informed her this morning that they want to pull him out of both group classes and individual training.

Although they didn't come out and say it directly, Beth-Anne suspects this has to do with Nikolai and his injury. The Seong family doesn't know Nikolai. He and Eden are definitely aware of each other, but they've never met. Still, if Evie and George Seong are even half as tuned-in to the skating world as their son, she doesn't doubt they know all about what happened at the Four Continents.

Predictably, Eden didn't take his parents' expression of their concerns very well. The skating-obsessed little boy had reacted by creating the most dramatic scene possible; refusing to take his skates off, throwing himself to the ice and howling for all he was worth when his mother and father came to pick him up.

Beth-Anne sighs. All she needs now is for something to happen to make Mariah cry, and her students will have completed a streak.

"I'd be a shit parent," she says to Stan. "I can barely cope with the four kids I've got, and they're not even mine. Well, three I guess, since Nikolai is hardly a kid. Two, if I lose little Eden."

"You're not going to lose him," Stan predicts. "Kid with that much talent? Christ, from what I've seen, some day he might even be better than Nikolai. His parents would be out of their minds to make him quit."

"Tell that to them."

"I won't have to. If he can't make it clear to them himself, what's gonna happen if they pull him off the ice will do the job. I've watched him skate, and I swear to God... that child's entire body language shouts pure joy when he's out there. What do you think would happen if they took that away from him?"

"I don't want to think about that," she says. "I can't think about another one of my boys fading away." Her throat hurts, and the half-eaten slice of raspberry cheesecake on the plate in front of her no longer looks appetizing. Her stomach clenches as if she might be sick. "Everything's so fucked up right now, and I don't know what to do."

"Beth, look at me." Stan reaches across the small table and covers her hand with his. "Take a deep breath, and then tell me how much of the shit that's going on right now is actually something you can control."

She tries to meet his gaze, but her eyes start to sting and she lowers her head so he won't have a full view of her if she starts crying. "I... I don't know."

"Yes, you do." Stan's tone is firm, but not unkind. "You have no control over other people's choices. You have no control over how they act or what they feel. The only person you have control over is you, and when shit gets bad, the only feelings and actions you're responsible for are yours."

"Yeah, but—"

"No 'buts'. You know I'm right."

"I guess."

"No 'guess', either."

"Sorry."

"Tell me something," Stan says. "Are you being kind and fair? Are you really listening to your kids and doing your best to understand what they need?"

"Yeah."

"And are you helping them get what they need?"

"Of course," she says. "As best as I'm able to."

"Then, you're doing fine." Stan squeezes her hand lightly. "Those three boys and Mariah, they love you. Anyone can see that, and anyone can see how much you love them. You don't need to be able to fix everything. You just need to be present for them, and it sounds like you are, so how about you stop beating yourself up, yeah?"

"I want them to be happy. I hate it when they're hurting."

"I know." Stan still hasn't let go of her hand. He grips it a little tighter and adds softly. "Just like I hate it when you're hurting. You think I don't wish I could wave a magic wand and take all the pain away from you? If I could do that, I would, but I can't."

She turns her hand so she can finally grasp his fingers in return. "This is enough," she says. "You being here with me. Being my friend and listening to all my problems."

"It's enough for your students too," he tells her. "Most people aren't looking for miracles."

"Is it going to get better?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

"Yeah, but... can you just tell me, please? I need to hear somebody say it."

"It'll get better. It always does." He smiles. "Your boys will be fine. Little Eden will get to keep skating, and Brett will grow out of needing to be constantly reassured, and Nikolai won't grieve forever."

"And what about me?" she asks.

Stan's gaze on her is steady. "There's more on your mind than all the stuff with your boys."

It's not a question. He knows her well enough that he doesn't need confirmation. What he's really doing is offering her an easy entry into talking about it. Stan is good at that, getting people to open up to him.

She closes her eyes and concentrates on the warmth of his hand. Stan isn't a physically affectionate person, but he knows when she needs grounding and he knows how to do it.

He'd sat with her and held her hand for hours when she'd been recovering in the hospital after her accident. He'd read books to her, some in English and some in his native Czech, so that she could hear his voice without having to say anything in reply. He'd dried her tears like no one else in her life had ever done. Stan has never been repulsed by her scars, never been afraid of her past.

Stan Kovac loves her like her parents should have. There's never been any question in her mind about that. He's not her real father, but he's the father she needs.

"It's the nightmares," she practically whispers. "The nightmares are back. Flashbacks too."

"How long?" Stan asks.

"I've been having nightmares since Four Continents. The flashbacks... they started up again a few days ago."

"And the drinking?" he probes gently. "That too?"

She shakes her head. "No. I promised you I wouldn't, and I meant it. I almost slipped up, but I got scared. Of what would happen, I mean. What I might do."

"You should've called me."

"I was scared."

Her voice is barely audible, but Stan still catches her words. "I wouldn't have judged you, little bee. You know that," he says. "Milena and I would've taken care of you. You and your Nikolai both."

"I'm sorry."

"No," he murmurs. "No, miláčku. You have nothing to apologize for. You're doing your best, and I know you've been trying very hard to manage everything. No one should expect more from you than that."

She tries to keep it together, but hearing him use the same term of endearment for her that he uses for Alžběta, his own daughter, causes something inside her to break. She's been holding so much in, fighting so damn hard to be strong for everyone, when all she really wants is to let go. She longs for somebody to take over the fight for her, just for a little while, so she can rest and not have to worry or be afraid. She wants someone to protect her like a parent protects their small child, to shield her from all the monsters waiting in dark closets, hungry to destroy her.

Without warning, an involuntary whimper escapes her. She pulls her hand away from Stan's and presses it over her trembling lips instead. Her eyes are streaming tears, blurring the world around her so that her surroundings no longer have meaning.

Stan doesn't say anything. He stands up, pulls some cash from his pocket and places it on the table between their two unfinished dessert plates. Then, he’s standing next to her chair, taking the hand that's not covering her mouth. He leads her toward the door, and then outside into the chilly February air.

Out on the boardwalk, Stanislav Kovac who rarely hugs anybody, pulls her into his arms and holds her tight. The last vestiges of her self-control disappear. She buries her face in the scratchy, vaguely peppermint-scented warmth of his old wool coat and lets out all her frustration, self-doubt, exhaustion, pain and fear in sobs that threaten to take her breath away.

She has no idea how long they stand there, but eventually her tears run out. She feels drained, and she doesn't want to move. In the back of her mind, she even wonders if she can. It would be nice to stay in the safety of Stan's embrace forever, as impossible as she knows it is.

"Let's go home, little bee," Stan says.

She tries to reply, but the only sound her aching throat produces is a tiny, pitiful squeak. She wants to tell him she likes hearing him call her 'little bee'. The pet name he gave her years ago is hers alone, and it speaks volumes to her desperate heart.

"We'll stop by your house first," he continues. "You'll need some things if Milena and I are going to keep you for the night."

"Wh-what... what about Nikolai?" she somehow manages to ask.

"We'll bring him as well, if he wants to come," says Stan. "There's plenty of room for both of you. He can have the downstairs guest room, and you can have Alžběta's old room. We've redecorated it. I think you'll like it."

She moves her head against his shoulder in her best version of a nod. "Okay."

"You can have a nice meal and a hot bath and a good long sleep. If you're feeling better in the morning, then we'll talk. Okay? And if you think you need a professional, I'll help you get in touch with somebody."

She sniffles. "No. I had my fill of shrinks a long time ago. I just... I need to tell somebody everything. And I need someone to tell me I'm going to be okay, that I'm not too fucked up to be normal. That I'm not broken."

Stan strokes the back of her head, just once, smoothing down her windblown hair. "We're all broken, Beth. Every one of us in our own way, and that's all right. It's okay to be broken. The important thing is not to let yourself believe you can never be mended."

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 8)

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__________

Beth-Anne is furious.

She tries never to lose her temper with her students, but she’s as fallible as everyone else. As hard as she’s worked on her patience and self-control over the years, she still has a breaking point, and sometimes the kids will push her beyond it.

Today, the perpetrator is Brett.

He’s not a bad kid. None of her students are. Sure, they have their share of personal drama, and the teenagers in particular can be mercurial. They know how to press all her metaphorical buttons, not to mention each other's, but for the most part they support one another even if they aren't all best friends all the time. She's rarely known any of them to be blatantly disrespectful to her or to each other.

But, of course, there are always exceptions.

In hindsight, maybe she shouldn't have been surprised when she'd returned to the practice rink to discover a clearly upset Nikolai escaping into the corridor and a smug-looking Brett leaning against the boards with one toe pick stuck casually into the ice, but she was. She was so startled, in fact, that she utterly failed to react for a second or two.

Nikolai had already gone past her before she remembered her voice and asked him what was wrong. He replied, though she couldn't be certain what he said. She thought it sounded like "I'm going home."

For a moment, she was torn between heading for the ice or catching up with Nikolai. It was fairly obvious something had transpired between him and Brett, and she wanted to make sure he was okay, but she also had a job to do that she'd already neglected far longer than she should have.

Brett can wait a few more minutes, she decided.

She set her skate bag on the floor and then hurried down the corridor after Nikolai. With the advantage of two healthy legs, it was easy enough for her to get ahead of him. She halted in front of him so that he was compelled to stop as well.

"I thought I asked you to tell me if you wanted to go home," she said.

"I just did."

"Right. I suppose it won't do any good to ask you what happened."

Nikolai looked up at her, and the only way she could describe the expression on his face was despair. His voice trembled. "This was a mistake. I don't belong here."

She can acknowledge now, she didn't know what to do. She wanted to comfort him, to pull him into an embrace and tell him that wasn't true and that he most certainly does belong here, but she sensed he wouldn't like her touching him just then and he probably wouldn't have believed any reassurances she might've given anyway. Feeling helpless, all she could think to say was, "How are you planning to get home? I can't take you right now."

"Bus, I guess," he said.

"No," she said. "It's too cold and icy for you to try to walk all the way to the bus stop. Do you think you can drive?"

His tone was bemused. "Anya probably has the car, so..."

"If you can manage driving, you can take my truck," she told him.

After a brief pause, he said, "Okay."

She jogged back to where she'd left her bag and dug the keys out of one of its small outer pockets. Returning to Nikolai and placing the keychain in his hand, she said firmly, "The house key is on there too. You text me when you get home, okay? As soon as you get there. Understand?"

"I will."

"We'll talk when I get home."

"Okay."

She had no idea if they'd actually discuss anything once they were both at home again or not, but she told herself this wasn't the time to dwell on it. She watched Nikolai until he disappeared around the corner.

Now, she's standing outside the entrance to the practice rink, skate bag in hand, doing her best to compose herself and to not jump to any unfounded conclusions. Although she can probably guess with some accuracy what took place before she arrived, she has to remind herself that she has almost no facts.

Steadying herself with a deep breath and a long, slow exhale, she pulls open the door and steps through it. Brett is precisely where she'd last seen him, and he's still wearing the same shit-eating grin.

One look at that arrogant little smirk and all her effort to stay calm flies out the proverbial window.

Fuck it. I'm going to find out exactly what went down, and then this kid is getting a piece of my mind.

She doesn't waste time pausing at the benches to put her skates on. She marches confidently across the slick surface of the ice until she's face-to-face with her teenage student. Skipping over the usual greetings and pleasantries, she goes straight to, "Tell me what just happened. The truth, Brett. I don't want any of your usual bullshit, got it?"

The corner of his mouth twists like he's trying not to laugh at some joke only he knows. "What do you think happened?"

"I'm not in the guessing business," she says.

"It was nothing," says Brett. "All I did was tell the truth. I guess some people are too sensitive to handle that."

She doesn't miss the emphasis he puts on 'sensitive'. He says it like it's bad. She bites back the urge to tell him he could do with a little sensitivity. He could learn a thing or two from someone like Nikolai.

Brett's condescending attitude infuriates her, and she wonders if he's aware of what he's provoking. Anger is her demon, and she has to fight like hell to keep it in check. It terrifies her, but at the same time a small part of her relishes how powerful it makes her feel. She is in charge of this situation, not him. There's a hierarchy here, and she's the person at the top of it.

She takes another stride forward until she's close enough for the toe of her right boot to touch the toe pick of Brett's left skate. He's a handful of centimetres taller than her and she has to tilt her chin a little to meet his eyes, but that doesn't deter her.

She stares into his face, and in a voice that sounds way more quiet and calm than she feels, she says, "What happened? Tell me. Now."

Brett stares back at her. She can feel her pulse in her throat.

Four or five more heartbeats tick by, and then Brett lowers his gaze. He stammers, "Can you... can you, uh... take a step back? Please?"

She complies with the request, but she doesn't take her eyes off him. "Tell me what happened."

It's evident to her that he doesn't want to confess his role, but he probably feels like he hasn't got a choice at this point. He opens his mouth to speak, and his voice cracks on the first syllable. That's as far as he gets. His eyes go wide, and he swallows so hard that she's able to see a slight ripple of the skin at his throat.

He's scared, she realizes.

Her first reaction is, Good. He should be scared.

As soon as the thought forms, she immediately regrets it. Her goal hadn't been to frighten him, only to find out what had caused Nikolai to flee from the place in such a state of distress. It'd bothered her way more than she's willing to admit, seeing Nikolai crying like that, and a genius intellect wasn't required to figure out that Brett was at least partially responsible for it, but scaring the teenager wouldn't fix it. The only thing she's accomplished is to stick herself with the problem of two upset skaters instead of one.

Well done, Beth-Anne. Way to fuck shit up more than it already was.

"I'm sorry," Brett murmurs.

Beth-Anne's anger dissipates as quickly as it'd flared up, and just as quickly, shame and guilt rush in to fill the space it had occupied. She suddenly feels weak, and she becomes alarmingly aware that she's shaking.

"No, I'm sorry," she says.

"Am I in trouble?"

"No." She holds out her hand to him. "You're not in trouble, but we do need to talk. Can we do that?"

He doesn't take her hand, but she didn't really expect him to. However, he does follow her off the ice and then sits meekly beside her on a bench. "I'm really sorry," he says again. "I was in a bad mood, and seeing him here just made me mad, and... I don't know. I'm nervous about Junior Worlds and flying and... Everything this week just feels like, so unfair."

"This week's been pretty unfair to everybody," she says. "You, Mariah and little Eden. All the group class students."

"And Nikolai?"

"Him too. And me."

"I said some mean stuff to him."

"I assumed as much.”

"He cried," Brett says. "I didn't know he was gonna cry. It made me uncomfortable, but like... it also felt kinda good? Not good, but like I was in control of a situation for a change and I didn't want to stop myself once I got going, even though I knew I should. Does that even make any sense?"

The muscles of Beth-Anne's mouth twitch in an involuntary and probably very crooked smile. "Would it shock you if I said it makes perfect sense to me?"

"It does?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Are you gonna make me apologize?" he asks.

"No, I'm not," she tells him.

This time when he makes eye contact with her, she observes incredulity rather than fear. "But... you were literally terrifying a minute ago. I've never seen anybody get that mad, like ever. I figured you were going to yell at me and tell me I had to say sorry and… basically make me feel like shit about myself.”

“Have I ever yelled at you?” she asks.

“No, but I’ve never seen you that angry before either.”

“I shouldn’t have let myself get that angry," she says. "I was reacting instead of responding, and that wasn’t right. I'm supposed to be setting an example for you, but I guess I wasn't doing my job very well, was I?"

"You were," Brett says, and the words come out so softly that she's barely able to hear them. When she glances at him again, she sees tears tracing long, wet lines down his cheeks. He scrubs fiercely at his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffles and continues, "My mom... She gets mad and throws things. Not at me, but I still don't like it. And my dad sometimes gets in my face and yells, but... but he doesn't stop even when he knows I'm scared." He lifts his gaze to meet hers and whispers. "You stopped."

Beth-Anne doesn't know Brett's parents very well, but from all the times she's interacted with them, she has the impression Brett isn't particularly high on their list of priorities. If she were to guess, she would've said they hardly bother with him at all, much less take enough notice to get angry and scream at him. It's Brett's live-in tutor, Jordan — Jordy, as Brett affectionately calls him — whom Beth-Anne most often deals with, and it seems to her that Jordy parents him more than his parents do.

Christ, what a mess. What an absolute fucking train wreck this day is turning out to be.

Sadly, she knows a thing or two about being yelled at by an angry parent, and about being terrified of them. She understands how a kid will latch onto any adult that helps them feel safe. She'd done that with her skating coach when she was a kid, and with her older brother Jason. They did all they could, and she credits Jason for saving her in the end, but not before far too much damage had been done.

Without warning, her brain throws a vivid replay in front of her mind's eye; Claudia shrieking, blind drunk, and charging at eleven year old Beth-Anne and her little sister with the neck of a broken bottle clutched in her white-knuckled hand.

"Abby, run!" Beth-Anne had screamed so hard that it'd felt like something was ripping inside her throat, but little Abby was paralyzed with terror and didn't obey the command.

In this moment, Beth-Anne can’t remember what she or Abby had done to make Claudia so enraged. She only remembers grabbing her five year old sister, practically flinging her into the corner, and then shielding her as best as she was able to do with her own scrawny body.

Until that day, she hadn't had the slightest clue how much a human face could bleed. She also hadn’t grasped her full capacity for fear until then, and she genuinely believed her own wildly beating heart and oxygen-desperate lungs would kill her before her injuries did.

She's pulled out of the traumatic scene in her mind by the light touch of Brett’s fingertips on her knee. She blinks and nearly gasps. Brett is still crying, and now he looks as close to panic as Beth-Anne feels. She becomes conscious of hot tears on her own face.

"Are you okay?" Brett inquires.

She gulps air and somehow gets out, "I'm sorry. Yeah, I'm all right. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I... I guess so."

"Do you want to talk about it? Your parents, I mean."

He shakes his head. "No," he says, and then, "Why did you stop?"

He doesn't elaborate, but she knows what he's asking her.

Because I'm not my mother, she wants to tell him. Because even though you're not mine, I love you as if you are, and I never want to hurt you. But her eventual answer is, "Because anger doesn't solve anything. All it would've done would be to hurt you and make you not want to trust me any more."

He appears to consider that.

"Sometimes," he says at length, "I think you're one of the only people I can trust. You and Jordy. And like, I'm grateful, but sometimes it's still really hard 'cause I know my life isn't like other people's. LIke Mariah and Eden and Nikolai... they have normal families with normal parents. They go to regular school and do normal stuff with their families. Well... not Nikolai I guess. He doesn't live with his parents or go to school, but you know what I mean."

"I know," Beth-Anne says.

"And like, I kinda want Nikolai's life, or Mariah's. Not exactly their life, but something like it. You know?"

"I know," she says again. When she reaches out her hand this time, he takes it, and she squeezes his fingers gently. "When you're struggling, it's easy to wish you had a different life, but you know something? It's not always going to be the way it is now. You'll grow up and you'll learn a lot of things, and people will come into your life who'll change it for the better if you let them. And you can change your own life, too. You're the only one who can live it, and you're in charge of shaping it however you want."

"It doesn't feel like I'm in charge of anything."

"Sometimes it doesn't," she concedes. "It feels like that for adults sometimes too, like everything's gone to shit and there's nothing you can do about it, and sometimes there really is nothing you can do except hang on until it gets better. In times like that, the most important thing is how you respond."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's no use to blame people for things that no one has any control over, or to act like everyone's against you, or to be too proud to ask for help when you need it. Stuff like that. People will remember you for how you behave when circumstances are at their worst."

"So... you're saying Nikolai is going to remember that I was mean to him?"

"That wasn't the point I was trying to make," she says. "But, yeah. I think he'll remember, but I'm equally sure that if you ask him to forgive you, he will. Then he'll also remember that."

"You said you weren't going to make me apologize," Brett says.

"I'm not. I think you should apologize, but you're old enough not to need me or any other adult to make that choice for you. You should do it if you think it's the right thing to do, not because I think it is."

"Okay," he says. "Should I do it today?"

"Maybe give yourself some time to think about it," she suggests. "And give Nikolai a chance to settle down a little, too. He's going through a lot right now."

"Because of his leg?"

"Yes, but it's more than that. In a way, he's grieving because he's lost one of the most important things in his life. And I won't lie to you, watching him go through it is fucking tearing my heart out, so you can imagine how much worse it feels for him."

Brett pulls his lower lip between his teeth. "Yeah. But... you're helping him, right? Taking care of him?"

"That's my job," she says. "He's my friend."

"Am I your friend too?" he asks hesitantly, and he momentarily reminds her of a small child rather than a fourteen year old. It reinforces just how vulnerable he is, and how much he needs her protection and support.

Her heart aches with regret for her earlier actions. She wishes there was a way to erase that awful slip, but then she recollects the advice she'd just given him. People remember how you behave when circumstances are at their worst. Had she acquitted herself? Had she regained control before she'd caused him any harm? She assures herself that she did, because she thinks she likely wouldn't be sitting here and talking to him candidly like this if she hadn't.

"I like to think you and I are friends," she says.

"But Nikolai is your favourite."

"Maybe, but Nikolai is an adult, and we've known each other for a really long time. My friendship with him is different than my friendship with you," she says. "Anyway, it's okay to have favourites. That's just human nature. But, even if Nikolai is my favourite, that doesn't mean I wouldn't go to the ends of the Earth for you."

"You... would?"

"We've already been all over the world together, haven't we?"

This draws a tiny smile from him. "I like travelling with you. Flying isn't so bad when you and Jordy are there."

"I'm glad we make it a little easier for you."

"Yeah, but I still wish teleportation was a thing."

Despite herself, Beth-Anne laughs, and with her laughter some of the tension in her body falls away. "That would make it more convenient, wouldn't it? When you and Nikolai are back on speaking terms, you should ask him about flying. I'll bet he wishes teleportation was a thing, too."

"He doesn't like flying either?"

"Not unless he's flying through four rotations," she says.

"Me too. Some day soon, I'm going to do all the same quad jumps he can do."

"Someday you will," she agrees. "Not today, though."

"Are we still going to skate?"

"That's up to you," she says. "We will if you're up to it. If not, I can call Jordy to come pick you up."

"No," Brett says. "He needs his daily break from me. Plus, we've already lost enough time. Nobody wins gold medals by sitting on their ass, right?"

Beth-Anne grins. "Why does that sound exactly like something I'd say?"

"Probably 'cause it is."

"Cheeky little shit," she says, and is gratified when he tries unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh with his hand. "Give me a couple minutes to put my skates on. Then we'll warm up, and then I want to see whether you've been working or slacking while I've been away."

He pokes out his tongue at her. "Working. What else would you expect? Why would I be slacking off when there's a world championship gold medal in South Korea just waiting for me to earn it?"

"Let's not get overconfident," she warns.

"I want you and Jordy to be proud of me," he says. “Maybe my parents would even be proud of me if I won a world championship gold medal."

She has her doubts about that, but it's an illusion she doesn't want to shatter for him. She says, "I can't speak for your parents or Jordy, but I'm already proud of you. You don't need a gold medal to make me proud."

"Even if I'm a pain in the ass and you lose it with me sometimes?"

"Yeah," she says. "Even so. You're not the first massive pain in my ass to also make me proud, you know. But, I've learned something in my life, and it's that if you actually take the time to listen to a troublemaker and really get to know him, he usually ends up being well worth the trouble."

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 11)

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—————

Beth-Anne wakes up screaming.

Nikolai is jarred out of the best non-medicated sleep he's had in over a month, and he's momentarily confused because his brain can't determine whether the noise is real or part of a dream. With his heart thumping a bit too rapidly, he draws in a long, steadying breath. He opens his eyes and remembers that he's at Stan's place and that he and Beth-Anne had fallen asleep together.

When he rolls over, he discovers her sitting up with her palm pressed flat against her chest. They'd forgotten to close the curtains all the way, and in the dim illumination filtering in from outside, he thinks he can see tears on her face. She's breathing fast, each respiration a shallow but audible pant. It scares him. He's not sure what to do.

He says her name tentatively, pitching it like a question. "Beth-Anne?"

Either she doesn't hear him or she's not capable of processing the fact that he's talking to her. She's staring straight ahead. He doesn't know what she thinks she sees, but whatever it is, it's obvious she's terrified.

He swallows. Gathering his wits and telling himself that he has to do something, he pushes himself into a sitting position. Then, he reaches toward her and places his hand gently on her arm.

Her reaction is absolutely not what he expects.

She lets out a yelp and recoils as if he'd struck her, and scrambles away from him far enough that she gets dangerously close to falling off the bed. She gasps for breath. Her voice is ragged as she gets out a fierce and frightened, "Stay the hell away from me!"

"Beth-Anne," he says, more firmly this time. "Beth-Anne, it's me. It's Nikolai. I'm not going to hurt you."

It takes her a few seconds, but she finally focuses on him. She's still breathing hard, but he thinks she's starting to regain her sense of reality. "Nikolai," she whispers. "I... I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he says. "I think you were having a nightmare."

She nods. "Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

"I don't..." she begins, but then just goes with, "Yeah."

