I snickered at the memories of all the hundreds of times she had smacked me on the back of the head throughout those ten years we were together. Some people wouldn’t have been able to handle her brand of tough love, but I’d secretly loved it. I’d thrived with it. My mom always said that if anyone gave me an inch, I’d take a mile.
And the last thing Galina Petrov would ever do is give up a single centimeter.
But this wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned the idea of me coaching. Over the last few months, when things had become… more desperate, when my hope of finding another partner began to shrivel up, she’d started dropping the possibility on me when we’d talk, not subtly or swiftly at all. Just Jasmine, you coach. Yes?
But I still wasn’t ready for that. Coaching felt like giving up, and… I wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not fucking yet.
But maybe it’s time? Some nagging, whiney voice in my head whispered at the same time, making my stomach clench.
Almost as if she could sense what was going on in my head, she made another snorting sound. “I have things to do. Practice your jumps. You aren’t committing, you are too much in your head, that’s why you have been falling. Remember seven years ago,” she said, her attention still on the ice. “Stop thinking. You know what to do.”
I hadn’t thought she’d noticed me struggling since she was busy coaching someone else.
But I focused on her words, remembering exactly what time period she was talking about. She was right. I had been nineteen. That had been the worst season of my singles career, back when I hadn’t had a partner and skated all by myself; that season had been the catalyst for the next three seasons that had led me down the path to pairs, to skating with a partner. I’d been in my head too much, overthought everything, and… well, if I’d made a mistake transitioning from singles, it was too late to regret it at this point.
Life was about choices, and I had made mine.
I nodded and swallowed back that old shame at the memory of that horrible season I still thought about when I was by myself and feeling more pitiful than usual. “That’s what I was worried about. I’m gonna go work on them. I’ll see you later, Lina,” I said to my old coach, fiddling with the bracelet on my wrist for a moment before dropping my hands and shaking them both out.
Galina’s eyes quickly moved over my face before she dipped her chin gravely and turned her attention back to the rink, shouting something in her deeply accented voice about going into a jump too slowly.
Taking off my skate guards and setting them in their usual spot, I stepped out on the ice and focused.
I could do this.
Exactly an hour later, I was as sweaty and as tired as I’d been back when I’d have a three-hour session. I was getting soft, damn it. I’d ended up doing a few jump combinations—a sequence or at least one jump followed immediately by another, sometimes two more jumps—but my heart hadn’t really been in it. I’d landed them, but only barely, wobbling and fighting to stick each one while trying my hardest to focus on them and only them at the same time.
Galina was right. I was distracted, but I couldn’t figure out what exactly was distracting me. Maybe I really did need to rub one out real quick or go for a run or something. Anything to clear my head, or at least this funky feeling that had been following me around like a ghost.
I made it back to the changing rooms, only slightly frustrated to find a plain yellow Post-It note on the door of my locker. I didn’t think anything of it. A month ago, the general manager for the LC had left me a similar note, asking me to go to her office. All she’d wanted was to offer me a job coaching beginner lessons. Again. Why she thought I’d be a good candidate for teaching young girls—practically babies—I had no idea, but I’d told her I wasn’t interested.
So when I picked the note off the locker and slowly read Jasmine, come to the GM office before you go, twice, just to make sure I read it correctly, I didn’t think much of it except the fact that whatever the GM wanted from me was going to have to be quick because I had to get to work. I had my days timed to the minute. I had lists with my schedules just about everywhere—on my phone, on sheets of paper in my car, in my bags, in my room, on the fridge—so I wouldn’t forget or get flustered. Being organized, prepared, and constantly keeping track of time to be punctual were important to me. As it was, I was going to need to skip sitting under the hot water and putting on makeup to get to work in time, unless I let my boss know.
Pulling my phone out of my bag the moment I had my locker unlocked, I typed up a message, thanking spellcheck like I always did for existing and making my life easier, and sent it to my mom. She always had her phone on her.
Me: The LC GM wants to talk. Can you call Matty and tell him I’m running a little late but will be there asap?
She responded immediately.
Mom: What did you do?
I rolled my eyes and typed a response. Nothing
Mom: Then why are you going to the office?
Mom: Did you call someone’s mom a dirty whore again?
Of course she’d never forget that. No one did.
Then there was the fact that I hadn’t told her about the three other times the GM had asked me into her office to try and talk me into coaching.
Me: I don’t know. Maybe my check last week bounced.
That was a joke. She knew better than anyone how much LC fees cost. She’d paid for them for over a decade.
Me: No. I haven’t called anyone’s mom a dirty whore again, but that other dirty whore deserved it.
Knowing she would reply almost immediately, I set my phone back into my locker and decided I could text her back in a minute. Rushing through my shower after putting my things up, I slipped into my underwear, jeans, collared shirt, socks, and the best looking comfortable shoes I was able to afford, in record time. By the time I was done with that, I checked my phone again and found my mom had replied.
Mom: You need money?
Mom: She did deserve it.
Mom: Shoved anybody lately?
It killed me inside that she still asked me if I needed money. Like I hadn’t taken enough of hers over the years, month after month. Failed season after failed season.
At least I wasn’t asking her for it anymore.
Me: I’m okay with money. Thanks.
Me: I have not shoved anyone again.
Mom: You sure?
Me: Yes, I’m sure. I would know if I did.
Mom: Positive?
Me: Yes
Mom: It’s okay if you did. Some people need it.
Mom: Even I’ve wanted to punch you sometimes. It happens.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Me: Me too
Mom: You’ve wanted to punch me in the throat?
Me: There is no right answer to that question.
Mom: Ha ha ha ha.
Me: I never did it. OK?
Zipping up my bag, I gripped the handle, fisted my keys, and walked out of there as fast as possible, basically jogging down one hall and then another to head toward the part of the building where the business offices were located. I was going to have to eat the egg white sandwich I’d left in my lunch bag in my car as I drove. Just as I made it to the door, I typed up another message to be on the safe side, ignoring my misspellings, which I usually didn’t.
Me: For real ma. Can you call n tell him?
Mom: YES
Me: Thank u
Mom: Love you.
Mom: Tell me if you need money.
My throat tightened for a moment, but I didn’t text anything back. I wouldn’t tell her even if I did. Not anymore. At least not if I could help it, and the truth was, I’d turn to stripping if it ever got to that point again. She’d done enough.
Holding in a sigh, I knocked on the door of the general manager’s office, thinking that I really wanted whatever conversation was about to happen to last all of ten minutes so that I wouldn’t be too late to work. I didn’t want to take advantage of my mom’s closest friend being lenient with me.
I turned the knob the second I heard a voice inside the office shout, “Come in!”