Will O Wisp | YA Novella

Chapter 15: Right Into It

"How do you feel?" Oceans voice is more wary than Will's legs—as he finally pushes himself, gathering the courage to step out on the ice with his skates.

"When I first learned how to skate," Will says. "I couldn't stop trying to balance perfectly on the exact center of the blade. Who knew that I would spend so much time trying to perfect my edges."

"Are you even listening to me?"

Will nods, leaning against his partner one last time. "Okay, you can stop holding onto me. And you just worry about remembering the routine for tomorrow." For tomorrow, because they will skate no matter what happens. He takes a deep breath, then at the same moment of exhalation his pulls his hand away from his partner, drifting away and leaning forward for a quick test of crossovers.

Counterclockwise, then clockwise, then so many times that he forgets his directions—Will continues to skate until the pins and needles in his right knee begin to dissipate. He glances around at the empty arena. Because of their special predicament, they've been allowed an hour the night before their short program. The space feels completely hollow, like déjà vu of the Richmond Ice Arena—the night before the Parade of Nations.

Still, the movement is a bit tender on the muscle that was once torn. And should now be stitched back together. If Will thinks of the science, of the exact words of Doctor Brayson—by theory his injury is completely recovered. The hesitance is only in his mind—a type of weakness that tells him that he'll never jump again. But if he just closes his eyes, refocusing. Then if he gets into the position, twists around so that he's skating backwards. If he positions himself with his right foot—

Ocean scrambles toward Will's direction. "No! You better not—"

Will slams his right toepick onto the ice, and the pain only shoots up his spine for a second before his instincts give way to ignore it completely. He tucks his limbs in, remembers the basic lessons of proper form and accelaration from his earliest lessons in ballet. He recalls his first time completing this jump and screaming in absolute triumph—so unlike him—after he completed the rotations and landed on sure footing. Ocean was there too.

Did he like Will all the way back then? Did Will already notice, just not wanting to admit it to himself?

Mind over matter. Mind over matter til the day he dies.

He can't help a sharp exhale as he lands on the blade. The needles in his knee shift to daggers for a split second, but it dulls once his weight is shared on both feet once more. But even now he can tell that his technique was decent, almost up to par. He rides out the momentum, knowing his body well enough that the tear won't repeat itself.

And that he'll be able to perform the routine tomorrow.

Ocean is laughing, holding a hand to his face—as if slapping himself is the only sensible response. "You're so stupid. You didn't even warm yourself up with an easier jump." But even so, his glee is beginning to match with a wide smile that shows through.

"Look again," says Will. He leads himself up for a double toe loop. And when he's suspended, he raises his right arm over his head and gives the middle finger—the most elegant way to flip someone off. He doesn't know who he is mocking exactly—the media who is beginning to make up crazy tales of their relationship, Ocean for doubting his ability to do a triple, or the unexplainable "weight of the world" that has crept onto his shoulder ever since the Olympic figure skating team was announced. Perhaps he's mocking his own doubts and fears of the procedure.

"Come here," says Ocean—sounding like his usual playful self. It's like they traveled back four years, back at Oahu's only ice rink and waiting for their coach to arrive. "If you're the only one having fun, I don't think we should even be partners any more."

Will circles back around, not sure why he's listening, wasting the precious time the Olympic Committee gave them to get back into shape. He doesn't doubt for a second—when Ocean takes a knee and gestures to his shoulders—to sit with his legs dangling over Ocean's chest, pressing close as his partner stands and they're no longer Olympic figure skaters. Just two boys playing chicken fight in the pool. As Ocean skates slowly with the added weight, Will practices their different hand gestures that occur during the program, purposely waving his hands in front of Ocean's eyes as temporary blinders.

"Maybe I'll drop you on purpose," Will mocks, imitating the in-between accent that Ocean gets whenever he's angry.

"At least my name doesn't sound like a brand of grape juice," Ocean counters.

Will laughs, remembering the insult so fresh in his mind. "I was proud of that one. Thank you for reminding me to use it more often."

"I guess I walked right into it."

A camera flash goes off at the corner of the arena's entrance. When Will turns to face the supposed reporter, no one is there. It's like the cameramen have grown the sudden ability to turn invisible whenever threatened. Ocean gulps as he twists the other way, leading them both to the far side of the rink.

"Why are you scared?" Will asks.

Ocean shakes his head, lowering himself to one knee once more and helping his partner to stand again on steady ground—like any good lifter would. "I don't know. But I care what they think. I can't help but feel that I'm letting someone down, even though I know that... it shouldn't matter about the others."

"Your parents won't like that you've been holding my hand and staring at my lips," says Will. One skill that they've perfected—besides all the twists and jumps and choreography—is to see right through the other boy's fears. 

Ocean shakes his head. "Maybe, just maybe we'll get the gold. Then they'll have to look past it."

Suddenly, the ice arena rings much more hollow than when they first started. Will coughs then tries for a smile. "Let's try our lifts then. Last time was a bit more shaky than I'd like."