He holds out his hand to her, cautious of touching her again. "Here, do you want me to help you? You're really close to the edge of the bed, you know."

She doesn't take his hand. It seems she's more than capable of moving back toward the center of the bed on her own, but apparently this doesn't mean she doesn't need or want his support. Before he even fully grasps what she's doing, she wraps her arms around him, sags against his chest and begins to sob. Nikolai doesn't even hesitate. He reciprocates the hug, and hopes it'll be enough to comfort her and still the trembling he can feel wherever her body touches his.

Her words are muffled by her tears and the soft fabric of his t-shirt. "I wish it would stop."

"It's over now," he assures her.

She mumbles something that sounds like, "Maybe on the outside."

He doesn't understand what she means, but he doesn't ask her to elaborate. If he were to guess, she's probably talking about the nightmare. She knows there's nothing in the room that'll harm her, but what's inside her head is most likely a whole other matter.

He holds her until she stops crying. It's only a few minutes, but he imagines how it must feel for her. Seconds, or an eternity? When he'd cried in her arms in his front hallway, he'd felt like his tears would never end, and the effort had left him exhausted, humiliated and feeling weaker than he'd felt in his life.

He searches for a way to tell Beth-Anne that he understands, that whatever emotions she's experiencing are valid, and that he'll never judge her for any of it. All he wants is for her to feel safe.

Frustratingly, everything he comes up with sounds like a platitude. In the end, he settles for telling her simply, "I'm here. I've got you."

"Thank you," she says quietly. "Don't let go."

"Not until you're ready."

"I'm sorry I woke you."

"Don't worry about that," he says. "I can always catch up on my sleep later. The most important thing is that you're okay."

"I'm probably not," she says. "I'm fucked up, honestly, and sometimes it's really hard to hide it."

"Aren't we all kind of fucked up, though?"

"Maybe everybody is a little, but not like me." She releases a long, shaky sigh. She pulls away from him. "Sorry. You don't need to hear my sob story."

"Maybe not," he says, "But, do you need to tell it?"

"What?"

"You said it's getting harder to hide it. Maybe that's a sign you shouldn't be hiding it any more."

"I don't know," she says. "I want to tell somebody, but..."

"But what?"

"People would look at me differently if they knew. They already do, because of the scars, and it's... I don't know. Sometimes I think if people knew what was really going on inside my head sometimes, they'd run away. They'd think I'm a monster and they'd never want to trust me again."

"You want to know what I see?" Nikolai says. "It's not a monster."

"You don't know everything."

"No, but I'm not clueless. I know somebody gave you those scars. You don't get something like that from bumping into an open cabinet door or whatever."

"No, you don't," she agrees. She inches closer again, and then settles herself next to him. He puts one arm around her, and she leans into him. "This isn't too weird for you, is it?"

"Sitting like this, you mean? No," he says. "What's weird about human contact? Besides, you saw me naked in the bath. If that wasn't weird, then tell me how this is."

"Fair enough." She reaches up to trace one of the scars on her face. "You really don't think these make me monstrous?"

"No, I don't," he says. "The monster isn't you. It's the person who did that to you. You're a survivor and a warrior, and... and I don't care what anybody else thinks, and I don't care if this is inappropriate to say. You're beautiful. Really fucking beautiful, and your scars don't take a single thing away from that."

He hadn't meant to make her start crying again. This time, though, she doesn't sob. She sounds tired and sad, and it makes his heart hurt.

"I don't deserve you," she says. "You, Stan and Milena. You're all too good for me."

"That's not true. You're one of the best people I know, and I promise we all love you, no matter what. We're your family."

"Family," she echoes. She's silent for a while after that, but then almost too softly for him to hear, she says, "It was my mother. She gave me the scars."

Nikolai has the sensation of his stomach dropping several centimeters, and all the muscles along his spine contract. It takes a mighty effort to relax the sudden tension. He doesn't want to telegraph his shock to Beth-Anne, even though she has to know he's horrified.

The scars on Beth-Anne's face are long and heavy, the kind he knows come from having stitches. He's got a small one from accidentally crashing his bike and cutting his forearm on a sharp rock when he was a kid. That had required three stitches and the thickness of the little scar hasn't diminished much at all since the minor injury healed.

He doesn't want to think about how many stitches Beth-Anne had needed. She has two scars on her left cheek and one on the bridge of her nose that never gets completely concealed when she wears makeup. The biggest scar runs from beside her right eye almost all the way to the corner of her mouth. She has one on the palm of her right hand too, but he doesn't think most people notice that.

Her mother!

The notion that any parent could hurt their child at all is disgusting to him, but a woman who deliberately disfigured her daughter? It's repulsive and evil.

Nikolai thinks of his own mother. Elena Pavlenko isn't a physically demonstrative person and she doesn't often express her feelings in words, but he knows with absolute certainty that she loves him and his twin sister Natascha unconditionally. Mama has always encouraged both of them in her own way, and she has never, ever laid a hand on them in anger.

"I'm sorry," is all he can think to say.

"She was going to hurt my sister," Beth-Anne goes on as if he hadn't said anything. "My baby sister Abby. She was five, and I was eleven. I was trying to protect her."

"Because you're a warrior."

"Not that day. I was a child, and I was scared shitless," she says. "Claudia got mad at Abby for spilling fruit punch all over the living room carpet. She was five. Kids that age are fucking clumsy. They break stuff, spill stuff, fall down. Normal people just clean up and move on, but not Claudia. Not that day."

He wonders if it's wrong to ask, but he can't prevent the question from slipping out. "What happened?"

"Claudia was off her face, but that wasn't new. Booze was her vice, and if she ever had a fucking shred of self-control to begin with, it went out the window when she was drinking."

Beth-Anne's tone is flat, as if she's narrating a documentary rather than explaining what must've been one of the most traumatic experiences of her childhood, but Nikolai isn't fooled by it. It's not the first time he's heard her speaking like this. She'd talked to the doctor in Taiwan this way too, the one who was giving them the news about his injury and the prognosis that he might never walk without pain again, much less skate in an international competition. She'd been outwardly masking her emotions then, and she's doing it now. Perhaps, he thinks, this is her way of shielding herself from pain.

"Claudia was so angry. She... she smashed a bottle on the door frame and came after us with it. I was... I tried to keep Abby safe by basically laying on her, and Claudia decided she was going to punish me instead for not letting her get Abby."

"My God," is all Nikolai can manage in response. "Beth-Anne, I don't even know what to say."

"There's nothing you can say," she says. "What can a normal person say to that? She made me clean up my own face in the bathroom, but it wouldn't stop bleeding. I didn't get help until hours later. Not until my coach turned up at our house that evening to see why I wasn't at the rink for her afternoon group class. Nancy, my coach... she fuckin' lost it when she saw me."

"I don't doubt it."

"I ended up in the hospital, and Nancy called the cops, and I got sent to a foster home after that. But I was only there till my brother turned eighteen. He busted me out, and we kind of went on the run for a while. We lived in this old camper van and we were broke as shit, and I lost a lot of skating time, but at least nobody was trying to kill me when it was just me and Jason."

"And what about Abby?" He's almost afraid to find out.

"I don't know," she says. "Jason... Claudia tried to get me back, and Jason said if she did, it'd only be over his dead body. He said he wanted Abby too, and that's when she told him Abby was... she was gone."

"Gone? Like, she passed away?"

"I think that's what she was implying, but Jason and I didn't want to believe that. Jason tried to find out if she was in foster care like I was, but the social workers would never tell him anything because he wasn't Abby's legal guardian. I mean, that was the rule and I get it, but we thought it was bullshit at the time."

"Understandable."

"After a while, Jason told me that we should just forget about it because it would take a miracle to get Abby back with us, if... if she was still alive. And, you know, I think I did forget for a long time, but when I think about her now, I feel like shit for not trying harder."

"You shouldn't," Nikolai says. "You were a kid. What could you have done differently?"

"I don't know. Something."

"Have you tried to look for her recently?"

"No."

"Maybe you should. Milena could help you. She probably knows people who can access confidential records and stuff."

"I'd have to think about that." She closes her eyes. "Christ, this is hard."

"We don't have to talk any more if you don't want to."

"I miss her," Beth-Anne says. "That sounds stupid, considering the last time I saw her, we were just little kids and it's been thirty years. But still..."

"It doesn't sound stupid to me. It sounds like someone who never stopped loving her sister."

"For all the good loving her did."

"Don't say that. You might've saved her."

"For what? For Claudia to have another chance to..." She doesn't finish the sentence, but she doesn't really have to. "You know what the worst part is? Every day, I'm afraid that I'm just one mistake away, one loss of control away from becoming like Claudia. That haunts me."

"You're nothing like that."

She shakes her head. "My anger, it's... I'm fucking terrified of it, Nikolai. It's like this demon inside me, and I'm so scared it's going to get out some day. I love working with all my kids, but what if... what if I...?"

"You won't." He tightens his arm around her shoulders. "Know how I know?"

"How?"

"Because it's not just that you love working with all of us, it's that you love us. If you really love someone, you don't hurt them on purpose, even if you're angry. Besides, you're a good person and you know what's right."

"Is that enough?"

"I'm not a professional or anything, but I think so," he says. "You could ask a professional, I guess. Stan can probably help you find someone, if that's what you need."

"No." She shakes her head once more. "I tried that. I'm not ready to try again."

"Okay," he says. "Is there anything you think could help?"

"Brain transplant?" she ventures.

Despite the situation, Nikolai laughs. "Well, that's one highly-improbable option. I wouldn't like it if you got a brain transplant, though. You wouldn't be you any more."

"That's kind of the point."

"No. We want you just as you are. Me, Stan and Milena, Mariah, all your little kids. I'll bet even that self-important little shit, Brett Eriksson, wouldn't want to change you."

"Hey," she says. "That little shit is your rink mate. No trash-talking."

"Sorry, coach."

"You'd better be." He thinks she's attempting to sound stern, or at least mock-stern, but it lacks the energy to have the desired impact.

"Let's try to get back to sleep," he suggests.

'You can, if you want to," she says. "I'm not sure I'll be able to."

"At least lie down."

"Okay."

They arrange themselves spoon fashion beneath the cozy handmade quilt, with his arm draped around her from behind. She hugs Champion the teddy bear to her chest. Under any other circumstances, they would never do anything like this, but the unspoken need for human warmth and closeness erases any barriers that might otherwise have existed between them.

Regardless of her assertion that she couldn't go back to sleep, Beth-Anne drifts off before Nikolai does. As for him, he lies awake, considering everything that's just happened. He's overwhelmed by the fact that she trusts him enough to show vulnerability in front of him and to share something so deeply personal, and at the same time, he's amazed by her resilience, strength and courage.

You have no idea how wonderful you are, he wants to tell her. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Maybe if you could, you'd be less afraid of your past and you'd feel better about the future.

You saved me, and you're teaching me to look forward, he adds to the silent confession. I wish I could find a way to do that for you.

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 17)

previous // next // story index

—————

Nikolai's entire skating career was in that box.

He sits on the bed with everything spread out around him and the box discarded on the floor. When he pushed it off the bed, it landed with the labelled side up, and he tries not to glance at it. He doesn't want to see what's written there.

Beth-Anne had obviously tried to conceal the word 'donate' that had been inscribed on it in all capitals. She'd scratched it out with her own black marker and printed Nikolai's name neatly above it, but unfortunately the writing under the scribble is still legible.

Nikolai can't say for certain what had happened, but if Beth-Anne had taken the box from his house, there's only one person who could've filled it and marked it to give away. It had to have been Anya. That realization hits him hard, like a right-handed punch to the stomach.

When he first saw the box, just a couple of days after arriving at Beth-Anne's house, he hadn't wanted to believe Anya had anything to do with it at all. The thought had crossed his mind briefly, but he'd rejected it. Now, however, it seems likely she had everything to do with it, and Beth-Anne somehow knew about it and rescued the box with all his things inside.

Or maybe Beth-Anne didn't know. Perhaps, like him, she'd initially noticed part of his sparkly purple costume poking out between the flaps, and simply grabbed the box on impulse.

He decides the second scenario is more plausible. That would explain why Beth-Anne hadn't mentioned anything. She didn't know what was in it, and left it for him to discover on his own. If she had known, he doubts she would've kept quiet about it. She'd be outraged, and she's not particularly good at containing herself when she's angry on someone else's behalf.

Nikolai surveys the items arranged around him. His two costumes from the Four Continents, one purple and one red and black, are creased and not looking their best, but he's not as concerned about them as he is about the other items.

Wedged into one corner of the carton was a tiny pair of skates. They'd been his very first pair, and for years his mother had kept them wrapped in cloth and tucked away in a clear plastic container on the top shelf of her bedroom closet. She gave them to him when he moved out on his own, and he kept them on display with a snapshot of himself, Grandpa and Natascha. In the picture, Nikolai and Natascha look to be about three or four years old, and Grandpa's hair is still mostly brown. Nikolai and his twin sister are dressed in matching red coats and red and white knitted hats with pompoms. Grandpa is holding each them by the hand. They're all wearing skates and they're standing on a frozen lake.

Nikolai's mother had given him a copy of the photo in a stiff cardboard frame that opens like a greeting card, and because she'd written a message on it, he'd never bothered to put the picture into a more sturdy frame. He regrets that decision now, after having located it under his little skates, bent and damaged.

The majority of the space in the box had been taken up by all his medals, which looked as if they'd been scooped up and dumped in there all at once. All of their ribbons are crumpled, and he had to spend time untangling some of them from each other. They look terrible, and he doesn't know how to fix them.

Even worse than the state of the lake photo and his medals is the condition of some of the other pictures. A photo of him as a child with a silver medal around his neck, posing with Grandpa and Allison in front of a massive Canadian flag, has a chipped frame. The frame of another one is cracked completely through. His favourite photograph, which he always kept on the sideboard in the dining room, has a huge spiderweb of a crack in the glass, as if something had struck it. One of the medals, probably. The irony of that is not lost on him.

He picks up the photo. Even with the crack, the image is still visible. In it, eighteen year old Nikolai and rookie coach Beth-Anne have their arms around each other in a jubilant embrace. They're both facing the camera, wide smiles on their faces. His gold medal is around her neck. On the lower part of the black photo mat around the picture, gold text in a looping calligraphy font says forever.

He remembers exactly when this picture was taken. It was at Skate Canada, his first international competition that season, and he hadn't even been favoured for a top-three finish, let alone to win gold.

He recalls crying in the hallway outside the locker room before his long program, overcome with nerves and paralyzing self-doubt. Beth-Anne had offered no comment at first. She gathered him in her arms and stroked his back in that soothing way of hers until he settled down and stopped shaking. Then, she held him at arm's length and looked directly into his face.

"You are a champion," she said. "Do you believe that?"

He didn't know how to respond. "Do you believe it?"

"I do," she said. "I believed it from the first moment I laid eyes on you and I saw you do that brilliant quad toe loop. But, you know it's not all about technical skills, don't you? It's about attitude and it's about heart, and yeah... maybe that sounds like a load of motivational bullshit, but I think it's true."

"It... kind of does sound like motivational crap, honestly." he said.

"Fine. Then how about this? Is skating fun?"

"Yeah," he replied. "You know I think it's fun. I love everything about it. It makes me happy."

She nodded. "You show me that every day in practice. I've seen you skate this routine to near perfection, and I can see the joy and confidence practically radiating off you when you do it. So, tell me something. What makes you think you can't do it today?"

"Uh... maybe the thousands of people watching? And the medals?"

"Forget about the medals for now," she said. "Forget the audience. I'll be standing where you can see me when you start. Just look for me, and pretend we're alone. Keep that in your mind, okay? Try to have as much fun as you would in practice, and everything else will fall right into place, I promise."

Despite how it had sounded, she hadn't been telling him to forget about winning. In fact, he understood it to be the opposite. She'd been telling him she believed he could win, but the way to do it wasn't to be preoccupied with earning a medal. If he made the idea of winning a medal his main focus, it would create too much pressure on him and he wouldn't be able to concentrate properly on what he was doing, but if he just let himself relax and enjoy it, he could perform exactly as he did in their practice sessions.

The strategy had worked. It worked so well that he surprised everyone, including himself, when the judges showed his scores and he and Beth-Anne realized he was in first place.

When the officials presented him with the gold medal, he started crying all over again, but this time his tears came from happiness rather than fear. As soon as the medal presentations were over, he bounded off the podium, across the floor and straight into Beth-Anne's waiting arms. While sports journalists snapped photos, Nikolai took the medal from around his own neck and placed it around Beth-Anne's.

"I couldn't have done any of this without you," he told her, and they hugged again.

When someone in the crowd called Nikolai's name, he and Beth-Anne both turned to look. It was Grandpa. Stan and Ginger were with him, and Stan had a camera. Stan pressed the shutter button at the precise moment to capture Nikolai and Beth-Anne's expressions of happy surprise.

Nikolai carefully touches the cracked glass with his fingertips. His chest feels so tight, he can barely breathe and his eyes are stinging. He wants to cry or scream or... do something, but all he seems capable of doing is to stare down at the broken object in his hands.

The question plays on repeat in his mind, Why?

Why would Anya do this? Why would she throw away all his important items as if they were useless junk? Why would she do something she must've known would upset him?

Sure, he can live without these things, and if it came down to a choice between preserving them or protecting the people he cares about, he'd choose the people every time, but it's the principle that matters here. He thought Anya loved him as much as he loves her, but if that were true, how could she fail so completely to protect him?

No, it's not just a failure to protect you. It's a deliberate attempt to hurt you, comes a whisper from a dark corner of his mind. She doesn't really love you.

He doesn't want to accept that, but the possibility is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. It's not just his treasures. It's not just her hiding his crutches and then leaving him to fend for himself when he could barely walk, and it's not just her taking Tangerine the cat and not telling him. Things between them have been deteriorating for a while.

The problem is, he doesn't understand what triggered their decline. He's always tried to do everything in his power to please her. He's done his best to take care of her and give her the lifestyle she wants, sometimes to his own detriment. There was a time when he would've moved the Earth for her if he could have, and maybe there was a time when she would've appreciated that sentiment too, but lately it seems like nothing he does is enough.

Since their return from the Four Continents Championship, when it became necessary for her to take care of him, the situation became exponentially worse. She'd never demeaned or belittled him before, but since Taiwan, he's lost count of the awful things she's said to him. Incompetent, stupid, a failure... She berated him constantly for not being able to do things for himself, and sometimes yelled at him so harshly that his fragile psyche couldn't take it. He'd break down crying, and then she'd humiliate him for that.

He'd made an effort to talk to her about it. He'd asked her what was wrong, and what he could do to make it better, but she invariably avoided answering him. She'd say things like "It'll be better when your knee heals," or "This is just a rough patch. I'm sure it'll pass."

But, he knows it won't. This isn't something that'll fix itself, and more and more he wonders if it's even worth fixing anyway.

When did I stop wanting to make it better? he asks himself.

A couple weeks ago, he told Beth-Anne that he wanted a divorce from Anya. He's still certain that's what he wants, but he doesn't completely remember when he made that choice. He's thought of it several times before, but never in a serious way. It wasn't until Anya walked out on him that he began to consider it seriously, and it's almost as if his brain all of a sudden settled on it as the correct course of action and wouldn't harbour any other options.

One more chance, he thinks. I'll give her one more chance. I need to hear her explain her side of it, and then, if I don't like what I hear...

He clenches his hands around the edges of the picture frame so hard that his fingers ache. His gaze takes in his medals, his tiny skates, the mistreated costumes and damaged photos, and finally comes to rest on the fractured glass in front of him. Without warning, something inside him lets go. A multitude of emotions surge to the surface, but the winner of the race by far is anger. He's not an angry person and doesn't experience it often, but he has no trouble recognizing it for what it is.

How dare she…? She doesn’t deserve another chance!

But still… it’s not always about what someone deserves. Or maybe in this case, it’s about what I deserve. I’m entitled to know the truth.

Without pausing to reconsider what he's about to do next, he places the framed photo gently on the bed alongside the others. Then, he gets up and returns to the kitchen where he puts on his sneakers and jacket and grabs the keys to Beth-Anne's truck off the shelf by the front door.

He's somewhat calmer by the time he arrives at Anya's grandparents' house; clear-headed enough to have a conversation but still angry enough not to be scared.

He hops out of the truck, marches up to the front door, and knocks loudly.

A moment later, Anya's grandmother opens the door and peeks out. She's a small, elegant woman with her silver hair perpetually done up in a neat bun, and it's a rare day when she doesn't have a smile for Nikolai. Her smile fades when she takes in his appearance.

'Kolya! What's wrong?" she exclaims in Russian. She barely speaks English, and doesn't even bother using it with him since she knows he speaks Russian as fluently as she does. "Are you all right?"

"No, I'm not," he answers honestly. "I'm looking for Anna-Valentina. I see my car is here, so I assume she's not out anywhere."

"She's here," Mrs. Baranov says. "I'll go and get her for you. Will you come in?"

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, babushka. Not today. Can you just tell Anya to come outside?"

She frowns, confused. "Of course. If that's what you want."

She disappears back into the house and the door closes with a soft click.

Nikolai waits several minutes before it finally opens again to reveal Anya. She's as gorgeous as ever with her big blue eyes and her heart-shaped face framed by smooth golden hair. She must've recently come back from practice because she's still dressed in a form-fitting pink top and light grey athletic pants that accentuate all her sensuous curves.

There was a time when the sight of her looking like this would've been irresistible and incredibly distracting to him, but today he's unaffected. Her beautiful smile used to melt him, but now it only irritates him. How can she be smiling?

"Kolya!" she exclaims in much the same way her grandmother did. "Look at you! You're back on your feet. I was worried about you, and I couldn't—”

He holds up a hand to cut her off. "Anya, stop."

"What?" she peers quizzically at him. "Kolya, what's wrong with you? Your face looks like a stormcloud. Here I am, so glad to see you, and you look like you're ready to... I don't know. Do something awful."

"I'm not going to do anything awful. I just want to talk."

"About what?"

"Don't act like you don't know," he says.

"If this is about your cat—"

"It's not, but since you mentioned Tangerine, where is she? I'd like to have her back."

Anya meets his eyes and says evenly, "I can't give her to you."

"Why can't you?" he demands.

"Because I can't."

"Anya, I want my cat, and I’m not going to play your stupid games and negotiate for her like she’s your hostage or something. You don’t really want her, and she needs me, so can you please just stop being like this?”

"I'm not playing a game," Anya says. "I can't give you something I don't have, can I?"

"What do you mean, you don't have her? You took her, so what did you do with her after that? Where is she?"

"Well, you know my grandfather is allergic to cats..."

"Anna-Valentina." His voice is much louder and harder than he intended, and his heart is suddenly pounding rapidly. He takes a few steps forward so that he and Anya are less than half a metre apart. "I'm only going to ask one more time. Where is Tangerine?"

"We surrendered her."

His breath catches in his throat. "To the animal shelter? How long ago did you do that?"

She gives the tiniest shrug with one shoulder. "Maybe a week ago? I tried to keep her in my room, but you know how she likes hiding. She kept escaping and hiding under my grandparents' bed, and Grandpa was getting sick, so... we had to do something, didn't we?"

"You could've given her back to me!" he cries, stunned and distraught. He had expected their conversation not to be easy, but he absolutely hadn't predicted that it'd take this drastic turn. "You—"

Don't waste your breath arguing, says the rational part of his mind.

It's the only shred of logical thought he's able to grasp onto in a consciousness that feels like home to a raging storm of negative feelings. He glares at Anya for a second before he turns and sprints off the doorstep and back to the truck, heedless of the sports therapist’s instruction that he’s not supposed to run on uneven surfaces yet.

"Kolya, where are you going?" she calls.

He ignores her. He climbs into the cab and guns the engine. Small rocks fly up from the gravel driveway as he tears out onto the road.

His anger is rapidly giving way to despair. He's never surrendered an animal to a shelter before, and he's never adopted one from there either. He got Tangerine when she was just a kitten, from a neighbour whose cat had an unplanned litter. He doesn't know anything about shelters. Maybe they've already given her to a new family by now, or euthanized her, or...

Don't think about it.

He makes it only as far as the nearest cross-street before he has to pull over. It's not because he's too upset to drive — although he does fear he's dangerously close to that point — but rather because it occurs to him that he has no clue where he's going. To the city animal shelter, yes, but he doesn't have the faintest idea where it is.

He takes a minute to pull out his phone and look up the address. Satisfied that it's not on some obscure street he's never heard of, and that he'll be able to find it, he reaches to put the phone back in his pocket. Then, he has second thoughts. Even if he can get to the shelter with little difficulty, he's not confident he'll be able to keep himself together once he gets there. He has a horrible mental image of himself falling apart in front of a receptionist or whoever he might have to speak to.

He dials a number that's almost as familiar to him as his own, and listens to the line ring three times.

Eventually, Ginger's bright voice filters into his ear. "Hey, Nik! Saw your name on my caller ID. What's on the go?"

