Chapter Text
If I was a softer person,
I could give you the kindness you are deserving.
She has to wave her hand beneath the sensor half a dozen times before it registers, dispensing one measly sheet of paper towel. “Stupid thing,” she mutters, attempting in vain to coax out another sheet. Hands dripping water onto the muddy tile floors.
“Tessa?”
She spins to find the source of the familiar accent. Marie-France squints at her, until confirmation dawns in her eyes and she pulls her former student in for an embrace. “Mon amie, so good to see you.” Tessa hugs her back, trying her best not to wipe her damp hands on Marie’s cashmere sweater.
“You, too.”
“What are you doing here? You should have let me know, I could have put you on our list.”
“Oh, I’m in town for work -- it was so last minute. I didn’t even realize Nats were happening until this morning, I’ve been so out of the loop.”
“Work is good?”
“Work is good,” Tessa confirms. A toilet flushes, and Billie-Rose steps out and into her mother’s orbit.
“Well hi there, Miss Billie,” Tessa says, crouching to level with her.
“Hi, Miss Tessa,” she says, shyly.
“Lave t’es mains,” Marie-France instructs, and Billie-Rose washes her hands.
“She’s gotten so big,” Tessa says, standing up.
“They do that,” Marie-France muses, fussing with her daughter’s braids. “How long are you in town?”
“I leave tomorrow night, but today’s my only day off.”
“You should come to dinner.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose--”
“Nonsense, no such thing. Famille, oui? ”
“Oui, famille.”
“Come and find me after,” she says.
Tessa nods as Marie-France departs the restroom, Billie-Rose in tow. It’s only then that she finishes drying her hands on her jeans, reaches into her pocket, and fingers the sparkling white-gold engagement ring that she removed mere minutes prior.
***
She elects not to put it back on.
It’s all so new. Ironically, she feels naked when she wears it, like the whole world can see her for exactly who she is. Which is at least somewhat true. She is an engaged woman. It’s not that she’s hiding, she’s just... waiting for the right time to announce it.
She rationalizes this to herself with ease. She's at a skating competition, after all. She’s still the reigning Olympic champion -- for the next few weeks, anyway -- and there’s no way she’d make it through the day without someone noticing the giant rock on her finger and blasting her relationship status out to Canada and the world.
(It has nothing to do with the fact that Scott is here, or that she hasn’t seen him in 3 months, or that she specifically requested a trip to her company’s Vancouver office to coincide with Canadian Nationals, or that she’s been waking up in a cold sweat every night for two weeks just thinking about it.)
David would totally understand.
***
She grabs a seat in the stands, not so high up. She wears a baseball cap -- more than mildly protective of her anonymity -- but knows that her cover has been blown a mere ten minutes into the competition when she overhears the girls seated two rows behind her whispering. She senses them taking her picture. It'll probably end up on social media. She has to remind herself that this is okay -- that this is all part of the job, even three and a half years into retirement. She’s just watching a skating competition -- not murdering her fetus out on the ice for everyone to watch. All twelve people who still give a shit will find something to criticize in anything she does, so she runs through the breathing exercise she learned in cognitive behavioral therapy and tunes them out.
She loves watching juniors compete. Some of her fondest memories from her entire career were of those early years of competition. Rising from 11th to 2nd to 1st. Every step was a giant leap. She wishes she could bottle up that feeling and carry it with her forever. She imagines that must be why Scott chose to coach juniors. To make his mark on the future of Canadian ice dance. To live those big moments vicariously.
She misses it.
When the first of the Gadbois teams steps out onto the ice, she scans the crowd of coaches and skaters below to find him with his hands on his hips, a furrow of concentration set in his brow, yelling encouragements under his breath as they skate. Watching Scott watch one of his teams skate is as close to a religious experience as she’s had in the last three years. She drinks him in like communion wine. Does the sign of the cross when he pumps a fist, and ten Hail Marys when he sings along.
Does a full rosary when he sits in the kiss & cry, anxiously biting the skin around his right thumbnail. She’s sure he’s chewn it raw. She used to have to hold his hands to keep him from indulging that habit, but he’s on his own, now.
