Blades

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

I'd like to say that being dropped by my previous partner and breaking my arm at one of the biggest competitions in the UK hadn't left me nervous of lifts but that would be a downright lie. I trust Sandy, of course I do. It isn't related to my trust in him, though, it's related to my body's fight or flight response to the memory.

Most of the time, I have it fairly under control. Once we've practised a lift plenty of times off and on the ice the adrenaline kick starts to diminish. But when we're learning a new one – as we are today – it pumps through me in a somewhat exhausting way. Sherrie and Sandy both keep giving me I'm just checking you're OK looks and I really wish they wouldn't. For one thing, it reminds me that I'm not one hundred percent OK. For another, showing weakness is not really my style and the fact they can see it makes me irritable.

We're currently in the dance studio, figuring out the logistics of the lift without slippery ice or having to move whilst doing it. The polishing of Better Than Love is going well enough that Sherrie wants us to up our game on its technical elements, this lift included. The old one was at an acceptable standard for junior competition but if we can do a more complex lift it will boost our score considerably. Our first competition is in two weeks' time and always-prepared me dislikes a change so close to it; from now on, though, it's that season again and we'll never be more than a few weeks away from a competition, however small a one it may be. If we're going to add a lift, it has to be added now. And Sherrie is clear that we are going to add a lift.

"You really need to lean into him more, Freddie," says Sherrie. All things considered, she's actually being very patient with me. "Sandy's a strong lad, he can take it. And you're strong as well, use that core you've worked so hard for. Just try not to stiffen up so much when you're part way into it."

Haha, yes, I think, because I definitely know how to turn off the automatic trigger making me stiffen up like you've been telling me to for the past half hour and am just a wilfully disobedient skater.

Needless to say, I don't voice this, but knowing me it will have been written across my face all the same. Not for the first time I think about how much easier life might be if I could stop my expression from broadcasting every thought that I have.

"Once more, then," Sherrie adds, although she's said it at least five times. I grit my teeth, take Sandy's hand and between us we swing me up into the lift. It's not a disaster, I get there and we hold it, but it's still as clunky and inelegant as ever and we're not even on the ice yet. We hold position for a few seconds before swinging me down again. It's a little smoother but only because I'm so keen to get back to the floor. Sherrie nods as if she's seen huge improvement, which she probably has, and looks pleased. I am not pleased. I know that I'm what's stopping this going perfectly but can't seem to change it and I sort of want to slap myself.

"I've got to go and take another lesson now but I've got the dance studio booked for you two for another fifteen minutes. Maybe just practise it a couple more times, run through the programme once in here and then come back down to the ice. Good work." She sees the flicker as my eyebrows draw tighter together. "This kind of thing was always going to take a bit more time. Keep working hard and you're still set up well for the season. Just keep at it."

"Thanks, Sherrie," Sandy says, conjuring a warm smile for her. I'm in the sort of mood where any kind of optimism grates.

Sherrie leaves the studio.

"Why don't we have a few minutes' break?" says Sandy, once the door is closed.

"Yeah, sure. Cool." I walk to my bag and slump on the floor with my phone. There's a text from Charlie to say he's got another gig and asking if I can help him with the French homework that's due tomorrow, but he knows I'm at training so why would he ask that? I switch off the screen and scowl.

"You're letting this defeat you, you know." I look up. Sandy is stood watching me from the middle of the room, arms folded. He looks very determined and I'm not sure what to do about it so I look away again.

"It's not like that," I say, aware of how defensive I sound, "I can't control it. It's a reaction since what happened with Samuel."

"I know. But I also know that you despise sympathy so you're getting this instead." He doesn't sound like he's going to soften any time soon. "I understand the effect the accident must have had. But you're still letting this defeat you. You're letting it make you angry and it's making it worse."

"I'll tell you what's making me angry..." I mutter, but either he doesn't hear or ignores it.

"We're skaters, Freddie. This entire sport is based around falling and hurting yourself and getting back up anyway. I know this isn't the same as all of the other times, I do. I know it's hard and it's something we need to work through. Maybe you can't control the reaction, but you can control your reaction to the reaction." This is the side of Sandy that has got him to where he is in skating. There is an internal battle waging in me between finding it irritating and finding it attractive. I look up, and he must see in my face that he's making progress because he starts towards me. "Stop seeing needing a bit more time for something as such a weakness because it isn't. And please stop rejecting my help. The Freddie I know doesn't give in to anything and, believe me, you don't need to give in to this either." He crouches in front of me. "You're not being pathetic. You're afraid and I know that and it doesn't make you weak. But beating yourself up does. So, please, let's agree that anger is never going to help us and leave it at the door." I stare at him. He has, of course, put that flame of frustration right out. "Now," he says, pushing to his feet and offering a hand to help me up, "let's get back to working through this."

He pulls me to my feet and turns to go back into the middle of the studio.

"Sandy?" I tug on his hand so that he turns back to me and then wrap my arms around his chest. There it is, beneath my ear: the familiar thud of his heart. "Thank you. And I'm sorry."

He chuckles, "Don't start apologising instead now. I understand. You just needed to be kicked out of it."

"Yes," I say, pulling back to look in his eyes, "Yes, I did." He smiles. "Let's go again."

And this time it's still a bit clumsy, but I know it's moving in the right direction.