"Are you busy right now?" he asks.

"Not particularly," she says. "Stan said I could skip the gym today, so I was thinking about doing a bit of shopping. Why?"

"I need your help."

"Of course," she says. "What do you need?"

"Can I come pick you up? I'll fill you in when I see you, but... I have to do something really important, and I have to do it right now, and I... I don't think I can handle it alone."

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 6)

previous // next // story index

__________

The sky is already light when Nikolai wakes up. He's disoriented and confused, and for one awful moment he doesn't remember where he is. He's used to waking up in the dark during the winter, to the shrieking calls of sea birds on the beach below his house, and to the warmth of another person next to him in bed. He looks around frantically, convinced he's going to be late for something important and that no one had bothered to remind him about it.

As the fog of sleep clears from his brain, he's able to identify his surroundings. This is Beth-Anne's guest room, or perhaps not so much a guest room as a den, or... a home office with a bed in it. On the opposite side of the room from where his ridiculously comfortable bed is, there's a filing cabinet, and a desk with a laptop computer attached to an external monitor. On the wall above the desk are numerous framed pictures, news articles and award plaques. In the center of the arrangement are two gold medals.

Nikolai allows himself to relax. One of those medals is his. He'd given it to Beth-Anne nearly ten years ago, and it makes him happy to see that she has it on display.

He lets his gaze travel around a bit more. His coat is draped over the back of the desk chair, and his two green suitcases are visible just inside the open closet door. Next to the suitcases, he notices his skate bag and a medium-sized cardboard box with something scribbled on the side of it in black marker. On top of the box is a grey teddy bear with a little fake gold medal on a dark green satin ribbon around its neck. He can't see it from this distance without his glasses any more than he can read what's on the box, but he knows the bear has the word 'champion' stitched onto its foot in white embroidery thread.

I don't remember bringing that here.

Beth-Anne must've thought he'd want it, and gathered it up along with his other things without mentioning it. He's had the bear since he was ten years old, since his first competition in the Novice division, and Champion has accompanied him to every single skating competition since then.

Going through security at airports, he always attracted funny looks from security agents and fellow passengers alike for carrying the teddy bear under his arm, but he didn't care. It comforted him to cuddle Champion while hunkering down miserably in the uncomfortable plane seats and trying not to think about his upset stomach and rattled nerves. He hates flying and suffers horribly with airsickness, but he was never allowed to take anything for it on the way to a competition. The last thing he and Beth-Anne would've wanted was for him to have failed a banned substance screening test.

He smiles ruefully. I'll bet I'd fail if they gave me one right now.

He's been at Beth-Anne's house for two days and three nights. It's not that he didn't recognize his own things in the room before, but that he hadn't been alert enough to observe much of anything, or to retain his observations even if he had been. Having been doped up on painkillers and anti-anxiety medication, there are whole chunks of time missing from his perception of the past couple of days. He's pretty sure he didn't leave his bed except to go to the bathroom, and he guesses he'd been sleeping a lot. He has vague memories of Beth-Anne feeding him soup.

He squints at the clock on the small table next to the bed. It's 7:04 a.m. The day isn't as far gone as he'd thought, and for some reason the knowledge fills him with a sense of reassurance.

The next thing he does is take an assessment of his body. He's a little stiff, but that's likely from lying around too long and probably isn't anything that can't be resolved with some good stretches. His knee still hurts, but not nearly as much as before. Under the blankets, he flexes his leg cautiously. Maybe he can forego the stronger pain medication for now and just take a couple of ibuprofen tablets instead.

He sits up in bed and starts his stretching routine. Neck, shoulders and arms he can do in a seated position, but he's going to have to get up to stretch his back muscles. He wonders if his bad knee will support him well enough to do some leg exercises too, or if he'll have to wait for Beth-Anne to help him do the ones the physiotherapist prescribed.

After climbing out of bed and working the tension from his back, he decides to err on the side of caution and skip the leg work until Beth-Anne is available to supervise him. He limps over to the closet and pulls one of his suitcases out. He's eager for a shower and fresh clothes.

In the process of retrieving his suitcase, he's able to get a better look at the box next to it. What he thought was a scribble when he viewed it from across the room actually turns out to be one. He can just make out the word 'DONATE' beneath a frenetic zigzag of black ink. Above it, in Beth-Anne's precise handwriting, is his own name.

Intrigued, he abandons his suitcase and drags the box out instead. It's folded closed at the top, but there's something purple poking out through the little gap where the flaps of the overfilled box don't quite meet. He knows what it is even before he tugs the flaps of the box apart to reveal its contents.

The purple item is the costume he'd worn for his long program at the Four Continents. They'd tried to cut it off his leg at the hospital in Taiwan, and he'd begged them not to. Through the interpreter, he said he didn't care if he had to sit around in nothing but his underpants and a hospital gown. He wanted to take the costume off himself, intact. They'd allowed him to do that in the end, and he was appreciative of the small kindness.

Under the purple costume is the glittery black and red one he'd worn for his short program. He frowns. Why would his costumes be in a carton that had originally been marked for donation? For that matter, why would his two most recent costumes be in a cardboard box at all? He hasn't kept every skating costume he's ever worn, but he does have a lot of them, and they're all hanging neatly in a wardrobe cupboard in his basement, protected by garment bags and labelled by year.

Perhaps more importantly, he amends, what are my costumes doing in a box here at Beth-Anne's house?

He can guess, but he really doesn't want to go there. Not right now. He's not prepared to wrap his head around the notion of someone he loves being intentionally cruel to him.

But, Anya had already done something mean to him. She'd taken his medals off the wall in their dining room, pulling them all down while he watched helplessly. That had hurt, but he'd somehow convinced himself it wasn't so bad. He could return them to their display frame later. Anya said she'd put them away. When he felt able to restore them to their proper place, he could always ask her where she'd put them, unless...

Nikolai shakes his head.

No.

Anya wouldn't give away his medals. She has a few medals of her own. She knows how important they are. He prefers a less dramatic explanation, like maybe the box was something Beth-Anne had lying around in her garage and she just grabbed it to transport some of his things in. That hypothetical version of events is much easier to accept.

He wants to discover what else is in the box, but an alarmingly loud growl from his stomach reminds him that he has priorities. He probably hasn't eaten a proper meal in two days, and his skin feels sticky and gross. Shower, and then breakfast. Later, when he's got nothing else to do, he can come back to the box.

The hot shower revives him, and he feels almost normal by the time he hobbles into the kitchen on his crutches about fifteen minutes later.

Beth-Anne is standing at the counter next to the sink. Her back is to him, but she turns when he says her name. She's dressed in form-fitting black athletic pants and a red zip-front fleece top, and her curly honey-coloured hair is caught into a messy little bun. She isn't wearing makeup, and the scars on her face are clearly visible on her pale, freckled skin.

She's going to the rink, Nikolai realizes. Oddly, he doesn't know how he feels about that. Of course she should be going to the rink. She's a skating coach, and her job is at the rink. Her students need her. But, she'd stayed home with him for the past two days, and he'd liked that. He's not certain he's ready to be left alone yet.

Beth-Anne offers him a smile. "How are you feeling, sweetheart? You look better."

"I feel a little better," he says. "What's for breakfast? I'm starving."

She laughs. "Yeah, that's definite proof you're on the mend. How about a ham and cheese omelette? That's what I'm making for myself, and it's easy enough to make two. There's oranges and grapefruit in the fridge, and I bought extra milk. Oh, and there's coffee. Help yourself."

He takes an orange from the fridge and pours himself a cup of coffee. While Beth-Anne cooks, he sits at the table and methodically peels and sections his orange. They're both quiet for a while, but finally he ventures, "Are you... are you going to work today?"

"Yes," she tells him. "Mariah and Brett have been skating by themselves for three days now. Stan said he’d keep an eye on them, but that’s not his responsibility. Plus, you know Brett has Junior Worlds coming up in a few weeks. He needs me to be just as committed to that as he is.”

“Oh,” Nikolaï says. "That's right."

He hadn’t meant to sound so disappointed. Suddenly embarrassed, he lowers his head and gazes dismally at his half-eaten orange.

He’s not jealous of Brett exactly, but he does envy the fourteen year old for the chance to compete in a world championship. Nikolai will never do that again. He'll never get to feel the flutter of nervous anticipation in the seconds before he steps onto the ice, or the focus and calm confidence that replaces it when his music begins. He'll never again experience the joy of performing a beautiful and complicated step sequence or the exhilaration of landing a perfect jump. People cheering for him and throwing bouquets onto the ice, Beth-Anne hugging him in the kiss-and-cry and drying his tears with her ubiquitous old-fashioned handkerchiefs while they wait for his scores, the national anthem playing during medal presentations... all of that is over for him now.

One might argue he's had his moment of glory — several, in fact — and that's something to be grateful for. He is grateful for his success, but that does nothing to ease the dull, empty ache in his chest when he imagines what might've been. The truth is, he wasn't ready to leave the sport, isn't ready despite the reality of it. He's only twenty-seven. If it weren't for this devastating injury, he might've had two or three good seasons left before he made his own decision to retire. Maybe he would've even won another medal at Worlds this year. He'd certainly been on track to qualify for the world championship.

But now the only one of Beth-Anne's students who'll be going to a world championship event is Brett Eriksson. He'll be the one getting all the praise and accolades and Beth-Anne's undivided attention, and Nikolai will be doing what? Sitting at home in a pool of his own self-pitying tears?

Nikolai Pavlenko, be a man. You will not cry over this any more, he orders himself fiercely, but the demand has little effect. His throat already feels like it's starting to close, and there's an unwelcome prickling behind his eyes that warns of impending tears.

Beth-Anne shuts off the stove and turns toward the table with a plate in each hand. Nikolai hadn't even noticed that she was done cooking their omelettes, and his face burns with a new wave of embarrassment.

She takes one look at him, hurries forward and quickly sets the plates down. A second or two later, her hand is on his cheek, as if she's checking to see if the flush of colour that he knows must be there might be from a fever.

He raises his eyes to meet hers, and all he sees in her expression is love and concern for him. Brett may need her undivided attention, but she loves him. She put her regularly-scheduled life on hold for the past handful of days for him, lost sleep for him, allowed Brett to skate alone. For him.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"No," he manages to get the words past the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry. I... I'm being selfish."

"You're being human," she says. Her hand moves up to brush back his unruly hair. She can't possibly know what he'd been thinking, but it almost seems like she can read his mind because she continues with, "This isn't going to be an easy adjustment for you. I get that. It's going to be scary and confusing, and if you're angry or sad or envious of the others or... whatever, it's totally okay. I promise."

"How do you...?" he begins, but doesn't finish the question.

"How do I know?"

"Yeah."

"Did you think I retired voluntarily from competing?" she asks.

"Didn't you? You never told me it wasn't voluntary, so I assumed it was. But... it wasn't?"

"No, it wasn't," she says. "If you want to know what happened, I'll tell you, but not right this minute. Right now, you need to eat your breakfast. We have things to do today, and you need the protein.”

She steps away from him and settles into the chair across the table from his. He's sufficiently distracted by the revelation that she hadn't given up competing by choice that his other emotions temporarily fade to the back of his consciousness.

"I do want to know," he says. "And what do you mean, we have things to do? What do I have to do?"

"Eat your breakfast and then put on some warm clothes," says Beth-Anne, apparently unbothered about talking with her mouth full. "You're going to the rink."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm not going to have you sitting around here feeling sorry for yourself all day long. You're allowed to feel like that, but not all day, every day. That's dangerous, and I'll be damned if I let you put yourself in harm's way when there's something we can do about it."

He's so relieved, he doesn't even think before blurting out the first thing that pops into his head. "So, I don't have to be alone? I can be with you all day?"

"If you're feeling up to going out, yes."

"Yes," he says. "But, what am I going to do there? Should I bring a book?"

Beth-Anne looks amused. "I guess you can if you want, but I had something a little more constructive in mind."

"Like what?"

"Like being my assistant," she says. "I'd like you to observe the students while I'm working with them, especially Brett and little Eden. You'll be able to spot things I might not see, things they're doing really well or things they need to work on. Watch me, too. See how I interact with them."

"I already know how you interact with students," he says.

"You know how I interact with you," she corrects. "Observing from the outside, seeing how I interact with other students will give you a different perspective. More of a coach's-eye view, you might say."

"A...what?" He has to admit this idea has literally never occurred to him, but to be fair, up until a month ago he hadn't given much thought at all to his life beyond his career as a professional athlete. He's always known he'd have to stop competing eventually, but he also assumed he'd have more time to figure out his future plans. "You think I could be a coach?"

"No idea," says Beth-Anne around another mouthful of eggs. "You might be absolutely fucking terrible at it, although somehow I doubt that, but we're not going to know one way or the other if we don't give it a try, are we?"

"You're serious."

"When have you ever known me to not be serious?"

"I don't know if I want to be a coach," he confesses. "I don't know what I want, really."

"That's okay," she says. "Ultimately, whatever you do will be your choice. But in the meantime, this'll at least give you something to do and keep your mind off..." She pauses awkwardly before concluding. "Stuff."

It's difficult to argue with her reasoning. She isn't wrong about it being dangerous for him to dwell on all his negative thoughts and feelings. After all, look what that had earned him; the final breath of his already dying marriage, contemplation of suicide, a tearful phone call in the middle of the night, an urgent trip to the hospital, and a massive dose of prescription drugs he'd probably needed but didn't want.

The night he phoned Beth-Anne and begged her to help him, he'd never been so terrified and desperate in his life. He was afraid to be alone because he didn't trust himself not to do something irredeemable.

His mental state has improved since then, but he's still scared. Being with someone feels much safer to him than being left by himself, and being with Beth-Anne feels safest of all. She always takes care of him, and he trusts her more than anyone else.

He thinks she's also right that having something to do will keep him from ruminating on stuff, as she put it. He and Beth-Anne both know what she meant by that. She didn't need to elaborate, and he's thankful to her for leaving it at a generalization.

But... coaching?

He has no clue how the other students might take to him becoming a coach. The younger ones who don't know him might not have any issues with it, but he doubts Brett and Mariah would be thrilled by the prospect. And what about Ginger, Hunter, Juliet and Christian? How would his friends feel about it? Would it be weird for them to see their fellow student become a coach? And what if he actually does turn out to be terrible at it? What then?

Beth-Anne's voice breaks into his thoughts. "Nikolai."

He stares at her, but doesn't reply because he realizes he has a piece of orange in his mouth. Inexplicably, his heartbeat begins to race and his hands tremble uncontrollably. He feels sweat break out on his palms and down the middle of his back.

Why am I panicking? Why am I panicking!? Calm down!

His self-admonition only makes it worse, and the orange section seems to grow huge and suffocating. He wants to spit it out, but his mental image of himself spitting out food in front of Beth-Anne is mortifying to him.

"Nikolai," Beth-Anne says gently. "Chew and swallow."

Her voice anchors him. He does as she instructs, and then mumbles, "Sorry."

"It's okay, sweetheart. You're fine," she assures him. "If you don't want to go to the rink, you don't have to. I can drop you off to spend the day with your grandfather instead, or wherever you want."

"No, I... I want to go to the rink. I'm just... I don't know. Anxious."

"You can take the medication the doctor gave you," she reminds him.

"No," he repeats. "I need to get over this. Get back to normal. Going to the rink is a good idea. Even if I don't stay all day, I think I need to get out of the house and do something before just leaving the house starts to seem like it's too hard."

Beth-Anne nods. "Good. That's the attitude I like. Come with me for the morning, and we'll see how you get along, okay? If you're feeling overwhelmed or like you don't want to stay for whatever reason, I'll bring you home. Sound good?"

"Sounds good," he agrees.

"I'll keep checking on you," she says.

It's his turn to nod. "I'll do my best to keep it together."

"I know you will, but I don't want you to push yourself any further than you can reasonably handle, all right? The point of this is to rebuild you, not to break you even more, so if you feel like you can't do it, you need to tell me straight away. Understand?"

'I understand."

"Excellent. Now, eat up so we'll have enough time to get ready. Our first thing is a group class at nine o'clock, and we wouldn't want to be late for those adorable preschoolers, would we?"

"You...? Preschoolers? You want me to observe preschoolers?"

"Best way to start the day," says Beth-Anne. "Watching a bunch of cute four year olds wobble around for half an hour is an amazing stress reliever. We can watch Ginger and Stan do their thing after that, and then Brett's ice time is at eleven. That'll be your real assignment. You know, 'your mission, should you choose to accept it' and all that."

"Okay," Nikolai says, doing his best to sound more sure of himself than he feels. "Mission accepted."

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 12)

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—————

"Good news, children!" Stan bursts through the doorway of the guest room without so much as a knock. He doesn't seem the least bit shocked or bothered by the fact that Beth-Anne is curled up next to Nikolai in the big bed. "You're gonna love this!"

Beth-Anne drags her eyelids open a little further. She’s tired, and it’s an effort. "Jesus, Stan! Ever heard of privacy?"

Stan quirks an eyebrow. "What? I'm not interrupting something, am I? I didn't think you swung that way."

"The fuck...?" She seizes the nearest soft object she can reach, which happens to be Nikolai's grey teddy bear, and flings it at him. "Fuck off!"

Stan catches the bear neatly. He's laughing. "And all this time, I thought you were a morning person. You too, little Kolya."

Beside her, Nikolai groans sleepily. "This is a bad dream, right?"

"Do you often dream about being in bed with your coach?" Stan asks, his tone filled with mock-innocence.

"Oh my God. Please stop." Nikolai grabs the edge of the quilt and pulls it up so that only the top of his messy brown hair is visible. "I'm not in bed with her."

"That’s not what it looks like, but okay," Stan says.

"You know what I mean!"

"I call it as I see it," Stan says, "Anyway, it's fine. Whatever the two of you get up to behind closed doors is none of my business. You're both adults."

"Stan, enough." Beth-Anne tries to put as much steel into her tone as possible. She knows he's only teasing and she's sure Nikolai knows it too, but just because she enjoys Stan's sometimes inappropriate sense of humour, that doesn't mean everyone's going to appreciate it. It's fairly obvious Nikolai is uncomfortable, and Beth-Anne isn't keen to let that continue. "What do you want?

"I just wanted to tell you the good news," Stan says cheerfully. "We had a shit ton of snow overnight. Everything's closed. Schools, shopping malls..." He gives her a conspiratorial wink, as if the closures were organized specifically for their benefit. "Municipal sport and recreation facilities."

Nikolai peeks out from under the blanket. "You mean, the rink is closed?"

"All the municipal facilities," Stan says. "Rinks, pools, libraries, the recycling depot. Probably even City Hall. We're having a genuine, certified snow day, and personally, I don't intend to waste it lying around."

"We weren't lying around. We were literally sleeping," Beth-Anne points out.

"Details," Stan says. "Now, let's go. Haul ass, kids. Milena's making breakfast, and then we need to clear the driveway. Betka's work isn't closed, and the whole fucking world would have to end before they gave her husband a day off, so she's bringing the boys over to spend the day. It's gonna be great."

"Can we at least take showers and put on some clean clothes first?"

Stan grins at her. "Sure, if you want cold breakfast. Come on. Eat now, shower later."

And so, unable to argue with the force of nature that is Stanislav Kovac, they do.

She and Nikolai climb out of bed and trail Stan to the kitchen where Milena is in the process of making what might be banana pancakes. The warm, inviting scents of coffee and savoury sausage fill the room, and there's already a pitcher of orange juice, a carton of milk and an array of condiments on the table.

Beth-Anne has lost count of how many times she's sat in the Kovacs' kitchen and shared a meal with them. After her accident, she'd lived with them for several months while she recovered her ability to walk and her courage to face the world beyond the safety of their four walls. They helped her stay sober and sane, and their steady presence healed her in ways she's sure none of them have words to explain.

Milena and Stan and their daughter Alzbeta — known affectionately as Betka — taught her what it was like to be part of a healthy and loving family, and from them she learned that relying on others isn't a sign of weakness, that there's far more strength in the care and support of others than anyone could ever find alone.

She feels at home in the Kovacs' house and comfortable with their quirks as well as their routines. It's not strange for her to observe Milena at the stove, dressed in old gym shorts and one of Stan's shirts, preparing what she and Stan both insist is the most important meal of the day, neither is it odd for her to see Stan dancing gracefully around the kitchen in his ridiculous plush moose slippers that would be a serious tripping hazard for someone less agile and less aware of the capabilities of his body.

The vintage radio is tuned to a classical music station, and one of Stan's favourite pieces of music has just come on. Beth-Anne recognizes it. It's Les Patineurs Op. 183, by the nineteenth-century composer Émile Waldteufel, and she'd once skated to it in a competition. She suspects Stan may have skated to it at some point too. His dance looks choreographed, the movements long-remembered and clearly beloved.

Milena says something to him in their native Czech, and he replies in English, "Yes, I remember." He spins fluidly across the floor until he's next to her, and then he kisses her on the cheek. "I remember we both got something gold that night."

Beth-Anne smiles. She knows exactly what he's referring to.

Stan delights in telling the story of how he proposed to Milena. He'd been planning it for weeks and had even bought a ring, but hadn't actually presented it to her when he asked her to marry him. Instead, he'd given her his newly-won gold medal from Skate Canada. Apparently, he'd been too excited and full of adrenaline to wait for their next proper date and he'd proposed right there at the competition venue.

The first time Beth-Anne heard that story, she hadn't been the least bit surprised. It was perfectly in-character for Stan. What was also characteristically Stan was how he'd later taken that very same medal to a goldsmith, where it'd been melted down and refashioned into Stan and Milena's wedding bands.

"So we can always wear our greatest victory for the world to see," he'd said.

Beth-Anne loves that Stan considers his marriage to Milena his greatest victory.

We should all be so fortunate, she thinks.

She asks Milena if there's anything she can do to help with breakfast, although she already knows what the answer will be.

"No, it's under control," Milena assures her. "Grab a coffee and have a seat. This'll all be ready in a few minutes."

She fixes coffee for herself and Nikolai, and then joins him at the table. True to her word, Milena carries a huge platter of pancakes and sausage to the table a few minutes later. Stan finally decides to sit down as well, and they all enjoy some carefree chatter and the delicious food that's as filling to Beth-Anne's spirit as it is to her stomach.

After breakfast, she and Stan dress up to go outside and clear the driveway. Nikolai offers to help, but both she and Stan veto the idea immediately. He may be walking more confidently now, but there's no way they're going to let him shovel snow.

Milena says he can stay inside with her and help tidy up the kitchen. Beth-Anne is grateful to Milena for offering him a way to feel useful, and evidently Nikolai is too, because he happily acquiesces.

With Nikolai left in Milena's capable hands, Beth-Anne follows Stan out through the garage. They collect two wide snow shovels and then make their way outdoors. Stan wasn't wrong about how much it had snowed in the night. Yesterday, she'd guessed it might snow, but she had no idea they'd be up past their knees in it. It's still snowing lightly, with no signs of stopping soon, but if they don't start cleaning up now, it'll be that much more difficult when the storm finally does dwindle to its inevitable end.

For the first little while, they don't say much, other than to comment about how cold it is or how astonished they are by the unexpectedly heavy snowfall. By the time they've removed all the snow from the doorstep and walkway and the front of the garage, however, Stan seems more inclined to converse. They're clearing around his car when he says, "So, last night...?"

"What about last night?" she queries. "If this is gonna be about me and Nikolai sleeping in the same bed..."

"No, it's not," Stan says. "I know nothing happened. Well, nothing like that at least, but even if you did get up to something frisky, it's like I already said. You're adults. You do what you want. What I'm talking about was you screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night."

"Oh, God." Beth-Anne moans. "I'm so sorry. It's bad enough that I woke Nikolai. I didn't know I woke you and Milena too."

"You didn't wake Milena. That woman could sleep through World War Three. But, it took all my willpower not to run downstairs and check on you."

"And you didn't come down because...?"

"Because I remembered Nikolai was in there with you. Or you were in there with him, I suppose, since you didn't come up to the room we offered you."

"Yeah, well it was a little, uh... noisy up there for my tastes."

Stan snorts in his effort not to laugh. "Right. Apologies for that, but when your wife's rocking the boy-cut underwear and looking hot as fuck, sometimes you just gotta do something, you know?"

"I love that you still think she's hot."

"And why wouldn't i? Sure, she looks different than she did when we were eighteen, but so what? She's my benchmark for beauty. Everybody else has to measure up to her."

"You're amazing, you know."

"I know," Stan says, but then he turns serious again. "Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you're okay after the talk we had yesterday, and then whatever happened last night."

"Yeah, I'm surprisingly okay," she says. "I'm not cured, obviously, but I do feel better today. It was a pretty bad nightmare, but Nikolai looked after me. We talked afterwards, and he gave me some stuff to think about, whether he realizes it or not."

"What stuff?"

"For one thing, he seems to think I'm not going to end up being a danger to anybody. Maybe he's an optimist, but he thinks the kids are safe."

"Of course they are," Stan says. "Don't I keep telling you that? We didn't have you in anger management therapy back in the day for no reason, did we?"