She doesn’t realize she’s crying until the scores for their free dance are posted and Scott pulls his team into a group hug.
***
“Collette, Matthew. Have you met Tessa?”
“No, not yet,” Tessa says, reaching for their hands to shake.
She found Marie-France backstage after the show, as promised, and now finds herself swept up in cheek kisses and “how have you beens?” and “have you mets?”
“I’m such a fan,” Collette says, shaking Tessa’s hand eagerly. Her cinnamon brown hair is swept back in an elegant french twist. Her slight frame bursting with energy after a silver medal win. Tessa is struck with feeling for this girl in a green dress and slip-on shoes.
“And I’m a fan of yours. I’ve heard so much about the legendary Baptiste and Duncan,” Tessa says.
“I’m gonna go change,” Matthew interjects. He gives his partner’s hand a squeeze before excusing himself.
“Ignore him,” Colette says, rolling her eyes. “He’s just bummed we didn’t get gold.”
“You’ve got so much time to get there. At our first Junior Nationals we came in 7th.”
“That’s what I told Matthew.” Tessa likes this girl, really. Sees herself in her, though finds she’s more self-possessed at 14 than Tessa was even at 20. “Marie-France says you’re coming to dinner?”
“I think so.” She locks eyes with Scott, who approaches down the hall. Breathe in for 4, hold for 7, out for 8…
“I’d love to pick your brain, if that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
“Hey, kiddo,” comes the familiar voice. He envelops Colette in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground. “You crushed it out there.” Colette laughs as he sets her down. In, one two three four, out, one two three four five six seven… “I see you met Tessa.”
Colette nods. “She’s amazing.”
“I’m alright,” Tessa says.
“And incredibly humble,” Scott chimes in.
“I’ll let you two catch up,” Colette says, and she heads off toward the dressing rooms.
“Pretty incredible team you’ve got there,” Tessa says, once she’s out of earshot.
“They are, aren’t they?” His whole being is buzzing with pride. “So, you decided to drop by?”
“Yeah, I… It was a spur of the moment thing. I didn’t mean to--”
“It’s good. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Colette seriously won’t shut up about you. She’s got a mad case of hero worship.”
“Hopefully I don’t shatter the illusion,” she says, her own shoes suddenly very interesting.
“You won’t.” There’s a commotion in the distance, and Scott is distracted. “Hey, I’ve got to wrap some things up here, but I’ll see you later?”
“Mmhmm.” He gives her shoulder a quick squeeze and is gone. It’s the most they’ve said to each other in three months.
***
She has time to kill before dinner, so she spends it in her hotel room, scrolling through Instagram, taking an extra long bath, and removing every square inch of unwanted hair from her body. Applying and reapplying foundation (too cakey the first time). Debating between three different liquid lips before settling instead on a tinted gloss with a medicinal cherry scent. She doesn’t want to overthink tonight. These are old friends who have seen her through her highest highs and lowest lows. She just wants them to see that she’s Good, now. That life is good. That work is good. That she still looks good.
Her basest self still wants Scott to want her. On some level, this is always going to be the case. She knows how he likes her: hair down, no makeup on, in something skintight and simple. She settles on a low-cut black dress, thigh-high boots, and a leather jacket. Casual enough that only someone who really knows her would know what she’s trying to do. Jordan is on the other side of the planet, David is at a conference in Las Vegas, and Scott is far too oblivious to catch on, so she’s safe.
She’s really not trying to make anything happen. That would be messy, and instantly regrettable, and she’s engaged to somebody incredible. Scott is practically engaged, too. And they’re both such different people now. But damn if he didn’t look good today with his team jacket and his game face on. Damn if she doesn’t want to see him fall at her feet, to beg for it, completely at her mercy. Damn if she doesn't want--
Her breath catches as her phone rings.
“David, hi.”
