He also knew that there was no chance he’d place high enough to be able to advance to the Grand Prix Final. That was okay; U.S. Nationals was where it really counted for what he needed to make happen. All he had to do here was keep doing the work and place respectably.
In Montreal, Aaron found it harder to mire himself in loneliness the way he had in Sapporo. Not only Huy, but Charlotte was also competing, which meant he had hotel rooms to hang out in and companions for 5am wakeup times for practice. Brendan also wound up leading late-night yoga sessions to manage their collective nerves and insomnia.
The men’s short program was on Friday; both Huy and Aaron had skated relatively early and were hanging out together backstage watching on the monitor when Aizat popped what should have been a quad lutz.
Huy winced, presumably in empathy for a fellow competitor, but Aaron—rightly or wrongly—started rapidly calculating points margins. When the night ended, the leaderboard confirmed what he already knew: Aizat was lagging, badly, and the door to something other than third place cracked open.
Saturday morning, as Aaron he got dressed for his practice session, his phone barked with an incoming text.
Katie: Skate for your life.
He took Katie as literally as he could and attacked his long program as if it were his last chance to see ice in a dying world. It felt terrifying and reckless and electric and if he couldn’t keep just the barest edge of control over it, he knew he’d wipe out and into last place.
But he’d held on, because he’d had to, and when his scores were announced and he realized he was in second place behind Huy with a personal best. He screamed in the kiss and cry and then buried his face in Brendan’s shoulder.
Brendan closed his hand around the back of Aaron’s neck. “You just won a ticket to the Grand Prix Final.”
For the first time ever. Eat that, Aaron couldn’t help thinking in the general direction of Cayden. Who had all but qualified for the Final with a gold and a silver at his own Grand Prix events, but had already announced he’d be skipping that competition to ‘focus on preparing for Almaty.’ As if he’d already been named to the Olympic team.
Jerk.
In Aaron’s bag at their feet, his phone barked with incoming messages of congratulation. Huy tackled him in a hug on their victory lap, and Aizat, who’d managed bronze, shook his hand warmly. Backstage Charlotte, with her own gold medal from the ladies’ event around her neck, hugged him and kissed both his cheeks. Aaron let himself enjoy the moment, and the night; starting tomorrow, there was a hell of a lot of work to do. He’d been good and he’d been lucky, but the GPF was a whole new level and something he had never experienced before.
When the plane’s wheels touched down on the tarmac at Minneapolis−Saint Paul he had exactly eleven days until he’d be wheels up on his way to Saint Petersburg for the Grand Prix Final. Nothing and no one else could exist. Aaron barely had time to empty his suitcase, do his laundry, and repack it in between training sessions, food, and sleep. If he passed anyone coming or going at the rink, he didn’t notice them.
Medaling in St. Petersburg wasn’t likely for him. This time, truly only bronze would be open, and Aaron would be lucky just not to come in last of the six. And even a good performance wouldn’t guarantee him a spot on the U.S. Olympic team. But it didn’t matter. If he screwed this up or had a bad day, he wouldn’t have a chance. And he’d never forgive himself.
Chapter 22
THE GRAND PRIX FINAL - Men’s Short Program
Miami International Airport
THE MONITOR AT THE gate read Minneapolis−Saint Paul—Delayed, so rather than sit and check the departure time obsessively for the next however long it took, he decided to take a walk.
He ambled around the terminal for a while, taking refuge in people-watching rather than thinking about, well, anything, really: His parents sucked, his ex sucked, and flying sucked; he just wanted to be home, which was now far away and cold. He stepped to the side of the concourse as a flood of passengers disembarked from a just-arrived plane, and just then noticed one of the TV screens in the bar across the way. Figure skating, especially men's, was the last sport he'd expected to encounter in a bar in Florida, and yet there was an ice rink with a lone figure standing in the middle of it.
Zack squinted to see better. It couldn't possibly be...and yet. Aaron's black costume for the short program, studded with silver and rhinestones, shone out even across the concourse.
Zack made his way through the crowd of just-landed tourists and made his way to the TV just in time to see Aaron close his eyes and start to skate. The volume was way down, but Zack could hear the music in his head anyway. He'd watched Aaron practice often enough.
Whatever this broadcast lacked in sound, it made up for in close-up shots. Zack hadn't ever been able to see Aaron's face like this before, even when he’d been watching him from just across the boards. He was as utterly mesmerizing as when Zack had had him in his own bed; more, perhaps, because Aaron was making himself this vulnerable, this expressive, this himself not just for Zack but for anyone who might be watching. And this wasn’t even the program that was—according to Aaron—about the two of them.
Aaron closed his eyes again on what Zack knew was his final spin. He struck his ending pose and the crowd, after a moment's hush, exploded in applause—Zack