"No. There was a reason. It was to keep me safe. And other people safe from me."

"Yeah, but it was also for your future, and you see how well it's worked out. You're like a second mom to some of those kids of yours.

"Nikolai said something like that too."

"So Nikolai tells you one time, and you believe him?"

"No, it's not that," she says. "It's not like I believe Nikolai and I don't believe you. It just seems easier to believe when I'm hearing it from more than one person, if that makes sense."

"It does," says Stan. "Not that I'm telling you to take a poll or anything, but if you did, I'll bet you'd hear the same thing from all your students' parents. I mean, the fact that they trust you with their kids should tell you as much."

She smiles wryly. "I just wish I could trust myself."

"That takes time, but you know what I think might help?"

"What?"

"Remember how you used to be," he says. "Look at how far you've come since I first met you, how much fuckin' awesome progress you've made as a human being, not just as an athlete and a coach. Not only should you trust yourself to do the right things, but you should be damn proud of yourself for getting it mostly right so far."

"Mostly right."

"Nobody's perfect."

"True," she agrees. She moves a few more shovelfuls of snow before she continues. "There was something else."

"Something else Nikolai said to you, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"And...?"

"I told him about Abby, and I told him how I got the scars."

Stan makes a sombre hum of affirmation. "That took courage."

"It felt like the right thing to do."

"How'd he take it?"

"I'd say he was shocked, but not totally surprised, and he said he didn't think any of it was my fault. And do you know what he asked me?"

Stan plants his shovel in the snow. He rests his gloved hands on top of the handle and leans forward a little, meeting her eyes. "I get the sense it's something you didn't see coming."

"You're right," she confirms. She pokes the snow a bit with the blade of her own shovel before sticking it into the nearest drift and copying Stan's posture. "He asked me if I've tried looking for Abby recently."

"Have you?" Stan asks.

Beth-Anne shakes her head. "No, but the more I think about it, the more I think maybe I should."

"Are you prepared for something like that? Like, emotionally and psychologically prepared?"

"No, but if I wait for a moment when I fell like I'm totally ready, maybe I'll never do it, and maybe this is something I need to do now, you know? Maybe it's the next step I need to take to move on."

"What if you find out something you'd rather not know?"

"Like what? The worst thing I could learn is something I already accept might be a possibility, that my sister died in the eighties. But, Stan..." She gazes at him intently, willing him to comprehend her sudden earnestness. "Stan, what if she didn't? What if she escaped that hell, and what if some foster family loved her and raised her like their own? I could still have a sister out there somewhere."

"This may not have a happy ending," he says.

"I know, but even if she doesn't remember me or doesn't want to meet me, or even if she really did pass away years ago, I think I'd feel better knowing the truth about what happened."

Stan presses his lips together as if he's deep in thought, attempting to come up with an adequate response. "I don't want you to think I'm discouraging you from doing this," he says at length. "You should, if you think it's what you need to do. I just don't want you to be hurt."

"I know," she smiles at him. "You always want to protect me, and it's one of the reasons I love you, but remember what you're always saying. We don't achieve anything if we're not willing to take risks."

"That sounds like the kind of motivational shit I'd say at the rink."

"It applies just as well to life off the ice."

He frowns, but she understands it's not because he's upset. It's because he's worried but also has to concede her point. "Knowing the truth likely would give you some closure," he says. "Maybe it would help you move on.

"Nikolai suggested Milena might be able to help," she tells him. "He said she might know how to get access to family court records and old documents from Social Services and stuff like that."

"Milena's not that kind of lawyer," Stan says. "But I'll bet there's somebody at her firm who is. I can ask her, if you want."

"No," Beth-Anne says. "I have to be sure I'm really doing this. I need to think about it a little more. When I'm sure I’m going ahead with it, I'll ask her myself."

Stan nods. "Okay. If you need to talk about it any more in the meantime, I'm here."

"Thanks," she says. "I'm grateful I can always count on you."

He smiles. "Hey, what's family for? No matter what happens, we've always got your back."

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 15)

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—————

A lot can change in a week.

Beth-Anne is astounded at how much progress Nikolai has made in just seven days. Considering how goal-driven he is, she probably shouldn't be astonished, but his quick transformation is more than she could've reasonably expected. His physical recovery is on track, he's gotten back his energy and focus, and he seems far less anxious. It’s a relief to her, seeing him returning to his old self.

At his checkup on Wednesday, the doctor and the sports therapist both cleared him to walk without crutches, and the sports therapist fitted him with a compression knee sleeve that he's supposed to wear when he's active. He's allowed to walk on the treadmill for up to thirty minutes a day, broken into ten-minute sessions, and he's supposed to keep up with his physiotherapy exercises. No leg weights and no stationary bicycle, the therapist said, which he frowned at but ultimately agreed to.

The thing Nikolai appeared to be most pleased about was the fact that he no longer requires weekly checkups. The sports therapist said he'd have him come back in two weeks' time to check his progress and possibly increase his exercise level.

"You'll have to come back by yourself," Beth-Anne told him. "Or get your grandfather to bring you if you don't have your car back by then, because I'll be in South Korea with Brett."

"Junior Worlds. Right. I'm sure Grandpa can bring me." He turned his attention back to the therapist. "So, in two weeks I should be able to start running again?"

The therapist bestowed him with an amused smile. "Athletes are all the same. You're all in a rush to be rid of your restrictions. But yes, if you do everything you're supposed to, in two weeks you should be able to do some light running on the treadmill. Perhaps you can do outdoor running and use your leg weights and ride your bike a couple of weeks after that."

Nikolai's next question came as no surprise to Beth-Anne. "When can I skate?"

"Let's give that some time."

"Yes, but how much time?"

"I think he's looking for a realistic timeline," Beth-Anne intervened.

"Another six to eight weeks at the very least before I'd be comfortable clearing you for that," the therapist said. "It may be longer, depending on your progress. Ideally, I'd like to see that knee fully stable and I'd like to see you regain some muscle before you get on the ice again."

Nikolai counted on his fingers. "Eight weeks would be... mid-May?"

"About then, I think," the therapist said.

"Okay. I can live with that. I'll be busy doing my coaching certification course between now and then anyway."

That was another thing. Even before his appointment with the doctor and therapist, he'd gone ahead and signed himself up for both the basic and advanced coach training courses.

He's going to need the basic certification just to be permitted to work with kids without supervision from another professionally certified coach, and the advanced level is necessary for him to work one-on-one with students who are training to compete in officially-recognized national and international events. The basic course is just four days long and the next available one is at the end of March. The next advanced level course is taking place over the last two weeks of April and the first week of May.

The timing couldn't possibly be more fortuitous, Beth-Anne thinks. He should be able to return to the ice around the same time he receives his full certification. Most group skating programs pause for the summer, so that will free up some of her time to work with him, to help him rebuild his confidence on the ice if he needs that, and to teach him everything she knows about teaching others. With any luck, by the time group classes resume at the beginning of September, he'll be ready for a small group of his own.

As soon as they got home from the sports medicine clinic, Nikolai went straight to his room. He came back to the kitchen only a couple minutes later with his skate bag, sat himself down on a kitchen chair and promptly pulled off his socks.

"What are you doing?" Beth-Anne inquired.

He glanced up at her, his expression plainly broadcasting that it should be obvious and she she shouldn't need to ask. Still, he replied, "Putting my skates on."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I miss them," he said.

"Okay, but don't you dare stand up in them. Just because you're not on the ice, that doesn't mean it doesn't count."

"I won't, I promise. I just want them on. I miss how they feel on my feet."

Fair enough, she thought. She watched him slip his feet into the boots and meticulously lace them up. He sat there with his skates on for the next half-hour, while she made sandwiches and they ate lunch together. After lunch, he took them off again and put them away, and she didn't make any further comment about it. The way she saw it, if it made him happy and it hadn't done him any harm, who was she to question it?

Slightly amused at the memory, she wonders how many more times she'll catch him with his skates on between now and the middle of May. She doubts it was a one-off, and she has no trouble conjuring up a mental image of him contentedly wearing his skates while he reads, or eats, or writes something for the new online blog he's created to chronicle his coaching journey.

She smiles. She's watched him grow from an impulsive and sometimes silly teenager into a mature and responsible adult, but it's gratifying to know that he hasn't completely lost his adolescent whimsy. In some ways, he's still very much a kid, and she thinks those qualities of playfulness, imagination, resilience and courage will serve him well, not just as a coach and teacher but in his personal life too. He may be going through an exceptionally difficult time at the moment, but she can see the light at the end of this dark tunnel and she's sure he can as well.

He's going to be all right, she tells herself. It's still going to take time, but he sees the way forward now, and I don't believe anything's going to stop him.

She doesn't have enough words to describe how much she admires him for that.

This morning, she'd awakened with a sense of lightness she hasn't felt in a while. Her concerns are all still there, of course, but she has the feeling this is going to be a great day despite all the problems and worries crowded at the back of her mind.

That stuff can wait.

Now that Nikolai is off his crutches, she decides today is the perfect day to get him off the bench and let him come down onto the ice with her. She can introduce him to all the kids and let him interact with them. He knows Stan's grandson Marek, and she's certain he's already bonded with little Eden, but he still hasn't met the girls, Everleigh, Madison and Sienna. There's also her Saturday preschool group for him to meet, and her two Novice division students, Katie and Ruby. She hopes all the kids like him as much as Eden seems to, both for his comfort and theirs.

She climbs out of bed and does her best to hurry through her morning routine. Regardless of her efforts, however, when she makes her way downstairs, she discovers that Nikolai has gotten out of bed ahead of her. He's already showered, dressed and in the middle of making breakfast. The scent of coffee wafts across her nostrils.

"Morning, coach," he greets her. "Your makeup looks good."

"Thanks." She gestures toward the stove. "I see my cooking lessons are already paying off."

He grins. "Well, I'm not ready to host my own cooking show or anything yet, but I think I'm doing all right."

She's treated to her favourite ham and cheese omelette, fried potatoes, and cut-up red grapefruit drizzled with honey. It may not be gourmet, but it is delicious and she enjoys every bite. It's especially pleasant to sit down to a meal she didn't have to prepare for herself.

"I could get used to this," she says, as she savours the final bite of grapefruit. "You making us breakfast, I mean."

"We can make it a regular thing," he says. “Turns out I like cooking. It’s not as daunting as I thought, so I’m sure I could be in charge of making breakfast for us.”

"Oh? So I take it you've changed your mind about going home?"

He swallows the last of his coffee and sets the mug down carefully. "I've been thinking about it. I was kind of worried that me being here was too much for you, but if you're okay with me staying, maybe I will stay."

"You're not too much. I like having you here. It's nice to have company, but like I told you before, the choice is entirely up to you."

"I'll stay for a little longer, then," he says. "Anya's staying with her grandparents for some reason. I don't know if she's planning to go home soon, but if she is, I... kinda don't want to be there."

"Understandable, but you know you'll need to deal with that situation at some point."

"I know." He rotates the empty coffee mug between his hands. "I think I'm just scared."

"Of Anya?"

He nods. "Is that stupid?"

"No, I don't think so," Beth-Anne says. "I can see how she'd be scary."

"I want a divorce, but I don't want to fight about it. All I want is the house and my cat. She can have anything else she wants. Money, furniture, the car... whatever. I just want us to live separate lives from now on."

"If you want my opinion, you'd be better off living separate lives."

"It's obvious we can't have a life together any more," he says. "The problem is, I don't want to talk to her about it because I'm scared she'll cause a scene."

"In that case, maybe you shouldn't talk about it with her. Maybe you should hire a lawyer and get them to do the talking for you."

"Maybe." He runs his thumb along the rim of his mug and doesn't meet Beth-Anne's eyes. "I just don't want any drama. You know I hate that. If I got a lawyer, I'm worried the whole thing would drag on for ages, and Anya would tell everybody about everything, every chance she got. I'd rather just agree that it's over, do the court paperwork ourselves and get it out of the way as quickly as we can."

"If that's what you want, then you'll have to swallow your fear and tell her," Beth-Anne says. "I know it's hard, but you have to believe in getting what you want. That's..."

"...that's part of how you succeed," he finishes the sentence with her. All of a sudden, he's smiling again. "You know, I told Eden that."

Perplexed, she says. "About... divorce?"

"No, about winning skating competitions. Remember, you said that to me for the first time way back when I was seventeen? When I was having that big existential crisis because you were my third coach in my first three years at Senior level.”

"You thought the problem was you."

"Well, it sort of was, according to Uncle Stan."

"But it was because you were too good, not because you weren't good enough," she reminds him.

“I know that now, but it was a struggle to get my head around it at the time. The whole thing was pretty stressful.”

"I know, but you handled it like a champion, and it didn’t take you long to settle in with me.”

“Because you promised you’d stick with me no matter what, and I trusted you. I felt safe with you. That gave me a lot of confidence, and it let me relax and enjoy myself a lot more."

“I remember. One of the first things I asked you was what you wanted, and the first thing you told me wasn't that you wanted to win. You said you wanted to be happy and have fun."

"Yeah, but I still wanted to win. I wanted it really bad, and I was frustrated because I wasn't doing as well as I thought I should with Uncle Stan or my other coach before him."

"I could tell you wanted to win," she says. "I can tell you still do."

"I do," he concedes. "Winning might look different now, but I still want to. I think if I can help somebody else the way you helped me, that'll feel like winning to me just as much as it does to them."

"I think it will too," Beth-Anne says. "It did for me when I watched you win, and it's the same with Brett and Mariah and the others."

"And they'll be more likely to win if they're happy and having fun, right?"

"Right."

"But, even if they don't win, the important thing is that they're still doing what they enjoy."

Beth-Anne nods. "You're going to be an excellent coach."

"I hope so," he says. "I want to make you proud."

"I'm already proud of you," she tells him. "You're the best son I never had."

He smiles. "The son you always wanted?"

"Not always, but definitely from the moment I realized my life would be a lot emptier without you in it," she says. "And I'm glad you're staying."

"Until I finish my coaching courses at least, if that's all right."

"Absolutely. Consider this your home for as long as you like."

"Thanks," he says.

They finish their breakfast and do the washing up as quickly as they can, and manage to get out the door right on schedule. Even with a stop at Tim Horton's for more coffee, they make it to the arena at 7:45 on the dot.

It's still not early enough to get there before her first students arrive, though.

She's torn between laughter and exasperation when she spots Eden Seong and Marek Zelenka peeking around the edge of the propped-open door from the corridor that leads to one of the practice rinks. When Marek sees her, he gives her a brief wave. Then, he leans down to say something quietly to Eden, which Beth-Anne can’t hear. The kids grin at each other.

The next thing Beth-Anne knows, the two little boys charge through the doorway and race across the foyer, straight toward her and Nikolai. They’re both shouting Nikolai's name at the top of their voices.

Nikolai reaches out to catch Marek, but both boys seem to misinterpret the movement as an invitation for a group hug. Somehow, Nikolai ends up sitting on the floor with Marek and Eden half on top of him and looking like they're competing to see who's more capable of squishing him. All three of them are laughing.

"Nikolai, it worked!" Eden practically yells.

"Yeah!" Marek chimes in. "I don't know what you said, but it totally worked!"

Beth-Anne isn't entirely sure what Eden and Marek are talking about, but she doesn't get a chance to ask before someone else appears in the doorway. It's Stan. He has a small skate bag in each hand, and several wisps of silver hair escaping from his stubby ponytail. If she didn't know better, she'd say he slept in the sweatpants and long sleeved t-shirt he's wearing.

Stan jogs over to them. "I see the chaos has manifested," he says, nodding at Nikolai, Marek and Eden. "I believe these are yours now."

"Thanks. I'm so excited," Beth-Anne says, deadpan, but she's fighting like hell to hold her laughter in and keep her face neutral. Stan looks as if he can't wait to make Marek and Eden someone else's responsibility, and she's dying to know the story behind why he has both of them, and why they're here so early.

Stan holds out the skate carriers. "Boys. Your responsibilities..."

Marek and Eden scramble to their feet. Eden takes the purple skate bag from Stan's left hand and Marek claims the blue and white one from his right.

Eden cradles his skates against his chest with both arms as if he's holding something incredibly precious. He beams at Nikolai. "You fixed everything."

"I'm glad it worked out," Nikolai says, as Stan steps forward to give him a hand up. "But I'm sure it wasn't all me. I'd say Beth-Anne had something to do with it, and I think you must've been fairly persuasive on your own."

It clicks for Beth-Anne at that moment. Nikolai must've talked to Eden's parents about his future as a skater. She hadn't realized he'd talked to them, and she guesses he must've done it the previous Saturday when they came to pick Eden up after class. She'd noticed them arriving and she'd been peripherally aware of Eden leading Nikolai out of the rink area to meet them, but she hadn't interacted with them herself as she'd been occupied with setting things up for her preschool group.

It hadn't been until later in the week, after what she thought would be Eden's next-to-last individual lesson, that she'd gotten the opportunity to bring up Eden's athletic career with them again. They seemed to have softened their position, but they still hadn't completely made up their minds at that point. Evidently, they'd given it significant consideration since then.

"No, it was definitely you, Nikolai," Eden insists. "Mommy said she was sorry because she didn't think about it from my point of view. She said she and Dad were too worried about something bad happening to me on the ice to see that something even worse would happen if they made me quit. And I think part of it was 'cause they really listened when you told them how sad and depressed you were when you thought you wouldn't be able to skate any more."

Beth-Anne turns toward Nikolai. "You told Mr. and Mrs. Seong that?"

"Yeah," Nikolai admits. "I don't know if that was overstepping, but I felt like I had to try to convince them. I didn't really know how to approach it, so I just... went with honesty."

"You probably should've mentioned it to me," Beth-Anne says.

"Sorry. It actually didn't occur to me."

"It's okay," she says. "Just let me know next time if you feel the need to speak to one of my students' family members."

"I will," he says. "But, it really didn't cross my mind to say anything about last Saturday. I assumed you would've seen me talking to Eden's parents. We were in the hallway, right outside the windows."

"Never assume anything," she says, and to Eden she asks, "Should I expect to have another chat with your mom and dad today?"

"Yeah!" Eden says enthusiastically. "Mommy told me yesterday after school that I can keep skating, and she said she'd discuss everything with you today."

"Then he called me, 'cause he was so excited," Marek adds. "And I was excited too, so I invited him for a sleepover, so we could celebrate."

"You invited both of you for a sleepover at Grandma and Grandpa's house," Stan interjects. "Don't forget that important detail, Marek."

"I see," Beth-Anne says. "That explains why you look like you can't wait to pass them off to me."

"We had to go to Grandpa's house," Marek explains. "My parents aren't really into skating, but Grandpa gets it."

"The only thing Grandpa wants to get right now is a couple more hours' sleep," Stan says.

"Don't you have a group class this morning, Stan?" Beth-Anne asks.

"Hmm... at nine, but that gives me an hour or so to nap in the car. I might've been able to keep up with these two living hurricanes when I was your age, but us old people need proper rest, you know."

"Old people," Beth-Anne scoffs. "You can still run circles around most of us. But, go on. Nikolai and I can take these two from here."

Each of the boys grabs one of Nikolai's hands, and they start to pull him in the direction of the other practice rink. Marek glances back at his grandfather. "Yeah, don't worry Grandpa. We'll take it from here."

"Hmph. 'Don't worry, Grandpa' is a phrase that should be banned," Stan grumbles.

"Everything'll be fine, Uncle Stan," says Nikolai. "I've got them."

"Another phrase that should be illegal; 'Everything'll be fine, Uncle Stan'."

Marek's only response is a mischievous giggle, and Nikolai makes an inelegant snorting noise in his effort not to laugh.

Beth-Anne stands back and watches for a few seconds as Nikolai and the boys make their way across the foyer. He's definitely won their hearts, and it's already clear that little Eden has won his. She doesn't want to get ahead of herself, but she's thrilled at the news that Eden will be allowed to keep skating, and she envisions an amazing future for him in the sport.

For him and Nikolai. If ever two people were meant to be together as coach and student...

No. Don't let your imagination run away with you. One day at a time, and one step at a time, don't forget.

But, she can't completely suppress her elation. She'd woken up with the feeling that today would be great, and so far it's turning out exactly that way. She's glad of it. After making it through the turmoil of the last several weeks, she and Nikolai deserve to have a good day.

Stan steps up beside her and drapes an arm around her shoulders. "Well, he's a natural, isn't he? Your Nikolai, I mean. He's a hit with the kids."

"It would seem so," she agrees, smiling.

"I told you it'd all work out, didn't I?" He gives her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "Don't worry. Everything will be fine."

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(Part 1)

// next // story index

———

Beth-Anne Jones gasps for breath as she awakes from yet another nightmare. It's been nearly a month — a whole goddamned month — and she still can't seem to erase the awful visions from her head entirely. The dreams are always more horrible than the real event had been, but her feelings are always the same.

There's a dull pain in her chest, and it's as if the entire Earth is falling away beneath her. She wants to scream or cry, or both, but she can do neither. She is frozen, powerless, and all she can do is watch the scene through her mind's eye as the boy she loves like a son lies motionless on the unforgiving ice.

The sound of her breathing is raspy and loud in the dark stillness of her bedroom. She passes a hand across her eyes, blinks twice, and then peers at the softly glowing numbers of the digital clock on her bedside table.

12:43 a.m.

Well, she supposes, two hours of uninterrupted sleep is better than no sleep at all. She'd gone to bed at half-past ten, hopeful for more than two hours, even though she's a realist and knows that sort of thing is entirely beyond her control.

She lies there for a minute, stilling her breath, calming her body. Should she try to go back to sleep? Maybe she should just get up, go to the kitchen and get a drink.

Water, she tells herself. A drink of water.

The self-directive is deliberate, because she understands if she doesn't make a conscious effort to control herself, she'll drink something else; something far more potent than water and that she knows full well she shouldn't even have in the house. She bought it on impulse a month ago, almost as soon as she'd gotten back from the Four Continents Championship. She'd wanted something to dull her emotions, but by the time she'd driven from the liquor store back to her house, she was having second thoughts and couldn't bring herself to open it. All she ended up doing was sitting on her living room floor, letting tears stream down her face and clutching the bottle so hard that her fingers ached.

The worst part was, she didn't even know why she was crying. What had happened wasn't her fault. It was no one's fault, and there wouldn't have been any way to prevent it. And it wasn't her athletic career that was ruined, was it? It wasn't her legacy as a world champion skater that'd been stolen by fate in the space of mere heartbeats. Was she even entitled to feel so much pain when it was Nikolai who was suffering?

She still asks herself that question, because it still hurts. Every time she closes her eyes, her mind replays the moment when she saw him crumple onto the ice. In the split second before that, she'd known he wasn't going to land that jump, and she was sure he'd realized it too. He'd tried to recover, but in the end, the only thing he'd achieved was to twist his knee in an even more catastrophic way that he probably would have if he'd just let himself fall.

The noise that came out of him when he hit the ice barely sounded human. The only way Beth-Anne can think of to describe it is a howl. It was pain and fear and anger, all formed into a devastating point that plunged itself straight into Beth-Anne's heart.

She was the first to get to him, far more confident on the slick surface of the rink than the on-call doctor and athletic trainer, who picked their way across the ice like gangling colts just discovering the purpose of their legs. For a few precious seconds, it was just the two of them. She could see how scared he was, and she reached for his hand to comfort him.

"I'm sorry," he said, and Beth-Anne could've sworn she felt the very core of her consciousness shattering into a million pieces.

She wanted to reassure him, to tell him there was nothing he needed to apologize for, but when she tried to speak, the only word she could get out was his name. She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back weakly, and then the medical staff started to arrive.

She could see that he didn't want them to touch him, but they couldn't examine him without touching, so she did what she could to soothe him. Finding her voice at last, she told him, "It's all right, Nik. They're here to help. Let them tend to you. It'll be okay."

He stared up at her, eyes wide and tear-filled. "Don't leave me."

"I'm right here," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."

While the medical staff assessed the damage, Beth-Anne didn't let go of Nikolai's hand. She only took her eyes off him once, to make a quick survey of the people and the activity taking place around them.

The spectators in the stands were eerily quiet, and Beth-Anne knew that every gaze was fixed on the unfolding drama at ice level. She saw people with video cameras — of course the fucking sports journalists were documenting everything — and she was momentarily startled when she saw the bright flash of an honest-to-god still camera. The lens was so long, it was probably powerful enough to capture a pimple on a rat's ass in high definition from half a kilometre away.

Beth-Anne swore internally. Journalists had never been her favourite. If she could, she'd make every single one of these people delete their footage from the last few minutes. She didn't want this to be in the top stories on every sports network around the globe; last season's World Championship gold medallist crying on the ice. Her beautiful, talented, brave Nik did not deserve to be remembered that way.

She scanned the crowd quickly, looking for the faces she expected to see. Ah yes... there they were. Standing by the gate that led out to the corridor where the locker rooms were located, she spotted Nikolai's wife Anya and his best friend Ginger. The two women, also competitive skaters, were clinging to each other like disaster survivors. Ginger looked just as terrified as Nikolai did, and Anya's expression gave every indication that she might be sick. Ginger's coach, Stanislav, was with them. Stan had a hand on Ginger's shoulder. His expression was grim.

One person Beth-Anne didn't see was Anya's coach, Isabelle, not that she was particularly worried about whether Isabelle was there. The woman was insufferable, and Beth-Anne was not the least bit shy to admit she did not like her. They may have worked out of the same rink, but in no way did that mean they were required to be friends.

Beth-Anne returned her attention to Nikolai just as one of the medical staff was saying they would need to take him to the nearest hospital for x-rays. Incongruously, she wanted to compliment the man on his English. She still doesn't know why such a thought would come to her at a time like that, and feels a twinge of embarrassment every time she recalls it.

"I understand," she said, cutting herself off and ducking her head before she got out the words running through her brain. I understand your English perfectly.

Beth-Anne had momentarily forgotten which one of the two Taiwanese men down on the ice with her and Nikolai was the doctor and which was the sports therapist, but the one who wasn't speaking to them was talking on his phone to somebody in what she assumed was Mandarin. Asking for a stretcher, she surmised, because Nikolai couldn't skate or walk on his own. There was no way in hell Beth-Anne would've let him try anyway, even if he thought he could.

"I can't go by myself," Nikolai was saying. "Beth-Anne, you have to come too. Please."

"I'm not going to leave you alone in a foreign country," she said. "I'd like to see anybody try to stop me from coming with you."

One of the medical personnel helped Nikolai sit up while they waited for whoever was coming with the stretcher. Nikolai leaned into Beth-Anne and hid his face against her shoulder. He was still crying, and Beth-Anne's heart ached for him. She wrapped her arms around him, heedless of the thousands of pairs of eyes on them.

"I'm scared," he said, and it came out so quietly that she was sure she was the only one who heard it.

"Everything's going to be okay," she said.

They both knew that wasn't true, but Beth-Anne guessed it was a lie he wanted to hear. He started taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Beth-Anne rubbed his back. The sequins on his costume were rough against her palm and the skin beneath the thin fabric was freezing cold. She wished someone would bring his jacket for him.

"Beth-Anne?"

"I'm here," she said.

"I don't want this to be the end." Nikolai was still sniffling slightly, but she noticed that his tears had mostly subsided. "I... I don't know what I'll do without..." he paused, and drew in another long, shaky breath. "Without skating. Without... you."

She was too stressed to pay much attention to this in the moment, but when she thought about it later, it surprised her a little that he hadn't asked for his wife to come with him to the hospital for his x-rays. In fact, he hadn't mentioned Anya at all, only seeming to want to cling to Beth-Anne like a child to his mother.

It seemed odd to her then, his wanting her with him instead of his wife. Now, in hindsight, she understands why it'd been her that he'd wanted. Things were not good between Nikolai and Anya. Perhaps they hadn't been great for some time before the Four Continents, but they'd been doing their best to keep it quiet Since then, however, neither of them has made a particular effort to pretend they're all right.

For the past month, Beth-Anne has watched, helpless, as her once-vibrant, bright and energetic Nikolai has receded further and further away from who he used to be, from everyone he knows, and from the world itself. It's as if he's fading away before her eyes.

When they'd first returned from Taiwan, she visited him every day. For the first few days she thought he seemed hopeful, but it soon occurred to her that he was putting on a show for her benefit. When she asked him gently to tell her the truth, he broke down.

"I don't see the point," he told her through tears.

"The point of what?" she asked.

"Of... anything," he said.

It wasn't too many days after that when Anya asked Beth-Anne not to come back to see Nikolai any more.

No, not asked. That would be too generous.

What really happened was that Anya had gotten in her face and demanded that she never cross the threshold of their home again, citing the allegation that Beth-Anne's visits only served to upset Nikolai. Beth-Anne found it more likely that it wasn't her presence causing him to be upset, but the fact that she had to leave. More than once, he'd begged her to stay longer, and she knows for certain Anya witnessed that.

Never one to back down from anything, Beth-Anne pointed this out to Anya. She should've known it wouldn't go over well. Far from convincing Anya of anything, all it did was cause her to launch into a screaming tirade about how she'd never liked Beth-Anne, how Beth-Anne was damaging her and Nikolai's marriage, and how it was all Beth-Anne's fault that Nikolai would never skate again.

It took every shred of willpower Beth-Anne possessed not to react. She wanted nothing more than to grab the younger woman and shake her. Maybe shove her against a wall and tell her that she was a stupid, selfish bitch. Not for the first time, she was grateful to be sober because she always had anger management issues when she was drinking. Self-control issues. Human decency issues.

Instead, she decided to leave, not because she wanted to, but because it was clear the situation would only deteriorate if she didn’t. The last thing she heard as she went out the door was Nikolai's voice, angry and tearful, yelling from where she'd left him in the living room, "Anna-Valentina, why the hell did you do that? I don't want her to not come back! I need her!"

Beth-Anne hadn't returned to the house while Anya was there, but that didn't mean she lost touch altogether. She promised Nikolai she wouldn’t leave him, and she’d be damned if she abandoned him completely. They talk every day on the phone at least once, but usually more than once, and sometimes she sneaks by for a few minutes with a coffee and his favourite giant peanut butter cookie from a local bakery when she knows Anya is at the rink.

I haven't been there in a few days, she realizes. I should go tomorrow.

She glances at the clock again. Now it's 12:46. How the hell had she lost those three minutes? At the same time, she wonders how three minutes could feel so damned long.

She pushes back the blankets and swings her legs out of bed. Her hip protests a little — probably going to snow tomorrow — but it's not enough to cause her more than momentary discomfort as her feet touch the floor and she gets out of bed. She makes her way downstairs to the kitchen.

Her cat, Elvis, is asleep on top of the fridge, but wakes when she enters the room. After a squeaky, querying meow, he leaps to the floor to weave himself around her legs as she walks to the cupboard for a glass.

She'd momentarily forgotten that's where she put the bottle.

The sight of it confronts her the instant she opens the cupboard door, sitting there on the shelf above the glassware. The irony is, she's seen it there dozens of times over the past few weeks and barely gave it a thought. But, in this moment, it's as if the dark golden liquid is calling to her, willing her to reach for it.

And she does. God help her, she takes it in her hand.

Glass in one hand and bottle in the other, she turns toward the table. She makes it there, sets the glass down, and then stares at the bottle's familiar black and white label.

"What the fuck am I doing?" she says aloud.

Elvis hops onto the table, curious.

Beth-Anne glances at him. She shakes her head. "No, we're not doing this tonight. We're not doing it ever. I should pour the damn thing out, shouldn't I? Get rid of it and pretend I never even bought—"

Her monologue is cut off abruptly by the sudden ringing of her phone. It's in the pocket of her pyjama pants. When did I put that in there?

The sound startles her, and she lets go of the bottle. It bounces off the edge of the table and plunges toward the ceramic tile of the kitchen floor, slick and hard and white as ice.

The bottle shatters.

Elvis lets out an almightly yowl, flies off the table and dashes out of the room. Beth-Anne screams, "Goddammit!"

She takes a wobbly step back from the pool of liquor and shards of glass and reaches into her pocket for the phone. The caller ID says 'Nikolai Pavlenko'. Her fingers tremble as she touches the 'answer' button.

"Beth-Anne Jones." Just like in Taiwan, her voice sounds far calmer than it should. Always with the game face, Beth-Anne. She wants to laugh at herself, maybe hysterically.

The only thing she hears for a second or two is the sound of Nikolai sobbing. It's not normal crying; she can hear him fighting to regain his breath. Then, he practically whispers, "Beth-Anne... I'm scared."

"Where are you?" she demands.

He sniffles loudly. "At home. I... I don't know what to do."

"About what?" she asks.

"About... anything," he says. "I can't do this any more, Beth-Anne. It's all meaningless, and I... I don't..." He pauses, as if making up his mind whether or not he should confess aloud what he’s thinking. He whispers, "I don't want to be here."

"Do you need me?" she asks. It’s a fucking stupid question. Why would he be calling her if he didn’t need her? “Do you want me to come over?”

Even though she already knows the answer, she’s slightly relieved to hear the shaky reply. "Y-yeah. Please. Can you come?"

"Are you home alone?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," she says. "Give me about ten minutes, fifteen max. I need to put some clothes on, and then I'll be right there. Can you unlock the front door for me?"

"Yes," he says.

"All right. You unlock the front door and don't you dare do anything else until I get there. You hear me?"

He says he understands, and then they hang up. She'd briefly debated with herself whether or not to stay on the phone with him, but ultimately decided she'd probably be too distracted to drive if she could hear him crying on speakerphone. She needed to get there. She didn't need the potential of wrapping her truck around a power pole on the way because his tears were triggering her own and causing her to be unable to see properly.

She shakes her head again as she sweeps one more look across the mess on the floor. That can wait, she tells herself. If she stops to clean up the broken glass, that'll cause too much of a delay. She thinks Nikolai will be all right for ten or fifteen minutes, but she doesn't want to play around with time, because she could be wrong, and every minute she wastes could alter the chances of a safe outcome.

She skirts around the glass and dashes back upstairs to throw on some jeans and a sweatshirt and pull her hair into a ponytail. She grabs Elvis and shuts him in the upstairs bathroom where his litter box and water bowl are. He won't starve to death without access to his food until morning, she reasons, and she'd rather have him angry and confined than free to wander through the hazard in the kitchen and inadvertently cut himself.

The next thing she does is text Stan: « No need to reply to this immediately. Can you please call my students and cancel my ice time for tomorrow? Emergency - will explain in the morning. Love you & thanks! »

Reasonably satisfied that she's done all she can do at home, she scoops up her purse and the keys to her truck, and races out the door.

She's glad it's the middle of the night and hardly anyone is on the street because she runs every red light on the way across town.

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 7)

previous // next // story index

__________

The Brindleton Bay Arena is the second-largest arena in the city. It's designated as a multi-sport facility, and that's technically accurate, but it's most commonly known for being the home of the Brindleton Bay Skating Club. It has three ice surfaces; a large main rink with seating for just over four thousand spectators, and two other regulation-sized ice surfaces with enough bench seating around them for about three hundred people each. The main rink is used for minor hockey and for public recreational skating as well as for figure skating, but the two smaller rinks are usually reserved for group skating classes and for the competitive skaters to practice on.

The only arena in town that's larger and more well known than this one is Seaport Place, where the Brindleton Bay Mariners hockey team practices and plays. Nikolai likes hockey. He enjoys attending Mariners home games whenever he can, and he likes the huge, bright and modern environment of Seaport Place. He's even competed there a few times, in events that anticipated far more spectators than the Brindleton Bay Arena could accommodate. He recalls the year Skate Canada was hosted there. That had been a proud moment for the city, and Nikolai had loved performing for the hometown crowd.

But, as beautiful and prestigious as Seaport Place is, it doesn't hold space in Nikolai’s heart like the old Brindleton Bay Arena does. This building is practically a second home to him.

At least it was.

Stepping through the doors of the arena with Beth-Anne doesn’t feel like the homecoming he imagined. It’s awkward and strange, and he thinks the sentiment is similar to that of two old friends who’ve drifted apart, inadvertently meeting on the street one day and realizing just how much each of them has changed. It’s true he hasn’t been away from the rink that long, only slightly more than a month, but being here now feels like he’s crossed into a parallel dimension. It’s as if the pocket universe inside the arena has altered itself just enough so that he’s no longer included in its timeline, as if he'd never existed here as a skater at all.

He feels like he's trespassing. He can’t come in here without his skates and without a scheduled ice time. He needs a reason, a purpose.

He stops walking, but he’s unaware of it until Beth-Anne is several strides ahead. She pauses, and looks over her shoulder at him.

"Nikolai, are you okay?" she asks.

He feels sick, and he almost tells her he wants to leave, but he scrapes together the shreds of his courage and says, "I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" Beth-Anne returns to his side and rests her hand on his forearm. "We're doing this at your pace, remember."

He swallows several times. It's one of his nervous habits, and he knows Beth-Anne will recognize it, but nevertheless he repeats, "No, I'm okay. It's just... weird. Coming here feels weird."

"I know," she says. "The first time I came here after I stopped competing felt weird to me too. Probably an understatement to say it was weird, actually. I never darkened the doorway of this place for over four years, and I had no intention of ever coming back, but Stan talked me into it. You know how he is when he gets onto an idea."

Nikolai manages a little smile. "Yeah. People don't really say no to Uncle Stan, do they?"

"Not if they know what's good for them," Beth-Anne says. She grins at him. "Or unless they're you. You're the reason he called me, you know."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He couldn't handle you. Said you walked all over him."

"He likes me," Nikolai says. "I don't think it was so much that I said no to him, but that he couldn't bring himself to say no to me."

"A little of Column A and a little of Column B, I think," says Beth-Anne. "Anyway, he said you needed someone who'd love you and let you have fun, but who'd encourage you to focus and who wouldn't let you get away with your usual shit. For some reason, he thought of me, and he pretty much just told me to show up at a certain day and time."

'I remember that day."

"Me too. I felt like I was going to puke my guts out the second I came through the door, I was that nervous.”

"You didn't seem nervous."

"Because I'm good at bullshitting my way through situations," she says. “But, you know what? I’m glad I showed up, even though I was scared as hell. That was one of the best risks I ever took, and look what came out of it. Stan said you were special, and he wasn’t wrong.”

“Stan said I was special?”

“He did.”

“He never told me that. He usually said I was a huge pain in the ass.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive states of being.” She arches an eyebrow, amused. “You are a huge pain in the ass sometimes, but I love you and you’re worth the trouble. And you are special.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I love you too, but you probably already know that.”

“Yeah, but what do I always say? Never miss an opportunity to tell someone you love them.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, just so you know, I calmed down once I was here for a while on that first day. Being with people I love and doing something that makes me happy made a difference." She gives his arm a light, reassuring squeeze. "It does get easier, I promise."

"I trust you," he says, because he does. It's hard to believe it'll get easier, but if Beth-Anne says it will, then he can at least accept the possibility.

"You're not alone. You don't have to do any of this by yourself."

"I know," he says. "Thanks for that."

"You're welcome. Now, do you think you're ready to keep going?"

He's not entirely certain he's ready, but he nods his affirmation. "Yeah. Let's do this."

He follows her through the foyer and down the corridor that leads to one of the practice ice surfaces. Part of the wall is constructed of shatterproof glass, and he can see three small children already on the ice and several adults seated on the benches.

Preschool group class.

He was part of a preschool group class once himself, although he only has the vaguest recollection of it. His most solid early memories of skating are from when he was about nine years old, practising at his old club and competing in local pre-Novice events. He hadn't done very well, and his teacher at the time had told his parents that he probably wouldn't still be skating past the age of ten or eleven.

His parents had taken that pronouncement at face value, and his father had broken it to him as delicately as he was able. Nikolai, however, was not ready to give up on his dream. He remembers running to his grandfather and sobbing in his arms while trying to relate the awful news.

Grandpa had understood the problem.

"Kolya, I want to tell you two very important things," he'd said. "The first is that not everyone can be good at the things they love, and I want you to understand, that's okay. But, the second thing is that no one should ever quit doing what they love just because someone else thinks they should. If you want to be a skater, then you should keep skating. Maybe you won't be good at it or maybe you'll be a world champion some day, but if you stop now, you'll never know."

"But, what about Papa and Mama?" he'd asked. "Papa said—"

"Never mind what he said. I'll talk to your parents," Grandpa had assured him. "And never mind that teacher, either. We'll look for someone who knows what they’re talking about. Someone who knows whether you've got real potential or not."

Making good on his word, Grandpa had more or less taken over supervising Nikolai's skating career after that. He found another coach, one who did indeed give an honest answer about Nikolai's potential. She was of the view that Nikolai wasn't doing well because he didn't get the individual attention he needed in group classes and was essentially being held back by everybody else. She agreed to take him on as an individual student, and by the time he entered the Novice division the following year and started competing seriously, he surprised everyone by winning a silver medal in his very first competition.

That was the day Grandpa gave him Champion the teddy bear. He'd tapped the little plastic gold medal around the bear's neck and told him, "Some day you'll have a real one of these, Kolya. A real gold medal, and I'm going to be right there to see it happen."

And he was. Grandpa was there for every competition for his entire time in Novice, travelling with him and Allison, his coach, to various parts of the country. He'd seen quite a lot of Nikolai's Junior division competitions too.

Then, when Nikolai was sixteen, the whole family had moved here to Brindleton Bay. The move was ostensibly for Grandpa's work, but it wasn't lost on Nikolai that Grandpa had made contact with the one and only Stanislav Kovac and somehow convinced him to be Nikolai's coach. Stan coached him for a year, and then Beth-Anne came along.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Maybe, he tells himself, it'll be the same with coaching as it was with his competitive career. He doesn't know if coaching is what he wants to do long-term or if he'll have any aptitude for teaching, but he won't have the answer to either of those questions until he makes the attempt. And Beth-Anne will be with him, just like always. Grandpa too, he realizes, and suddenly finds he can hardly wait to tell his grandfather about this latest development, as undefined as it is.

He's going to watch those preschoolers with all the attention he can muster.

Nikolai is busy coming up with basic skills he might look for in the little skaters as he and Beth-Anne approach the the entrance to the practice rink. They're only half a dozen steps away when the door swings open and someone dashes through it with a shout of, "Nikolai Pavlenko!"

The young woman runs straight toward Nikolai and flings herself at him so forcefully that Nikolai has to drop his crutches in order to catch her. He lets out an inelegant grunt as he's forced to put weight on his injured leg, but he stays upright, and that's something.

"Nikolai! Oh my God!" the girl exclaims. "You're okay! Uncle Stan said you were in the hospital, and we were all literally freaking out. I'm so happy you're all right and..." she interrupts herself with a squeal of joy, and squishes him in an exuberant embrace. "I missed you!"

It's difficult not to respond to such an enthusiastic welcome, and he smiles. "Hi, Mariah. I missed you too."

Beside him, Beth-Anne doesn't seem quite so pleased. She makes an exasperated huffing noise. "Mariah! For fuck's sake! Did you not see the crutches?"

"Oh! Sorry!" Mariah says, but she's not contrite. She releases Nikolai and then scrambles to collect his crutches for him. As she's helping him get situated with them again, she glances over at Beth-Anne. "My mom says you say the F-word too much, you know."

"Typical teenager," Beth-Anne grumbles. "Always making trouble."

"Yup," says Mariah, unfazed. Nikolai knows Beth-Anne isn't really angry, and Mariah clearly knows it too. "That's me, Mariah Torres. Making trouble since 1995."

Nikolai wants to laugh, and momentarily forgets that he's supposed to be anxious. He adores Mariah. The sixteen year old kind of reminds him of himself and Ginger at that age, full of energy and affection and harmless silliness. In hindsight, it's no wonder Stan hadn't been able to handle the two of them together.

"Shouldn't you be at school?" Beth-Anne is asking Mariah. "Your ice time isn't until three-thirty."

"I know," Mariah says. "My dad's away on business and my mom had to take my sisters to the dentist this morning, so like, somebody had to make sure my baby brother made it here for his ice time. But, don't worry," she adds. "Me and Gabriel have dentist appointments too, so once his class is over we're gonna go there, and then I'll go to school for the afternoon."

"Your little brother's in the preschool class?" Nikolai asks, intrigued.

"Uh-huh," says Mariah. "And he's awesome. I mean, not that anybody's actually good when they're four years old, but like, Gabriel hardly ever falls down, and he can skate on one foot a little bit."

"I'll keep an eye out for that."

"You're going to watch the class?"

"I'm going to be observing all morning," he says.

"Cool," says Mariah. "Come on. You can sit with me, and we'll observe together. We can pretend we're assistant coaches and make notes."'

Nikolai doesn't tell her that he's not going to be pretending. He and Mariah find a spot where they're able to see everything, and they settle in to watch what Gabriel and his friends are learning.

There are five kids in the class altogether, and it turns out that little Gabriel Torres really is the best of the bunch. Just as his sister claimed, he can skate on one leg, and he zips around the orange safety cones without falling down once. He can even skate backwards, although he does land on his bum several times while trying that. The only other child who comes close to him in skills is a little girl who has backward skating down to an art, but who can't seem to stop unless she crashes into something.

By the time the class ends, Nikolai can barely believe half an hour has already gone by. He’s getting more comfortable with l being here and he thinks he might even dare to say he's having a good time.

He says goodbye to Mariah and Gabriel, and tells Mariah he might see her later that day. She gives him a high-five before skipping off with her little brother in tow.

After the group class, Stan and Ginger show up for Ginger's ice time. Ginger greets Nikolai with just as much enthusiasm as Mariah had, but unlike her younger counterpart, she's careful of his leg and waits until he's sitting down again before she tackle-hugs him. She fusses over him for several minutes until Stan yells at her to quit her nonsense and get moving. Laughing, she pulls off her skate guards and hands them to Nikolai before making her way to the gate and stepping onto the ice.

Beth-Anne comes to sit with him, and they watch together as Ginger rehearses her programs for Worlds. Beth-Anne suggests things for Nikolai to pay attention to, and he does his best to follow everything Ginger is doing. He's watched hundreds of videos of himself and other skaters over the years that he's had to study, but he could pause those whenever he wanted and rewind as many times as necessary. Analyzing someone's routine in real time is a lot more challenging than he expected. He can't say he dislikes it, though. It's fascinating, and just as Beth-Anne predicted, it does change his perspective.

After Ginger's practice, they all have time for a break. Stan and Beth-Anne go off somewhere together, presumably to discuss something coaching-related, while Nikolai and Ginger make their way out to the vending machines in the foyer. Ginger digs around in her bag for some change, and then gets a bottle of orange Gatorade and a bag of pretzels, which they share. Beth-Anne would be horrified to see them drinking from the same bottle, but neither Nikolai nor Ginger is particularly worried. This isn't the first time they've shared a drink, and it most likely won't be the last.

They chat for a while about inconsequential things and make plans to go bowling once Nikolai no longer needs his crutches. She should know better than to challenge him to a bowling match, he says. She's terrible at it and he invariably wins.

"Hope springs eternal and all that," she says airily. She doesn't care if she doesn't win. She just wants to be with him, to laugh and eat pizza and listen to the bowling alley's old-timey soundtrack.

He tells her he'd like that. He's happy whenever he gets to be with her, and a best friend date with greasy bowling alley pizza and old time rock 'n roll sounds fantastic to him.

When the pretzels and Gatorade are gone, Ginger checks the time on her fitness tracker and says she has to run. She has a massage therapy appointment and then a session at the dance studio afterwards. She kisses him on the cheek before she leaves, and says she hopes he enjoys the rest of his day.

Now that he's feeling more at ease, he fully intends to enjoy the rest of his day. It's all going so well — much better than he feared it might, in fact — and he has to admit he’s surprised by that.

He gathers his crutches and makes his way back to the practice rink. Beth-Anne isn't back yet, and nobody else is there.

Nikolai reclaims the seat he'd occupied for most of the morning and waits. It's nearly eleven o'clock, which Beth-Anne had said was Brett's scheduled ice time and also when Nikolai's first tentative assistant coaching assignment would begin. He's looking forward to studying Brett's performance. The junior skater is obviously very good, and Nikolai wants to see exactly what it is that earned him a qualification for the World Junior Figure Skating Championship.

He doesn't have to wait long for Brett to appear. The wooden bench has barely warmed beneath him when Brett Eriksson enters through the door from the men's locker room. The fourteen year old is small, but Nikolai can tell from the way he moves that there's nothing fragile or weak about him. He's clad in grey athletic pants and a form-hugging blue top, with a blue toque pulled down over his mass of white-blond curls. His expression is grim, incongruous with his cherubic features.

Brett skates around the perimeter of the ice surface in long, slow, fluid strides. He doesn't seem to realize Nikolai is there at first, but when he finally does notice, he slides to an abrupt halt, sending a small shower of snow over his skates and the surrounding ice.

There's no other way to describe it; Brett glares at him.

"You," he says. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Watch your language," Nikolai says. It's the first thing that springs into his mind, and he doesn't have the willpower to filter it.

Brett glides up to the boards and then just stands there for several seconds, still glaring at Nikolai. He folds his slender arms over his narrow chest and demands. "Where's Beth-Anne? Or am I skating alone again today?"

"She's here," Nikolai says.

"With you."

"What does that have to do with anything? Beth-Anne's here. You're going to get your ice time with her."

"Am I?" says Brett. "I missed three days because of you. Because Beth-Anne thinks you're more important than the rest of us, apparently. Your career's fucking done, and she still pays more attention to you than she does to me."

That's not—" Nikolai begins, but trails off because it's pointless to deny that Beth-Anne has been devoting her time exclusively to him for the past several days. Brett can't possibly know everything that's transpired, but Nikolai can still see his point of view. No doubt he'd feel ignored and he'd be angry too, if his and Brett's roles were reversed. Still, nothing that's happened is Nikolai's fault, and he thinks it's unfair for Brett to blame him.

He shakes his head and admonishes himself, Brett's just a kid. Don't get yourself into a stupid argument with a kid.

Taking a deep breath, he tries again. "Brett, I'm sorry you lost a few training days, but that's not something I had any control over."

"Like hell it isn't!" Brett retorts. "You've got Beth-Anne wrapped around your finger so tight, she'd come running if you had a fucking paper cut. And don't try to say that's not true, 'cause we all know it is. So, you whine about some dumb little thing and she up and leaves us to fend for ourselves. You think that's something you can't control?"

"It wasn't a paper cut. I was in the hospital."

"So what? You've got a mom and dad and a wife. They're the ones who're supposed to be taking care of you, not your coach. Our coach. She knows I have a big competition in a few weeks, and yet she's still putting you ahead of me, and that's literally fucking wrong."

"Maybe, but it's still not my fault," Nikolai says. He tries to keep his tone steady, but he's starting to feel panicky again and he's scared his self-control will slip. "If you have a problem with how Beth-Anne is managing your training, she's the one you should be talking to about it, not me."

"Oh, yeah? Talk to her about it and hear what, exactly?" He pitches his voice in a high, mocking tone. "Nikolai needs me. Blah... blah..."

That... that is not fair! You—"

"No!" Brett cuts him off. "You know what's not fair? You barging into my practice session is not fair. You think Beth-Anne is going to waste even half a brain cell on me with you sitting right there?”

“She’ll give you all her attention. This is your practice time.”

“Yeah, my practice time,” Brett echoes fiercely. “You don't belong here, Nikolai. Not in my practice session and not anywhere in this whole damn arena! You're not a skater any more, and we all know it, so why don't you quit taking up space around here and just leave already?"

For what feels like an eternity, Nikolai is unable to move or speak. He has no response in any case, even if he could find his voice. The edges of his vision darken and his heart hammers so hard and fast inside his chest that he can barely breathe.

Not now, he pleads, but hot tears fill his eyes despite his silent begging to whatever powers control such things.

On the ice, Brett is laughing. He shouts something unmistakably mocking and derogatory, but Nikolai’s brain can’t process the individual words.

Nikolai jumps up from the bench. Forgetting that he's supposed to be on crutches, he tries to run and then gasps in pain when his bad leg takes his full body weight. He can’t see clearly through his tears, but he can make out the shape of his crutches and he knows where the exit is. He scoops up his crutches from where they're leaning against the bench, gets them positioned, and then hobbles toward the door as fast as he’s able.

He doesn't see Beth-Anne coming and nearly collides with her on the way out. She squeaks in surprise, and says, "Nikolai! What's going on?"

He doesn't answer her. He just keeps limping along the corridor, head down, concentrating on every agonizing step.

"Where are you going?" Beth-Anne calls after him.

"Home," he says. It comes out quiet and strained, and he doesn't know if she hears him or not. "I... I need to go home."

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 2)

previous // next // story index

__________

Despite blatantly violating the posted speed limit, Beth-Anne feels as if the drive between her house and Nikolai’s is taking far too long. She’s terrified of what she might find when she gets there, and her mind is flooded with worst-case scenarios like an unending reel of nightmares playing in her anxious brain. She questions everything; her decision not to stay on the phone with him, the extra minute she’d taken to text Stan, each tiny action or choice she’d made since hearing his voice tonight.

Anything could have happened in the last several minutes. Anything.

You have to calm down, she orders herself. You aren’t going to be of any use to him like this.

The problem is, she isn’t confident that she knows how to calm herself. She’s faced a lot of loss in her life and she’s never coped particularly well with it. Losing someone she loved had nearly sent her over the edge before, and the recollection of that makes the thought of losing Nikolai even more unbearable.

What would Stan tell her to do in these circumstances?

Think of something positive. A good memory. A time when you were hopeful and happy.

Yes, that’s it. She's had many happy, hopeful times over the past ten years. Being able to come back to the figure skating world after believing that part of her life was over, working side-by-side with her friend and former coach, getting to know Nikolai and watching him grow as a person and flourish as an athlete; all of that camaraderie, love and support has sustained her and taught her how to find hope and happiness within herself.

Everything will be okay. It has to be.

She remembers the day she first met Nikolai Pavlenko. It was on a Thursday in late July. School was out for the summer and most skating lessons and group classes were on a pause as well. Only the serious athletes were still at the rink when everybody else was at the park or the beach.

Beth-Anne herself had been spending as much time as possible at the beach. As a physical education teacher at an all-girls private school, she was largely free during July and August, and she preferred to spend the time outdoors, hiking, swimming, puttering around in her garden or working on her tan. Although she still skated at her local community centre for fun and exercise, going to the rink in July wasn't anywhere near the top of her to-do list.

So, when she'd received a call from Stan, asking if she'd come and join him at a practice session for a couple of his students, she was intrigued. Slightly suspicious, naturally, but certainly intrigued.

"Why would you want me to do that?" she asked.

"I have a very unique problem," Stan told her. "I have two potential champions on my hands. Absolutely top-tier talent."

"And?"

"I can't manage them both, can I? I thought you might like to meet them. Maybe pick one."

"Pick one? For what?"

"To coach," Stan said, his tone implying he shouldn't have had to point that out.

"I have a job, Stan."

"This Thursday at ten o'clock. Be there," he said. "Or not. It's up to you. I personally feel like it's a golden opportunity for you, but—"

She hung up on him.

But, she went to the rink that Thursday anyway.

If anyone asked her, she wouldn't have been able to describe her feelings when she stepped through the doors of the arena where she used to train. It was strange, coming back to a place she hadn't been to in over four years. It felt familiar, like coming home, yet at the same time she got the sense things had changed enough that she really couldn't call this her place any more.

She made her way to the rink area, where she found Stan out on the ice with two of his students. Stan was fifty, with a lot more salt in his salt-and-pepper hair than he'd had when Beth-Anne was first introduced to him.

How long ago had that been? Beth-Anne had been seventeen when Stan took her on as a student. Had they really known each other for fourteen years at that point?

That'd make it... twenty-four years to the present day. Nearly a quarter-century. God damn.

She recalls observing Stan and his students for a few minutes before announcing her presence. Stan looked healthy and fit, and she was glad to see he still put his skates on and went out there with the kids instead of coaching from behind the boards.

Both students were teenagers. The girl was clad in a form-fitting turquoise top and black athletic pants, and had a long rust-coloured braid secured on the end with a wide turquoise elastic. She was tall and lanky and moved as if she couldn't wait to unleash her power. The boy had a smudge of a moustache, and out of control hair that Beth-Anne guessed he'd allowed to grow a bit too much to compensate for his lack of success in growing facial hair. He was wearing the ubiquitous close-fitting black athletic pants and a baggy forest green sweatshirt with the tongue-in-cheek slogan 'I heart this shirt' emblazoned on it in bold white lettering.

Beth-Anne almost lost it when the boy called out, "Hey, Uncle Stan! Check out what I learned from a video!"

"Don't you dare—" Stan began.

But it was too late. He was already skating backwards, and with the momentum he'd built up, he leapt off the ice and into a heart-stopping back flip. He landed on his feet, arms spread wide and face alight with a rascal's grin.

The girl let out a whoop. "I knew you could do it, Nik!"

"Nikolai Pavlenko, don't you ever do that again!" Stan yelled.

Both Nikolai and the girl were laughing so hard that they fell to the ice in their mirth. They grabbed each other's hands and did a little cheer.

Beth-Anne didn't need to see Stan's face to tell that he was torn between being exasperated and being entertained. She could see it in his body language. These two were most certainly a handful, but she knew he loved them nevertheless.

Seeing her opportunity, Beth-Anne said, "I guess I'm not interrupting anything important."

Stan turned at the sound of her voice. He gave her a little wave and started skating in her direction. "Beth-Anne, you made it. Great!"

"I wanted to see what all the fuss was about," she said.

"Well, I guess you're getting an eyeful." He glanced over his shoulder quickly as he stepped off the ice to join her. "You two, get up. Practice what we were working on yesterday, and no more dumb shit, please."

"That means you, Nik," said the girl, and her companion rolled on the ice, taken over by another laughing fit.

"Nikolai!" Stan shouted.

"Sorry, coach," said the teenager. He rubbed briskly at his face with his palms and took an audible breath before scrambling to his feet. "Practice what we worked on yesterday. Got it."

Stan sighed. "I'm telling you, Beth. These two are going to be the goddamned end of me."

"I can tell you really care for them," Beth-Anne said.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean they're not a massive pain in my ass," he said. "Especially that one." He jabbed a thumb into the air, pointing behind himself at Nikolai.

"That one," Beth-Anne echoed, gesturing at the young man in the green sweater. "Tell me about him."

"Nikolai Pavlenko," Stan said, pronouncing the name in a way she was certain no non-Slavic language speaker could do. "Seventeen years old. Had his debut in the senior division two years ago, and was honestly pretty unremarkable. But, I think that had more to do with inexperience and poor coaching than lack of talent. He came here from Ontario last year, and placed fourth at Skate Canada with me."

"You saw something his last coach didn't?"

"Obviously," Stan said.

"And the girl? She's the one who came from the UK specifically to train with you, right?"

"Vivienne Holmes. Yeah, she's my girl," he said. "We call her Ginger."

"Because of her hair?"

"No, because she's full of it. Full of ginger, I mean. That kid is like the Energizer Bunny and she's cheeky as hell, especially when she's with Nikolai."

"Sounds like the perfect match to me."

"Only if you think two troublemakers are better than one," Stan scoffed. "Anyway, Ginger's going to be sixteen in a couple of months, and she's having her senior debut this season. I need to separate those two so she can focus. I'll be damned if she flops in her first year at senior level just because she was too busy joking around with her buddy to concentrate on skating."

"So, you didn't actually ask me here to pick one of them, did you?" Beth-Anne said. "You want me to coach Nikolai."

Stan smiled at her. "You saw right through me."

"Wily bastard. How did you know I'd even come?"

"Because you can never say no to me." Stan held up a hand. "Now, shh... just watch. There goes your new boy. He's about to fly."

Beth-Anne found she couldn't take her eyes off Nikolai, momentarily stunned into silence as she watched him perform a flawless quadruple toe loop. His form was excellent and he made the difficult jump look almost effortless.

"Well done, Nikolai! Very nice!" Stan called to him. "Way to impress your new coach!"

Beth-Anne let out the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. "Holy shit, Stan."

"I taught him that," Stan told her, clearly pleased. "It's his first quad, and he just started doing it around the end of May, beginning of June. You should've seen the disaster it was when he first tried it this spring."

"He's only seventeen?"

"Hmm," Stan hummed in affirmation. "He'll be eighteen in December. He's got amazing potential and I can see him going all the way to the top some day, but I really don't think I'm the right coach to get him there."

"Why not?" she asked. "You coached me to gold once."

Stan looked amused. "You practically coached yourself. I was just along for the ride."

"That's not true. You were always—"

"Look," Stan said. "Nikolai is special. He and Ginger both are. They could be world champions, but you know working toward that takes a big commitment of time and effort. With all my other students, I can commit to one or the other of them, not both, and Nikolai is... Well, he's a charmer and he knows how to get what he wants, whether it's good for him or not."

"You mean, he walks all over you."

"With his skates on," Stan said. "Got the metaphorical blade marks on my back to prove it."

Beth-Anne laughed. "So, it's like that. You want to foist your problem child onto me."

"Foist? Is that even a word?"

"Learn fuckin’ English, Stan."

He snorted in his effort not to laugh, but soon turned serious again. "Nikolai needs a firm hand. A coach who's going to love him and let him have fun, but also who's gonna keep him focused and isn't going to put up with his usual shit."

"And you think that person is me?"

"I do."

"Are you forgetting that I've never coached before? You say this kid's got enough potential to possibly be a world champion, and you'd let him risk all that on a green coach?"

"You're not green. You teach P.E. for fuck's sake, and don't you coach volleyball and run the dance club at your school?"

"That's not figure skating. It doesn't count."

"Like hell it doesn't," Stan insisted. "You've got experience working with teenagers, and you sure as hell know about figure skating. Just put the two together, and you'll kick ass as a skating coach. Plus, I saw that article in the paper. The kids love you, and clearly the board of directors of your school does, too. I mean, they don't give out Teacher of the Year awards to just anybody, do they?"

"No, but... I don't know about the whole coaching thing," she said. "I never thought about doing that."

"Tell me something. Do you like being a teacher?"

"Yeah. I like working with the kids, but..."

"I knew there was gonna be a 'but'. Go on."

She sighed. "How the fuck can you possibly know me so well?"

"I'm waiting for the part that comes after the 'but', Beth-Anne," Stan prompted.

"Fine," she said. "I guess you know I still skate."

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

"I wasn't ready to give up competing. I still dream about it."

"Do you?"

"I really do love teaching. I'm proud of the girls when they win a volleyball game too, but it doesn't actually mean anything, you know? Some of those girls might go on to play volleyball at university, but none of them are going to make it their career. It's just something to distract them from math and English and history."

"Right," said Stan. "What I'm hearing is that you're feeling unfulfilled."

"I wouldn't say unfulfilled," she countered. "Just... maybe not as fulfilled as I wish I was."

Stan gazed at her for a second or two. "You want to know what watching your kid win a medal feels like? A kid you've trained with day in and day out, who you literally think of as yours because you see them more than their parents do?" He placed a hand on her shoulder. "You talk about fulfillment and doing something that means something. That's it, right there."

"I don't know..."

"At least meet Nikolai, yeah? Maybe skate with him for a little bit? If he likes you and he agrees to it, then come and join us at practice for the rest of the summer. Call it a trial run to see if it's gonna work for you."

"Okay," she said. "But no promises."

"You don't have to commit to anything right this second," Stan assured her. "Just try it out, and if you do decide it's what you want, I'll be here to help you. I promised you a long time ago that I'd always be there for you, didn't I? You're not gonna be in this alone."

And she hadn't been. Stan had been there every step of the way to help her and give her advice when she needed it, to keep her on track when she got discouraged, and to remind her that she and Nikolai were doing amazing things together. "Your Nikolai is going all the way," he'd say. "I can see it."

My Nikolai, she thinks now. When did that happen?

She'd liked Nikolai from the moment she met him, and it'd only taken her a week to make up her mind to resign from her teaching job and become his coach. She adored his personality and was enchanted by his big blue eyes and devil-may-care grin, but most of all she was inspired by his passion for skating.

Stan hadn't been wrong. Nikolai was a charmer and a troublemaker, and yes he did require an application of verbal discipline from time to time, but he was bright and genuine and had the greatest capacity for love that she'd ever seen in a person of his age, His obvious joy on the ice filled Beth-Anne's heart with a kind of reflected happiness that she hadn't felt in a very long time, and she knew she wanted to keep that sentiment alive, for herself as well as for him.

There must've been a definitive point at which she'd started thinking of him as hers, when she'd ceased to be just his coach and somehow became more like a bonus mother to him. His real mother, Elena, is a good woman and Beth-Anne doesn't doubt that she loves Nikolai and his sister Natalya very much, but as long as Beth-Anne has known Elena and Mikhail Pavlenko, she's always had the impression that they were emotionally unavailable for their kids.

From the start, she knew sweet, sensitive Nikolai required someone who’d try to understand all his feelings without judging him for them. For him, skating was more than just a technical sport. The rink was a canvas on which he painted his innermost thoughts. He poured out his soul onto the ice, and she stood by his side, cherishing him and the artistry of his emotions, hearing the things he couldn’t say with words alone.

In his own way, he'd done the same for her, offering his faith in her and his love for her as priceless gifts. God knows, she'd been desperate for someone to believe in her back then. Without doubt or judgment, Nikolai became that someone. He never saw her as a failure or a has-been. He'd opened up his heart and mind to her and let her guide him toward what would become their shared dream. Together, they found a connection beyond words, where the rink became an almost sacred place.

The first time he won gold in a competition with her as his coach and they placed that medal around his neck, Beth-Anne felt as if they were giving her an award too. She'd never been so proud of another person's accomplishments in her whole life. Even her own lone gold medal from long ago hadn't felt as good as that, and she could hardly wait to thank Stan and tell him he was right.

After the medal ceremony, Nikolai came down from the podium to find her at the edge of the crowd. He was practically bouncing, and the smile on his face could've lit up an entire room. He threw himself into her arms with a jubilant exclamation of, "Beth-Anne, we did it!"

She hugged him tight. "You did it, sweetheart. It was all you."

"No." He shook his head, causing his floppy brown hair to brush against her chin and cheek. "We did it. I couldn't have got here alone. I couldn't do any of it without you, and I'd never want to."

"I'll be with you as long as you want me to be," she said.

He leaned close and whispered. "Forever, okay?"

"Okay," she said, and deep inside she knew she meant it. She never wanted to leave him, not ever. Even when his competing days were over and they'd both moved on to other things, she hoped she could still be his friend, his confidante or mentor. The truth was, he'd saved her. He'd given meaning and purpose to her life when she felt it had none. He brought her back to the sport she loves, and she’ll always be grateful for that. She doesn’t consider it a sacrifice to do whatever she can to repay him for offering her that precious second chance.

After a moment, they let go of each other, and Nikolai took a step back. Then, he did the most extraordinary thing. He lifted the ribbon of his medal from around his own neck and placed it around hers instead.

"For you," he said. "Keep it."

She touched the cool metal disc. "Nik, I can't keep your medal. You earned it."

"You helped me earn it." He offered her that mischievous grin of his. "Besides, I'm going to win lots of them in the future, so I'll have plenty. You should have this one. You know, to keep yours company, because two together are always happier than just one alone."

To this day, she doesn't know if he realized the allusion he'd created. She is happier with him, with Stan, with her two up-and-coming junior skaters Brett and Mariah, and all her non-competitive students from her group classes.

Almost no one is better off alone. That was a lesson she had to learn, and she's thankful the ones who taught it to her were Stanislav Kovac and Nikolai Pavlenko.

She took Nikolai's medal home from that competition, and she hung it on the wall of her den, next to her own gold medal. Over the years, the display has grown with coaching awards, as well as photographs, newspaper clippings and framed magazine articles all featuring the successes of her students. The collection always expands outward, with the two gold medals eternally at the centre.

Wait... this is Nikolai's street!

Her truck's tires shriek as she takes the corner way too fast. Fortunately, the pavement isn't wet and nothing goes awry. She can't believe she’d distracted herself so successfully that she had nearly missed turning in the right place. She swears aloud, exhaling a string of foul language that'd doubtless make a dockyard worker blush.

Nikolai's house is the only one on the street with a light on inside. She parks her truck at the curb and sprints across the yard and up the front steps. Her heart hammers against the inside of her chest.

When she tries the door, she discovers it's unlocked. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she eases it open and steps inside. The air in the house is damp and cold as if there's a window open somewhere, allowing the chill February night to impose itself like an unwanted houseguest.

She doesn't have to look far to find Nikolai. He's sitting on the floor no more than two meters from the doorway, head down, staring at some undiscernible spot on the polished hardwood floor. It seems he'd done exactly as she instructed. He unlocked the door for her, and then did nothing else until she arrived.

She experiences a little pang of heartache as she takes in the situation. Nikolai is wearing the same red gym shorts and loose grey t-shirt he'd been wearing when she'd last seen him in person three days ago, and his overabundance of chocolate brown hair is dishevelled and stringy. His right knee — the injured one — is badly swollen, and she doesn't see his crutches anywhere. She knows his leg hadn't looked that bad the last time she was here, and she wonders what might've happened.

She says his name softly, and he looks up. His face is tear-streaked, and the edges of his eyes are red as if he's been rubbing at them.

"I'm cold," he says.

She shuts the door quickly. A thousand questions tumble through her head, but she rejects them all as either inane or inappropriate. At last, she settles on, "Where's Anya?" Somehow, she stops just short of adding 'What the hell did she do to you?' or 'Why the fuck would she leave you like this?'

Nikolai shakes his head. "I don't know. I... I'm alone."

"Sweetheart, no," Beth-Anne closes the distance between them in two long strides and then drops to the floor beside him. She takes him in her arms, and he instantly collapses against her, weeping. He's shivering. She thinks she should try to get him into warmer clothes, but first she has to make sure he's going to be okay. She strokes his back, just as she'd done a few weeks ago in Taiwan, like she's probably done a hundred other times. "I'm here. It's all right. You're safe, and you're not alone. I said I'd always be here for you, remember? I promise, you never have to be alone."

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(Part 5)

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__________

Beth-Anne goes to Nikolai's house before heading home. His place is closer to the hospital than her own, so it's technically on her route. Plus, she doesn't trust herself to remember to get the items he asked for on the way back to the hospital later, so it seems logical to pick up everything now, while it's still on her mind.

The first thing she notices when she lets herself into the house is that it's still cold, even though she'd made sure to shut all the windows last night. She frowns. Hadn't she turned the heat up?

She takes a cursory look around. Other than the temperature, something immediately feels off to her, but she can't quite put her finger on what it is. She tries to concentrate, to call up an image of how everything looked the previous evening, so she can identify anything that's out of place.

Everything appears normal.

Clearly, nobody has been here since she and Nikolai went out. Until she'd walked on it, the fresh snow on the walkway and doorstep was undisturbed, and the mat inside the front door was dry. Unless the place is haunted, everything should be exactly as they’d left it.

You're being paranoid, she tells herself.

She chalks her uneasy feeling up to her weary brain losing its grip on reality, shrugs, and bends down to tug her boots off.

Boots. She should probably get Nikolai's boots for him. Neither of them had really thought about proper footwear last night. Beth-Anne simply grabbed the only shoes in plain sight — a beat-up pair of sneakers — and helped him put them on.

She finds his winter boots in the downstairs hall closet. Conveniently, she also discovers a well-used grey backpack which looks like it ought to be big enough to hold a change of clothes, some sweatpants or pyjama pants to sleep in, and Nikolai's glasses and toiletries. Even if it turns out to be a bag he wouldn't normally use for clothes, she decides it'll do because she doesn't feel like hunting around for a better one. He can tell her where his suitcases are when they return tomorrow.

She lifts the backpack out of the closet. It's heavy, and she's startled. She hadn't expected there to be something in it already. Curious, she unzips it to see what it contains. Maybe she can take whatever it is out, and still use the bag anyway.

It's a pair of skates. Men's skates, and they look almost new.

Whoever had put them there hadn't bothered to make sure they had blade guards on. One bright blue skate guard is only half fitted over the blade, and the other skate's blade is entirely bare. She can see the second skate guard at the bottom of the bag. '

Surely these aren’t Nikolai's skates. He'd never treat them like that, shoving them haphazardly into some random knapsack with their laces knotted together and their blades unprotected. She's witnessed him care for dozens of pairs of skates in the decade she's known him. It's almost like a ritual, the way he dries their blades with a soft cloth, puts the blade guards on them and then places them carefully, one by one, in his padded skate carrier.

Involuntarily, her gaze travels back to the closet. As much as she hadn't wanted to linger a moment ago, now she feels compelled to search for something familiar.

Almost instantly, she spots it. One corner of Nikolai's skate bag is poking out of the top of a cardboard box that's crammed with other stuff Beth-Anne can't readily identify. She hadn't noticed it at first because the backpack was obscuring it.

Beth-Anne sets the backpack down gently, and then reaches into the closet for the skate bag. The triangular bag is deep green with black accents, and Nikolai's name is on the carrying strap, lovingly hand-embroidered there by his mother. The letters are Cyrillic. Beth-Anne recalls the first time she'd seen it, asking a then seventeen year old Nikolai what it meant. She remembers his laugh of delight when he told her it was the correct spelling of his name, and then in an exaggerated Russian accent she would later learn was a perfect imitation of his grandfather's, he told her, "Is way we do it in old country. Everything with precision."

Everything with precision.

She checks the skates for damage, and in the process she realizes they are, in fact, Nikolai's most recent pair. While unknotting the laces, she notices the aglets on the end of each lace are covered with purple glitter nail polish. Ginger and Juliet had painted them a few months ago, just before the start of competition at Skate Canada. The girls insisted that Nikolai's costume for his free skate didn't have enough purple glitter already, and that he obviously needed more. Of course Nikolai let them do it. He let them paint his fingernails with the sparkly purple polish too, and they all thought it was hilarious.

When she's satisfied the skates are undamaged, Beth-Anne secures the skate guards on them and places them in their proper bag.

As she's about to stand up, something else catches her eye. Written in heavy marker on the front of the cardboard box she'd retrieved Nikolai's skate carrier from is the single word 'DONATE'.

Now, she knows with absolute certainty that Nikolai hadn't been the one responsible for mishandling the skates. It's entirely possible he might've wanted to donate them to a charity shop, but he'd never give away the skate bag his mother had so painstakingly personalized for him. He cherishes it, and had once told Beth-Anne it was one of the best gifts his mother had ever given him because of the time and care she'd put into stitching his name onto it.

"She might have a hard time saying out loud that she loves me," he told Beth-Anne. "But, I know she does. This is one of the things that proves it."

Even if he wasn't actively skating, the idea that he'd casually discard one of his most valued possessions in a charity box is unthinkable. Anybody close to him would know the significance of it just as well as Beth-Anne does, and she can't think of a single person in his life who'd try to take away something so important to him. Except...

Anya. She'd likely do it to spite him.

Beth-Anne questions whether Nikolai is even aware that Anya tossed his things into a box for charity. Probably not, she guesses. She thinks he would've told her if he knew.

She shuts the closet door, and then picks up Nikolai's skate bag and his boots. After placing them near the front door so she won't forget them on her way out, she shoulders the now empty backpack and heads toward the stairs.

She's about halfway up when she hears the sound of the front door opening.

Great. Just my fucking bad luck. Well, I guess that explains the uneasy feeling I had.

She groans inwardly. The phrase 'speak of the devil' springs to her mind, as some innate sense tells her it's Anya even before she sees her. Typically, premonitions aren't something she believes in, but this might be enough to convince her, at least temporarily.

She stops on the stairs, but she doesn't turn at first. Not until she hears an irritated, "What the hell...?"

Looking over her shoulder, she's confronted with the sight of Anya Pavlenko in a red wool coat, hair and makeup perfect as always. Anya's arms are folded across her body, and she's already glaring, even before their eyes meet.

The second they make eye contact, Anya says icily. "You. I should've known that was your ugly truck out front. What are you doing here?"

Merely being in the same room with Anya pushes Beth-Anne's self control to its limit. She uses all the willpower she has to keep her tone level and calm. "A better question might be, what the fuck are you doing here?"

"This is my house," Anya says. "I have every right to be here, and I don't need to explain myself. But, if you must know, I came over to check on my husband."

"Really?" Beth-Anne says, incredulous.

"What do mean, really?"

"You left him all alone for three days, and you only just remembered to check on him?"

"He didn't reply to my texts," Anya says.

“No, because he doesn’t have his phone.”

“Why?”

“Because I have it.” Nikolai had given his phone, wallet and keys to Beth-Anne for safekeeping, worried that they’d get misplaced in the hospital.

“Why do you…?” Anya begins, but she evidently has a new thought mid-sentence and changes her question to, “Nikolai isn’t here, is he?”

"He's in the hospital," Beth-Anne tells her.

It's fascinating to watch the parade of emotions that cross Anya's features. She shifts from anger to shock to concern in a matter of moments, but ultimately seems to settle on outrage.

"What did you do to him?"

"Nothing," Beth-Anne says. "I only answered a phone call in the middle of the night, prevented him from harming himself, bathed and fed him, and made sure he got the help he needed."

"I'd like you to leave," Anya says. "I already told you I didn't want you coming here."

"I know you did, and if I'd actually listened to you, Nikolai might not be safe in the hospital. Now, if you don't mind, I have something to do before I go."

"Such as?"

"Gathering up some things for Nikolai," Beth-Anne says, and can't keep herself from adding. "When he gets out of the hospital, he's coming to stay with me, and I don't want you coming over. I don't want you hurting him any more."

Apparently, it takes a second for Anya to figure out that Beth-Anne is more or less echoing her own demand from a few weeks ago. When she does, her response is predictable. “How dare you—“

“How dare you?” Beth-Anne counters. “You’re the one who walked out on him. He was alone and scared, and he needed you, but you don’t care about that, do you?”

“He doesn’t need me.”

“Yes, he does. It’s your responsibility to protect him and take care of him. But, what’d you do instead? Hid his crutches and took off.”

“I didn’t hide his crutches,” Anya says. “And anyway, you weren’t here. You don’t know the hurtful things he said to me.”

“So, you thought you’d hurt him back?”

“I didn’t—”

“You know, he fell down the stairs because of you.” Beth-Anne points at Nikolai’s skate bag. “And what about that? You thought you could give his skates away and that wouldn't hurt him?”

Anya flicks a glance at the skate bag. "It's not like he's going to need them again, is it?"

"You don't know that!" Beth-Anne can feel her anger rising to the surface, and she struggles like hell to control it.

"If you ask me," Anya says, "I'd say you're way more upset about it than he is. He didn't complain when I took down all that stuff."

"What stuff?"

"All the stuff he used to have hanging in the dining room," Anya says. "He said he couldn't look at it any more, so I did something about it."

That was it. That was the thing that was different. The 'stuff hanging on the wall' was Nikolai's collection of medals. He'd built a shallow inset display for them that made it appear as though they were framed, and it was altogether both impressive and attractive. Perhaps subconsciously she'd observed last night that the frame was empty, but she'd been too preoccupied to shape any conscious awareness of it, and this morning the half-formed memory had drifted up like a ghost at the edges of her mind.

She wonders if Anya put Nikolai's medals in the box in the closet. It's easy for her to understand why he might not feel like looking at them in his current emotional state, but she can't accept that he'd actually want to get rid of them any more than he'd want to part with his skate bag.

"Why would you do that?" Beth-Anne asks, although she doesn't expect an honest answer.

Anya smiles thinly, and it's not a pleasant expression. "I thought I asked you to leave."

"And I told you I have something to do."

In the following moments, it seems to Beth-Anne as if time slows to a crawl. Anya leans a little and lifts Nikolai's skate bag by its embroidered strap. Then, she takes a step backward toward the door, does a deliberate half-turn and swings the door open. She draws her arm back and pitches the bag through the doorway.

She doesn't even look back at Beth-Anne as she says. "There. You can follow that out."

Time resumes its normal speed as an emotion Beth-Anne can only describe as rage surges up, white-hot, in her head. This is the anger that scares her so much, the anger that's pushed her to do so many things she regrets. She stays rooted to the stairs for several heartbeats, her fists clenched so tightly that she can feel her short nails digging into her palms. The pain in her hands doesn't snap her out of it. It only makes it worse, makes her want to raise one of her clenched hands and punch through a wall.

She forces herself to inhale, to hold her breath until she sees spots in her vision. When her lungs start to burn more fiercely than her anger, she exhales all the air in one huge rush and then flees up the stairs.

She's shaking when she reaches the top. Not trusting her wobbly legs, she trails her hand along the wall for support until she gets to Nikolai's room.

Downstairs, Anya is screaming something, but Beth-Anne isn’t listening. She’s trying to focus only on the task she came here to do. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes to collect a few things, and then she can get out of here. Maybe she can ask Nikolai’s sister to bring him tomorrow to help pack the rest of the stuff he'll need for his stay at her place, because she’s not keen on coming back again after this.

She selects jeans and a sweatshirt and puts them in the backpack along with a pair of sweatpants, a couple of t-shirts and changes of underwear and socks. Nikolai’s glasses are still in their case on top of the dresser, and she tucks those and his phone charger into a small outer pocket. The larger outer pocket is sufficient to hold a few essential personal hygiene items, which she finds in the adjoining bathroom.

When she returns to the first floor a short time later, Anya is standing on the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen. She's on the phone with someone, and her tone is indignant.

"Yes, I need you to come now," Anya is saying to the person on the other end of the connection. "It's 52 Cavalier Cove Road."

She stares daggers at Beth-Anne, but Beth-Anne ignores her. She's not the least bit interested in engaging with Anya any further. All she wants to do is make a clean exit.

After putting her shoes on, her intention is to walk straight out the door, but then she has a sudden thought. She doubles back to the hall closet and drags the cardboard box out. It's not as heavy as she feared, and she's able to lift it without difficulty. She stacks Nikolai's boots on top of it. Then, with the backpack on her shoulders and the box in her arms, she totes the entire load out to her truck.

She has no clue as to whether or not Nikolai's medals are in the box, but she has a feeling they might be, and she isn't at all confident they'd still be there tomorrow if she left the box with Anya. Maybe Nikolai truly doesn't want them, but Beth-Anne thinks it should be up to him to decide, and she wants him to have that chance. And if he does want them... Well, maybe she's just prevented them from becoming part of some kid's dress-up collection or from being disposed of like trash.

Once she's stowed everything in the truck, she turns to look for Nikolai's skate bag. It's lying halfway across the yard, partially buried in a snowdrift. Beth-Anne doesn’t want to admit it, but she's a little impressed at how far Anya was able to throw it.

When she gets up close to it, she finds she's not at all prepared for her reaction. The sight of the bag lying on its side in the snow causes something inside her to shatter. Maybe it's being in an increasing amount of pain that's making her emotional barriers so weak, or maybe she's too exhausted to fight for control any more. Whatever it is, she knows she's reached her breaking point. She scoops up the skate bag as if she's rescuing an abandoned puppy, and she barely makes it back to her truck with it before the tears come.

She climbs into the cab and slams the door, and then she lets go the last shreds of her self-restraint. Everything she's tried so hard to contain over the past several hours... no, everything she's been holding in since Taiwan bursts out in a loud, chaotic explosion. First, she screams; visceral shrieks of unfettered rage that make her chest and throat hurt. When her body loses the energy to scream, she slumps over the steering wheel and sobs.

This is how the cop finds her about ten minutes later.

Her sobs have given way to tired, quiet weeping, so she's able to hear when somebody taps on the driver's side window. It takes her a while to scrape together the wherewithal to raise her head and peer out at the man in uniform standing next to her truck. He motions for her to roll the window down.

She's sure she must look horrifying. She's not wearing any makeup, so the scars on her face are starkly visible, and she doesn't need a mirror to know that her eyes are swollen and her hair looks like it was styled by a manic toddler.

Fucking hell... he's going to think I'm some kind of crazy person.

She rolls down the window, and says lamely, "Hello." Her voice is hoarse.

The police officer is perhaps only a little younger than her, and he has soft, kind eyes the colour of faded denim. "Are you okay, ma'am?”

"I, uh..." she stammers. She has no clue how to answer him.

"We got a report of someone trespassing. Someone breaking into this residence. Is this your address?"

She shakes her head. "No. It's my student's house. He... he's in the hospital, and I was just getting his things." she digs into the pocket of her coat and shows the officer Nikolai's key ring. "Look, I have his keys."

The officer nods. "What's your student's name?"

"Nikolai Pavlenko. If a woman called you, that'd be his wife. Ex-wife? I don’t know. But, her name is Anna-Valentina Pavlenko."

"I don't know who phoned," he says. "I was sent here by dispatch. Can you tell me your full legal name?"

"Beth-Anne Dorothy Jones."

"Do you have your driver's license or some other identification with you, Ms. Jones?"

She gives it to him, and he checks the name and picture on it. "Okay," he says. He removes a pen and a tiny notepad from his breast pocket and quickly takes down her information before handing her license back. "Would you happen to have a phone number for your student?"

'Yes, but... I have his phone."

"Because he's in the hospital."

"Yeah."

"Tell me the number anyway."

She does. He writes it down and thanks her, and then asks if she knows when Nikolai will be released from the hospital.

"Probably later today," she says. "Look, I'm not exactly at my best right now, and I'd like to go home. Whatever Anya Pavlenko told your supervisor about what I was doing here, it’s complete bullshit... pardon my French. I was just helping my student. That's all."

To her astonishment, the officer bestows her with a small smile. "You know what? I believe you, but I still have to look into it."

"But you're not arresting me or anything."

"We don't usually do that unless we have reasonable grounds to believe you've committed a crime, or we find you in the middle of committing one," he says. "I may be in touch with you again about this over the next couple of days, but honestly, I wouldn't worry."

"Thanks."

"Are you okay to drive?" he asks.

"I may not look it, but yeah," she says. "I'm going home for a nap and a shower."

"Maybe I'll get you to wait right here," he says. "I'm going to speak to the lady inside and see what she has to say. Then, I'll follow you home, just to make sure you get there safely."

Beth-Anne doesn't want to wait, but she acquiesces. The cop seems nice enough, and he's essentially assured her already that she isn't in any trouble. She doesn't know if it's routine procedure to follow people home, or if he's doing it out of concern, but either way she doesn't think she can make a reasonable argument against it.

She tries her best to offer him a smile that doesn't come off as ghastly. "Fine," she says. "One thing, though."

"What is it?" he asks.

"If I'm asleep when you come out, wake me up and then follow me to Tim Horton's before you follow me home.”

He looks amused. “You look like you could use a coffee.”

I could use a stiff drink and a strong painkiller, is what she’s thinking, but what she says aloud is, “You know how to charm a lady.”

He has the grace to blush. “My apologies. Now, please, don’t go anywhere. As soon as I’m done inside, I’ll escort you home.”

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(Part 4)

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———

"How're you holding up, kid?"

Beth-Anne wraps both hands around the extra-large takeaway coffee cup and closes her eyes, concentrating on the soothing heat working its way into her fingers. She and Stan are in the corridor outside Nikolai's hospital room. It's eight in the morning, and the hospital staff have just finished bringing breakfast around to all the patients.

From inside the room, Beth-Anne can hear Ginger coaxing Nikolai to eat his oatmeal, "Because if you don't eat it, I will. Carbs be damned."

She sighs. "I'm okay, I guess."

"Now, remember who you're talking to," Stan says.

She lets another sigh escape, opens her eyes and raises her gaze to meet his. "I'm tired."

"You should go home and try to get some rest."

"I can't," she says. "I promised Nikolai I wouldn't leave him."

"Ginger and I can stay with him for a while. He won't be alone."

"But, what about Ginger's ice time?" she protests. "I mean, she qualified for Worlds. That date will be coming up faster than you realize."

"What do I always say? People before practice." He smiles. "That's why you asked me to get in touch with Brett and Mariah about their ice time today, isn't it?"

With a stab of guilt, she realizes she'd momentarily forgotten about Mariah and Brett. "I need to call them myself. I should apologize. And I'll have to call little Eden's parents too. He's got a thing next weekend that we're supposed to be getting ready for."

"You should call them," Stan agrees. "But, you shouldn't apologize. Just explain what's happening. They'll understand."

"Brett qualified for Junior Worlds," she says, half to herself. "Damn it! That's only—"

"Beth-Anne.” Stan holds up a hand. “Brain open, mouth closed."

"You haven't said that to me in..."

"A long time," he inserts quickly. "But it seems like you need it at the moment."

"You're right. I do."

"I put up a notice about your group lessons before I came over here, so that's taken care of," he says. "Now, listen to me for a minute. A missed day of training or two isn't going to hurt Brett at this point. If he's not ready for Junior Worlds by now, he's not ready for Junior Worlds. Understand?"

She nods. "I see what you mean."

"And if you're worried about me and Ginger, I can tell you a day off isn't going to harm her chances either. Besides, do you really think her heart would be in it today anyway, with her best friend in the hospital?"

"No, I suppose not," Beth-Anne concedes.

She sips her coffee. From behind the partially-closed door of the room, Nikolai's voice drifts out. "Ginger! Oh my God... stop. My hands still work, you know. I can feed myself."

This is followed by laughter from Ginger. "There. Mission accomplished! If I couldn't badger you into eating, I knew I could manipulate you into it."

Nikolai makes a strangled noise, as if he's trying not to laugh and inadvertently spit out a mouthful of oatmeal in the process. He sputters, coughs and then declares, "You are the living end, Vivienne Holmes."

She replies mildly, "Finish your breakfast, Nikolai."

Beth-Anne smiles, her worry easing slightly. Nikolai seems more like himself this morning, and it's clear that Ginger's presence is doing him good. He always seems to be happier and more relaxed when Ginger is around.

Perhaps Stan is right. Maybe it would be okay to leave for a couple of hours. She could go home, clean up the kitchen, and get the downstairs bedroom ready for Nikolai. She might even do a quick grocery run.

Peanut butter, she tells herself. She'll have to remember to get peanut butter when she goes to the supermarket. She rarely eats it herself, but Nikolai's taste for it has practically reached legendary status at this point, thanks in no small part to a handful of sports reporters at Skate America a few years back. The figure skating world had laughed collectively when a photo of Nikolai skating around at practice with a massive jar of peanut butter the girls had given him appeared in several online publications with the dubious tagline 'Peanormous'.

All Beth-Anne could do when she'd seen it was shake her head. The random nonsense regularly generated by Nikolai and his friends had been one of her biggest frustrations at the time. Now, she finds herself wishing for those times to come back. Some weird condiment-related publicity would be mild in comparison to what they're facing at the moment.

Beside her, Stan idly swirls his cold brew with the straw that's sticking out of it. Even in the dead of winter, he loves his cold drinks.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

"Too much, honestly," she answers. "How the hell did we get here? I mean, not that I begrudge Nikolai anything. I love him like he's mine, but how is it that I'm the one who's taking care of him? It's not as if his real family doesn't know what's going on. And where the fuck is Anya when he needs her?"

"You're angry," he observes.

"Damn straight," she says. 'Do you know, that woman had the audacity to kick me out of their house because she said I was hurting Nikolai? And then what does she do? She runs off and leaves him completely alone for three days. He fell down the goddamned stairs, Stan! Because she put his crutches upstairs and out of reach. And I'm supposed to be the one who's hurting him?"

Stan frowns. "That's not good."

"That's an understatement."

"Even so, you know it's none of your business. Their marital troubles, I mean."

"I think it became my business when he phoned me in the middle of the night, sobbing and telling me he didn't want to be here any more," she says. "I was terrified. I think I broke every speed limit on the way over there, and when I got there and saw the mess he was in and realized he was on his own—"

She has to stop and take a deep breath to calm herself. She's still not over what happened last night.

"Okay, yes. I suppose that part is your business now," Stan concedes. "But their marriage still isn't."

"You know what?" she says. "I honestly don't care about their marriage, if you can even call that fucked-up situation a marriage. Do I think he'd be better off if they weren't together? Hell yeah. And do I wish she'd stay far away from him? Yes I do, but I'm not going to interfere. I have enough on the go without intentionally looking for trouble."

"Good." Stan nods. "Stay out of it as much as you're able to. But just so you know, I think you're doing the right thing by taking him in."

"Thanks. It feels right."

"It's probably not going to do much for your love life, though."

Beth-Anne snorts and nearly spits out a mouthful of coffee. "Jesus, Stan! Where did that come from?"

"What?" His attempt at feigning innocence is an utter failure.

"You think I've had a woman in my bed lately? I'll probably have better luck catching one with Nik there than without him."

"Oh?" He quirks an eyebrow. "Came for the boy, stayed for the girl?"

She groans. "Oh my God. I know what comes next. Don't even say it."

He says it anyway, deadpan. "Came for the girl."

She laughs out loud. The emotional release is unexpected, and most of the tension leaves her body all at once. It feels good, but unfortunately it also clears the way for her to grasp exactly how wiped out she is. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to go home, take a hot bath and then crawl into bed.

But, she can't do that. Not yet, anyway.

Stan is watching her. "Better?"

"Sort of. You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"I don't know why you have to ask," he says. "You know I did."

"Because you thought I needed it?"

"Didn't you?"

"How is it even possible that you know me better than I know myself?" she wonders aloud. "You always know what to do."

"Not always, but I try," he says. "So, what's your plan?"

"For right now, you mean?" she says. "If you or Ginger can stay here for a couple hours, I'll go home and straighten the place up a bit."

"Okay," he says. "I can stay, and I'm sure Ginger won't mind staying."

"Thanks."

"You want to go in and tell him now?"

"Yeah," she replies. "No time like the present, I guess."

When they enter the room, they find Nikolai and Ginger both sitting on the bed. He's finished his breakfast, and the two of them are huddled together, looking at a sports magazine Ginger brought for him. She'd obviously smuggled in some candy for him as well. The obnoxiously bright plastic bag is open and resting on the leg of one of them or the other. It's a little hard to tell exactly which, since they're so close to each other and Ginger is tucked under the thin hospital blanket too. Beth-Anne notices Ginger's shoes on the floor beside the bed.

Both skaters look startled and guilty when they notice their coaches' presence in the room. Ginger palms the bag of Jelly Fruit and attempts to conceal it beneath the blanket.

Stan clears his throat in a deliberate and exaggerated way. "Are we interrupting something here?"

This is met by an an awkward, "Uh..." from Nikolai.

Almost simultaneously, Ginger responds with, "Ah, no... not really?"

"You two have been trouble since the day I met you," Stan says, but there's no trace of annoyance or anger in his voice, only fondness and slight exasperation. "I hope you read the label before you started filling yourself with those sweets, Ginger."

Ginger holds up two fingers. "We've only had two pieces each. Right, Nik?"

Nikolai's voice says "Right," but his expression says something else entirely, and Beth-Anne doesn't need to be a mind reader to know both of them have had more than two candies each. Part of her wants to admonish Nikolai out of habit, but she lets it go. He can eat whatever he wants, now that he's not competing.

The reality of that hits her like a sudden punch in the gut, and she fights to keep from showing it on her face. She conjures up a smile somehow, and echoes Stan's sentiment. "Goddamned troublemakers, the pair of you."

"But you still love us, don't you?" Ginger says.

"Of course we do," says Stan. "But that doesn't mean you're not a pain in the ass. No more candy today. Understand?"

She grins at him. "There's always tomorrow."

Stan makes a gesture of surrender. "I give up."

There's movement under the blanket and then Nikolai's hand emerges with the bag of candy. "I guess the rest of these are mine."

He glances at Beth-Anne as if seeking permission, and she spreads her arms in the same way Stan had done. "I can't stop you, can I?"

"Boo," Ginger says. "You know those are my favourite."

"I'll owe you a bag," Nikolai tells her. "In the off-season, we'll sneak off somewhere and eat as much junk food as we want. I'll get you some of these, and I won't even make you share."

"We'll pretend we didn't hear that," Stan says.

There's an uncomfortable lull in the conversation following that. Nikolai and Ginger both understand the boundaries their coaches have set for them. He leans over and places the bag of candy on the tray table next to his empty breakfast dishes. As soon as he settles back into his original position. Ginger reaches for his hand, and they intertwine their fingers.

On the first day she'd met them, they'd done that after being scolded, Beth-Anne recalls. She can still picture them as they were back then, two hyperactive teenagers; Ginger with her easy laugh and boundless energy, and Nikolai with his mischievous little grin and propensity for unexpected hugs. It's hard to believe that was ten years ago. She's watched them change and grow in so many ways, but even after a decade, some things about them haven't changed at all.

As she observes Nikolai and Ginger, she tries to think of the gentlest way to tell Nikolai she's leaving. He seems to be in good spirits at the moment, but she's concerned his mood is tenuous, and she doesn't want to upset him.

She puts her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and shifts most of her weight off her bad leg. Her hip is throbbing dully. It's not overwhelmingly painful, and she knows it's nothing that an ibuprofen tablet won't cure, but it's screwing up her concentration and making her unable to come up with anything that doesn't sound either scripted or patronizing.

Damn it... I just need to hold myself together for a little longer. I need to get out of here with no fuss, and then I can crash when I get home.

Nikolai, sensitive and perceptive as ever, evidently takes notice of her change in posture. He says tentatively, "Beth-Anne, are you okay?"

"I'm good," she says. "My hip's aching a little, that's all. Sign of old age, I guess."

"That's not true. You're not old." He chews on his lower lip as his gaze travels around the room and eventually comes to rest on the plastic chair. He stares at it for a second or two, and then says quietly. "Oh my God. It's that chair. You sat there all night, didn't you? It's my fault. I'm sorry. I didn't realize—"

"No. It's okay," she says, wanting to forestall the rising panic she can hear in his voice. "I actually didn't sit there all night. I was walking around a lot. Don't worry. It's not your fault."

"Maybe... maybe you should go home and rest."

"Are you sure?" she asks. She hadn't expected him to suggest that she leave, but she's grateful he's the one to have brought it up. She won't worry less about leaving him, but at least this way she thinks she'll feel far less guilty.

"I don't want you to go, but I don't want you to stay here if you're in pain either." He shakes his head. "This is so messed up."

"It's not messed up," she says. "Some over-the-counter pain medication will fix everything."

"That's not what I mean," he says. "I don't know why I'm like this. Like, a minute ago, I thought I was fine, but now I'm... not sure. Not scared, exactly, but… anxious?"

"Why are you anxious?" she asks.

"I don't know why. It's like, I'm scared that if you leave, something bad is going to happen, but I don't know what and I don't even know why I think that. It makes no sense. It's..." He lets the sentence fade, unfinished, and lowers his eyes. "Sorry."

"it's okay, sweetheart. You don't need to be sorry," Beth-Anne steps forward to hug him, and he hangs onto her as tightly as he had the night before, when she'd first found him in his front hallway.

"If you leave, you'll still come back later, right?"

"Yes, probably around lunchtime. Ginger and Stan are going to hang out with you for a while, and by the time I get back, maybe the doctor will be ready to let you go."

"What if he doesn't let me go by lunchtime?"

"Then I'll stay with you until he does, but I can't see him keeping you much longer. He only wanted you to be here for observation, likely just until the medication wore off."

"I think it's worn off already," he says.

"If you think you need something else, you can ask the nurse."

"I can't," he practically whispers.

"If you can't ask by yourself, I'll help you," Stan intervenes. "Why don't you let Beth-Anne go and take care of whatever she needs to do? Ginger and I can look after you in the meantime."

"That's right," Ginger adds. "And if it's cuddling you're looking for, you know I'm brilliant at that. Hugs before drugs."

Stan makes a nondescript noise that might be the offspring of a laugh and a grunt, and says to no one in particular. "This is the child I've raised."

Ginger laughs. "You've done well, Stan. I wouldn't be who I am today without you."

Nikolai hesitates, but finally acquiesces and releases Beth-Anne from his almost desperate hold. "Okay," he says. "You can go now, but you have to promise you'll come back."

"I promise I will," Beth-Anne assures him. "Is there anything you want me to get from your house while I'm out?"

"I don't know. My glasses and my toothbrush. A change of clothes. I can't think of anything else right now."

"That's fine," she says. "That should get you through the rest of the day anyway. Tomorrow, I can take you over there and help you pack up anything else you're going to need at my place. Sound good?"

He nods. "Yeah. Thank you."

Satisfied for the moment that Nikolai is in safe hands, Beth-Anne says farewell and makes her way out of the hospital as quickly as she can, before she changes her mind about it.

She doesn't know how she and Nikolai are going to cope over the next few days, but she insists to herself that they'll get through it just like they've gotten through every other difficult situation they've encountered so far. She wants to be optimistic, telling herself that once Nikolai has been in a safe, stable environment for a while, he'll be less clingy and scared, and he'll start to feel better.

Staying occupied will help too, she thinks. She'll have to come up with some ideas to keep him busy until he's ready to venture out into the world again, because she certainly won't have him sitting around on the couch all day doing nothing and sinking deeper into the chasm of depression, hopelessness and self-pity. When he's able to be up and around... Well, she knows exactly how she's going to occupy him then, and she's already resolved not to take no for an answer.

The biggest problem she hasn't devised a solution for at this point is Anya. She has no clue where Anya is, whether or not she'll be back, or whether she'll want to see Nikolai if she does return. One thing she is reasonably certain about however, is that if Anya comes back and discovers Nikolai isn't at home, Beth-Anne's home is the first place she'll look for him.

Beth-Anne has absolutely no intention of letting Anya into her house. She knows she can't stop Nikolai from seeing his wife if he wants to, and she'd already told Stan that she doesn't plan on interfering in their marriage, but there's no way in hell she'll allow a potential confrontation between them to take place under her roof.

She'll have to discuss everything with Nikolai when he's feeling up to it, she concludes. He may say he doesn't want to see Anya at all, and that would make the solution a simple one, but she suspects it's not going to be that straightforward.

Nothing's ever easy, is it? says a little voice in the back of her mind.

No, most things aren't, she concedes, but she knows from experience there are outcomes that are worth the effort and people who are worth making an effort for. Stan likes to say 'people before practice', and Beth-Anne believes wholeheartedly in that.

People before almost everything else, because other than the basic necessities of survival, nothing matters more than people and the connections they build in one another's lives.

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 3)

previous // next // story index

__________

Beth-Anne has never liked hospitals.

She guesses no one really likes them, if they're being honest. Hospitals aren't exactly the most cheerful or fun places on Earth. Sure, they're arguably places of healing, but they're also places of suffering and loss, and in her life, bad hospital experiences have outweighed good ones.

Still, she's not the sort of person to let her feelings overpower her common sense and judgment. She may not care for doctors and hospitals, but she won't deny the necessity of them, and tonight — today? — is one of those times when she has to concede the usefulness of the medical establishment.

She gets up from the hard plastic chair she'd been sitting on and moves across the room to look out the window. The view below is of the hospital parking lot, with orange-hued lights making everything glow weirdly amid the softly falling snow. When had it started snowing? Illuminated by the amber lights, the snowflakes look surreal, like something from a dream.

This whole night has been like a bad dream.

She presses her palms flat against the window. The glass is cool, and so she leans in and touches her forehead against it too. The cold soothes the ache of tiredness that's taken up residence behind her eyebrows. She thinks about the two hours of sleep she'd gotten earlier, and knows she won't get any more until the sun is high over the horizon again.

When we're safe at home, I'll sleep then.

Nikolai will be coming home with her, once they let him out of the hospital. The two of them had reached that decision fairly quickly. He didn't want to go back to his own house, which was fine with her because she wouldn't have been comfortable leaving him alone there anyway, and he said he didn't want to stay with his parents either because they wouldn't understand what he was going through.

That was fair, Beth-Anne supposed. Elena and Mikhail probably wouldn't get it. They'd no doubt be perplexed by the enormity of Nikolai's distress, and they wouldn't grasp why he needed to go to the hospital in the middle of the night if he wasn't sick. Nikolai's parents are good, kind people, but emotional intelligence is not among their strengths. They're stoic and unsentimental, and not the sort of people to whom Beth-Anne would easily entrust the care of someone as fragile as Nikolai is right now, even if he is their son.

As for Beth-Anne, she's been accused of being pragmatic too, but she likes to think her practicality is tempered by some degree of sensitivity and emotional awareness. She recognized almost straight away that Nikolai was perilously close to a breaking point and that she couldn't help him on her own, at least not in the short term.

When she first arrived at his house and saw the state he was in, she knew he'd need some professional intervention. She hadn't wanted to ambush him with the idea, though, or force him into it. Instead, for the first several minutes, she'd simply sat there in the front hallway with him, holding him and letting him cry. She didn't ask questions. She didn't talk much at all, except to murmur reassuring words into his unkempt hair, to let him know he was safe and that she'd take care of him.

When his tears finally slowed to a trickle, she gave him a hand up and guided him into the downstairs bathroom. He sat on the little wooden bench in the corner and gazed at nothing while she fetched fresh towels from the linen cupboard and started running a hot bath. She left the bathroom door open while she ran upstairs to his bedroom to grab clean, warm clothes for him, and her heart was racing with anxiety the entire time he was out of her sight even though she was gone all of two minutes.

The tub was sufficiently filled by the time she returned. She shut off the taps and then tested the temperature of the bathwater with her wrist. It was perhaps a little hotter than most people would prefer, but she'd seen Nikolai wander out of a locker room shower on more than one occasion with his skin pink from the heat, so she surmised that he'd likely find it just right.

She gestured in the direction of the tub. "There you go. It's all yours."

He stared at her blankly, as if he hadn't understood.

"Nikolai," she said gently. "Bath."

He blinked. "Oh. Right."

Despite his eventual acknowledgement, he didn't move. When Beth-Anne reminded him that he needed to undress, he plucked feebly at the hem of his t-shirt as if he had no idea how to get it off. He peered up at her with watery, pleading eyes, and she realized she would have to help him.

"It's okay, sweetheart," she said. "Lift your arms."

He did as she instructed, raising his arms as gracefully as he would if he were dancing or performing an artistic sequence on the ice. Beth-Anne couldn't articulate exactly why, but observing the fluid motion hurt her a little inside. His body knew that movement; knew it so well that maybe it didn't require conscious thought any more. She wondered if he would continue to move that way for the rest of his life, a beautiful and effortless dancer even when no one was watching.

She pulled the grungy t-shirt off him, and the spell in her mind was broken as much by the sour odour of dried sweat as it was by his bemused mumble of, "You're going to see me naked."

"I've seen naked men before," she told him, matter-of-fact. "They're nothing to get excited about. Now, come on. Shorts and underpants next, and then socks."

She steadied him as he limped the few steps from the bench to the tub and climbed awkwardly into it. He sank down into the hot water with a little noise that was half moan and half sigh. He closed his eyes. "This feels good on my leg."

"We should've put some Epsom salts in there, shouldn't we?" she said. "Do you think you can manage washing yourself?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Okay. Just tell me if you need anything."

"Are you going to stay in here with me?" he asked.

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes."

She settled on the floor with her back to the tub to offer him some small measure of privacy. For the next several minutes, she did her best to relax, listening to the sloshes and drips of water behind her and trying to convince herself that everything would be all right.

Will it be, though? a little voice somewhere in the back of her mind taunted. Nothing's ever going to be the same after this.

No, it wouldn't be the same. Neither Nikolai's life nor hers could go back to the way it had been before the disastrous event at the Four Continents, but that didn't mean they wouldn't be okay. Stan is fond of saying that change isn't inherently good or bad. "Change is inevitable," he'd often tell her. "But it's just change. The goodness or badness of it comes from how you respond to it, not from the situation itself."

She trusts Stan, and over the years she's come to realize this precept, like so many other pieces of advice he's given her, is true for the most part. She's seen many times that the decisions she makes in response to something have a direct effect not only on the outcome, but on how she personally feels about it.

She's not perfect, though, and sometimes her responses to change aren't particularly rational. When she thought about Anya and the changes she'd wrought on poor Nikolai's already dramatically altered life, for instance, her brain was overtaken by anger strong enough to make her want to put her fist through a wall.

Get your mind off that, she told herself. She's terrified by her own anger, but evidently no amount of self-admonishment was enough in that particular moment to sway her from fuming as she sat there on Nikolai's bathroom floor.

What had been going through Anya's head? Had she really believed it was fine to just leave Nikolai alone? She must have recognized that he needed help, yet she'd apparently decided to abandon him anyway.

And how long had she been gone? The last time Beth-Anne was at the house had been three days ago, and all indications had pointed to Anya's presence then. Beth-Anne had noticed two sets of dishes still on the table, uncleared from breakfast, and there'd been a sleek pair of high-heeled black leather boots and a long red wool coat by the front door. The coat and boots were missing now.

It occurred to her that while she'd been upstairs in the bedroom she hadn't seen any of Anya's things there either. On top of the dresser on the left hand side, she'd spotted men's deodorant, Calvin Klein cologne, a blue mug bearing the phrase 'Number One Cat Dad', and a green camouflage glasses case she recognized as Nikolai's. The right-hand side of the dresser was conspicuously bare.

She's not coming back, Beth-Anne realized.

Why hadn't Nikolai said anything? They'd spoken on the phone every day since her previous visit, but he hadn't mentioned anything about Anya leaving. Then again, maybe there hadn’t been anything to mention. Maybe Anya had still been there until a few hours ago.

But, that wouldn't explain...

Nikolai's voice inserted itself into her musings. "Beth-Anne?"

She glanced over her shoulder. "Ready to get out?"

"Not yet," he said. "Can you help me wash my hair?"

He was perfectly capable of washing his own hair, but she obliged his request nevertheless, because she figured he probably wanted the human contact and she couldn't bring herself to deny him.

Once his hair was clean, she helped him out of the tub and handed him a towel. He dried himself off, and then she bundled him up in sweatpants, a hoodie and thick socks.

"Are you warmer now?" She picked up a wide-toothed comb from the counter next to the sink and began to run it through his damp hair. It smelled of peaches from the shampoo they'd used. Probably Anya's, she thought, not that it matters. it's not as if she's here to use it herself.

"Yeah, thanks," he said. "My knee's really hurting, though."

"What happened?" she asked. "It didn't seem that bad last time I was here."

He lowered his eyes. "I fell. On the stairs."

Her breath caught in her throat, and she momentarily stopped combing. "What? How?"

"Anya..." he began, but paused and swallowed convulsively several times. 'My crutches were upstairs. I asked Anya to bring them down before she left, but I don't know if she forgot, or if she ignored me. Going down the stairs is easy without them because I can just sort of, you know... scoot down on my bum, but going up is a lot more difficult, and..." He gave a little shrug, as if the rest of the story was self-explanatory.

It was. Beth-Anne could easily infer what had happened. He'd attempted to go upstairs to get the crutches himself, stumbled or lost his footing somehow, and fell down God alone knew how many of the fourteen steps leading to the second floor. She guessed he'd been too scared to try again, which meant he'd been restricted to the downstairs portion of the house, which in turn meant that he couldn't access his dresser or closet or the walk-in shower in the upstairs bathroom that he could get into without help.

Judging by the fact that he hadn't changed his clothes since she'd last seen him and that he’d looked and smelled like he hadn't washed in a while, Beth-Anne concluded Anya hadn't made her exit that afternoon or evening. She'd left three days ago.

Three days. Jesus-fucking-Christ.

Beth-Anne was furious, but she couldn't let her anger show on her face. The last thing she wanted was for Nikolai to jump to the wrong conclusion that she was angry with him.

"Why didn't you tell someone?" she asked.

"I thought she'd come back, and I... I didn't want to bother anyone with it."

"You're never a bother." She brushed back the lock of damp hair that had flopped across one of his eyebrows. "You could've told me. You could've called Ginger or your sister or Stan. Ginger and Natalya both would've been here in a heartbeat for you. I would have too, if only you'd asked."

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice broke on the last syllable.

"You don't need to be sorry."

He shook his head. "I can't get anything right lately. I'm disappointing everyone, and..." The rest of the sentence was lost in tears, which he swiped at fiercely with the back of his hand.

"You're not disappointing me." She knelt so that she was on his eye level, where he was seated on the bench. "I love you, and I'm very proud of you, no matter what."

"But I can't... I mean, you know what the doctors said. I'm never going to compete again."

"Sweetheart, look at me for a second." She reached up to touch his face, carefully wiping away tears with her thumb. "That doesn't matter."

"But—"

"You matter," she said. "Everything else is secondary. Nothing that happens in our lives is going to change how I feel."

"You said you'd be with me as long as I wanted you to."

"I did, and I meant it. It's just as true now as it was when I said it the first time. Maybe even more so, actually," she told him. "You remember what you said you wanted?"

He sniffled, and then whispered, "Forever."

"Forever," she agreed. "We know what that means, don't we? You're going to be stuck with me for a long time, so try to stop worrying about it, okay?"

"Okay," he said.

She pulled some toilet paper off the roll and passed it to him so he could wipe his eyes and blow his nose. He reminded her of a little kid, with his wide eyes and messy hair, and only his fingers poking out from the cuffs of his too-long sweatshirt sleeves.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, wanting to steer the conversation into less weighty territory. "If you are, I'll make you something. Then, maybe we can go and have your knee seen to."

"At this hour?" he said.

"The emergency department is open twenty-four hours a day."

"Can you make me peanut butter toast?"

"You and your peanut butter toast." She smiled. "Of course I can make you that. Then, will you let me take you to get checked out?"

"Yeah," he acquiesced. "I don't want to go to the hospital, but I'm really uncomfortable, and the only thing we've got here is ibuprofen. Maybe if we go there, the doctors can give me something stronger."

That's one of the problems with doctors, she grumbles to herself, as she steps away from the coolness of the hospital room's window. They're far too willing to give you something stronger. Their first instinct is to fill you full of drugs, mask the pain, numb your body and your mind so you'll forget it and stop complaining. Fucking dangerous bastards.

Except, people don't forget. Not really. All those chemicals are only a temporary measure.

She goes back to her chair, but she doesn't sit. Standing next to the bed, she looks down at Nikolai who is curled on his side, sound asleep. A nurse or care assistant came in at some point and put a pillow between his knees — to help relieve pressure, they explained — and Nikolai hadn't even stirred. That was a result of the medication, of course. He isn't normally a heavy sleeper.

She studies his face, serene and untroubled in repose. The visible tension in his neck and jaw seems to have disappeared, and the tiny permanent crease between his eyebrows looks mostly smoothed out. She's glad he's resting, even if his sleep is induced by painkillers and an anti-anxiety pill.

Initially, she and Nikolai had both balked at what the emergency room doctor referred to as "mental health medications." When the doctor started talking about suicide intervention and mental health evaluations and a possible referral to a psychologist or psychiatrist. Beth-Anne could tell Nikolai immediately regretted admitting to the man that his injured leg wasn't the only thing that was bothering him.

"I think it would be in your best interest," the doctor said.

"No. I don't want that," Nikolai said, and Beth-Anne was gratified to see a spark of emotion in him that wasn't sadness or defeat. He was clinging to her hand for dear life and it was obvious to her that he was scared, but he was fighting for himself and, in her mind, that was a good sign. "I'm exhausted and in pain. I don't want to talk about my problems to a stranger, and I... I'm not going to hurt myself. I just want to sleep."

The doctor's lips thinned into a disapproving line, but then he sighed and said, "All right. I can give you something for pain, and something to help you sleep, but I would like to admit you to the hospital for observation for the next twelve to twenty-four hours. And I think we need some imaging on that knee in the morning."

In the end, Nikolai agreed, although he was clearly not happy about having to spend the rest of the night and possibly the entire next day in the hospital. He was even less happy when the doctor informed Beth-Anne that she could accompany him to his room but would then have to leave, since visitors weren't allowed to stay the night.

"She promised she wouldn't leave me," Nikolai protested. "She has to stay."

"I don't make the rules, I'm afraid," the doctor said. "Ma'am, you will have to leave, and—"

"Like hell I'm leaving," Beth-Anne cut the annoying man off. "As long as Nikolai is here, I'm here."

"I don't think—" the doctor began.

"Look," Beth-Anne gave the doctor what she hoped was her best intimidating glare. "You want to keep him for observation, right? I know how it works around here at night. They don't observe shit, because they're all too busy watching reruns of Golden Girls and doing crossword puzzles at the nurses' station while most of the patients are sleeping. So, if you really want to observe him, leave the job to someone who actually gives a fuck."

"Ma'am, I understand that you're concerned about your son, but—"

She didn't bother to correct him about her and Nikolai's relationship. He probably wouldn't have paid attention anyway.

"You're damn right about that," she said. "A hell of a lot more concerned than anybody else around here. So, go ahead. Try to make me leave if you really want to, but I'm telling you right now, if I'm not here and something happens to my boy on your watch, there's going to be major hell to pay."

The doctor was quiet for a handful of seconds, and appeared to be taking a measure of her, maybe trying to figure out whether she needed his so-called mental health medication more than Nikolai did.

At last, he said, "Very well. We'll make an exception. Just this one time."

"Thank you," Beth-Anne said. "I'm glad you're able to see it my way."

A man around Nikolai's age, outfitted in burgundy scrubs and impossibly white sneakers escorted them into the wide elevator, up to the fifth floor, and into what would be Nikolai's room for the night. It was pretty much what Beth-Anne expected; scuffed white linoleum floors, yellowish-beige walls reminiscent of the shade of cat vomit, a tall, narrow bed with a pitifully thin blanket, and a chair that looked as if it was designed specifically to make people squirm after five minutes of sitting in it.

She'd seen enough rooms like this to last her a lifetime, and the memories made her shudder. She suppressed them as quickly as she could. The last thing she needed was to start thinking about Jason or her father or grandmother. She told herself she could fall apart later. This was not the time.

A nurse arrived just as the man in the burgundy scrubs was leaving. She was young too, perhaps in her early thirties, with gorgeous dark skin and her hair done up in dozens of intricate little braids. She reminded Beth-Anne of one of her former lovers, and Beth-Anne immediately felt reassured by the other woman's presence, ridiculous as that was.

The nurse's ID badge identified her as Peace Adebayo. The woman's name was Peace. Inexplicably, Beth-Anne felt the urge to cry.

Nikolai was not nearly as impressed with the beautifully-named Peace. He whined about having to put on the hospital gown she gave him, and whined even more when she fitted a brace around his knee exactly like the one he'd had to wear after his initial injury. Then, as Peace was settling him into bed, he complained about the scratchy blanket and grumbled his speculation that they'd probably serve runny eggs and weak tea for breakfast.

"You're hard to please, Mr. Pavlenko," the nurse commented, her delivery more amused than admonishing.

"He's usually not like this," Beth-Anne said. "He's actually very sweet."

Nikolai scowled. "I'm not in the mood to be sweet right now, and a hard bed and bad food aren't going to convince me to be any sweeter."

Any other time, Beth-Anne might've scolded him for making such a fuss, but this time she was inclined to be indulgent. "I don't think there's much we can do about the bed, but maybe if we ask really nicely, Stan or Ginger will sneak you a coffee and a breakfast sandwich in the morning," She added in a stage whisper. "Don't tell the nurse."

Peace looked like she was trying not to laugh, but Nikolai appeared to have missed the humour. "Are you going to call them?" he asked. "Ginger and Stan?"

"I will," Beth-Anne said. "When the sun comes up."

"And my parents?"

"If you want me to."

"Yes, and my sister, please."

It wasn't lost on her that he hadn't included Anya in the list of people he wanted her to call. In an ideal world, it should have been Anya here at the hospital with her husband, but unfortunately, they did not live in an ideal world. It was probably just as well, Beth-Anne supposed, because she didn't think she could trust herself to be civil when it came to Nikolai's wife. In fact, she'd like nothing more than to metaphorically rip the younger woman to shreds, so perhaps it was better if Anya didn't come anywhere near.

She held Nikolai's hand while Peace gave him a shot of something in his upper arm.

"That should take effect in five to ten minutes," she said. "I need to see to other patients now, but if you need anything, you can press the call button and someone will come around."

Beth-Anne nodded and thanked her.

In reality, it'd taken less than five minutes for whatever had been in Peace's needle to take effect. Nikolai was asleep before Beth-Anne even had the chance to tell him goodnight, and then she was left alone with her thoughts.

Never a good thing, being left alone with my thoughts.

She sat in the plastic chair for nearly an hour, holding Nikolai's hand while he slept because even in sleep his fingers were locked around hers. It was only when he rolled over that he let go of her, freeing her to get up and pace the room.

That's what she's doing again now, walking back and forth from the bed to the window. She glances at the time display on her fitness tracker. The luminescent numbers declare that it's 4:37 a.m.

Only another hour, and then I can call Stan.

A notoriously early riser, Stan wouldn't mind a call from her at half-past five in the morning. It certainly won't be the first time she's phoned him at that hour, and she suspects it won't be the last.

Stan isn't a hugger, but the sound of his voice often feels like a hug to her. The lyrical cadence of his Czech-accented English and his calm, confident tone feel like the emotional equivalent of a lullaby and a blanket and the knowledge of being warm and safe indoors while a winter storm rages outside. She needs that right now, because despite how composed she may seem on the outside, she's a stormy mess on the inside. She needs to be anchored, and if anyone can do that, it's Stan Kovac.

From the day they'd met, he'd been an anchor for her in both big and small ways, and he'd never given up on her, even when it seemed almost everyone else had.

It was Stan who rescued her, saved her from herself during the darkest period of her life. After Jason died, after her accident, after she'd ruined her skating career and everything was going so horribly wrong, Stan was the one who was there for her. He'd listened to her, advocated for her, and applied enough tough love to push her off the path of self-destruction she'd been on and back to the straight-and-narrow.

He'd even encouraged her to reconcile with her mother, although that was one subject on which he would never persuade her to agree. That bitch had wanted to pull the plug on her own son, and Beth-Anne vowed she would never forgive her for that.

The fact that Jason had passed anyway was not the point. He'd deserved the chance to fight until he couldn't fight any more, and the idea that his only parent didn't want to grant him that chance, however slim it might've been, was something Beth-Anne could not overlook. Perhaps if she'd wanted to show him mercy and kindness, Beth-Anne would've understood, but the twisted expression of disgust on Claudia Jones's face had held no compassion in it.

"The sooner you pull the plug, the sooner he goes to hell," Claudia had said, and Beth-Anne hated her. She'd never hated anyone before that, and the white-hot rage that rose like a tidal wave inside her made her wish she didn't hate Claudia either. That kind of emotion was too powerful to control.

So, instead of controlling it, she tried to dull it with alcohol. That worked for a short time, until she got blind drunk one afternoon and rode her bicycle off a bridge.

It was a small country footbridge with a flimsy rope railing that wasn't enough to impede the trajectory of Beth-Anne and her bike. To this day, she's not sure if she really meant to do it. She can't remember if riding over the edge had been her plan all along, or if she'd changed her mind at the last second but was too late to stop herself.

The drop to the stream below the bridge wasn't far, perhaps three metres, but the water in the stream was low from lack of rain that summer, and she'd been going at speed. She landed on the rocks, and the world around her went mercifully black.

When she woke up, she was in the hospital and Stan was with her. He barely left her side for the first few days, and when he did have to go, he made sure somebody else she trusted was there. His wife, or one of Beth-Anne's friends from the rink.

He never called Claudia, because he knew.

Beth-Anne returns to her chair, and this time she lowers herself into it instead of turning and going back to the window. There's a twinge of discomfort in her hip. Sitting down might not make it better, but more walking will definitely make it worse, so she resolves to rest for a while.

Nikolai shifts position in his sleep. He whimpers a little and stretches out his hand reflexively. Beth-Anne catches it in hers.

"I'm here," she says, even though she's fairly certain he's too out of it to really hear her.

Nikolai, I swear I won't let what happened to me happen to you.

Hatred, bitterness, anger, grief, guilt, fear... they're all a toxin to the soul if they're not kept in check. Even one of them can destroy a person from the inside if it grows too strong. And she should know. They've all tried to poison her.

Beth-Anne understands that she can't choose anything for Nikolai, can't tell him what to think or how to feel, but one thing she can do is support him. She can remind him that he doesn't have to tackle any problem on his own, and maybe if he doesn't lose sight of that, he won't stray down the same treacherous road that she did.