***
She met David at a fundraiser a year and a half ago. He was different from the men who had come before. For starters, he had never been -- nor had he any aspirations to be -- a professional athlete. After both of his siblings died from cystic fibrosis, he dedicated his life to the pursuit of a cure. He was funny, genuinely. He was kind. He had a birthmark on his ass that Tessa loved to mock him for. He loved Hall and Oates almost as much as she did. Had a bump on his nose from being punched in the face at 13. He was really good at eating her out. He played bass guitar and hated seafood and never once made Tessa feel guilty for having an abortion.
She loved him. When he proposed, it was an easy yes.
About six months into their relationship, she unfollowed Genevieve on Instagram. It was time, she decided, to let shit go. She and Scott were on better terms, now. They had toured on and off for two years, could be in the same room for an extended period without making the other cry. They still met up to skate every month or so, though their sessions now were fewer and farther between.
Slowly, then all at once, he stopped being her person.
(But sometimes, at three AM, when the lights are off and David is deep in sleep, and the house is so quiet she can hear her own heart beating, she holds her stomach and gives names to their phantom child. She slips a hand beneath the elastic of her underwear and imagines him there. Breathes his name in the dark and dares David to catch her in the act. You don’t know me. You have no idea who I am. ‘Cause if you knew me, you would fucking hate me.)
***
“Dubreuil,” she repeats. “Or maybe Lauzon.”
“......no,” the hostess says, scanning the list. “I don’t see it.”
“It’s a big party. Like, twenty people, probably.”
“The only large party I have is under Moir.”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s it.”
“Right this way.” The hostess gives her a tight smile and escorts her to the back.
The major players are all here. Marie-France, Patch, and Romain of course. Carolane and Shane (who she must remember to congratulate on their bronze). She spots Colette and Matthew across the room, where Scott is deep in conversation with an older woman she suspects to be one of their mothers.
A friendly presence appears with a glass of white wine.
“Oh, merci,” she says, accepting the drink from Patch with a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Good to see you, Tessa. Marie-France says you have been doing well in Toronto.”
“I have.”
“It’s good to hear. You are missed at Gadbois. All of us.” It’s pointed, the all part.
Tessa smiles as she sips down her wine. Patch tells her about their junior teams and about Gabi and Guillaume’s near-lock for gold in Beijing. How they broke their own record with their free dance. (How that record should still belong to Moulin Rougue, but no matter.) How Madi and Zach have a real shot at the podium this time, now that the Shibs have retired. How if Chock and Bates can beat Carreira and Ponomarenko’s monster SD score, Gadbois could sweep. She nods and smiles at the appropriate times, her eyes flitting occasionally to Scott’s back as he chats animatedly with Romain and a leggy brunette Tessa has yet to identify.
Patch tries to “casually” slip in that Scott and Gen broke up a few months ago. Tessa knows what he’s playing at -- knows that Patch always was and probably always will be the greatest advocate for their relationship. Having lived through a close approximation of their own experience, he has more legs to stand on than most, where their relationship is concerned. But no one else can really know what they’ve been through.
Patch excuses himself for the restroom just as Tessa gulps down the remainder of her drink. She heads to the bar for a refill, where a salt-and-pepper suit tries to chat her up. When he offers to buy her a drink and she can’t decide which polite excuse she’s going to make this time, Scott appears at her side.
“Chardonnay, right?” He says.
“Make it a vodka soda,” she says, flooding with relief. Her silvering fox vacates his stool in search of easier pastures.
“Mixing alcohols, I see.”
“I live dangerously.”
“That is the Virtue motto." The bartender delivers Tessa's drink. "Put it on my tab,” Scott says.
“Oh, you don’t have to.”
“Please. Consider it payback.”
“For what?”
He shrugs. “Take your pick.”
Tessa raises her glass and knocks back a too-long gulp as he sips his beer. “So. Patch tells me you and Gen are,” she makes a slashing motion across her throat.
“Did he now?” Scott leans against the bar. He swirls his beer in its pint glass and shakes his head. “You know, he’s a great coach, but I think his real passion’s in gossip.”
Tessa smirks. Grateful this conversation hasn’t taken a heavy turn.
“I’m sorry,” she says. He just shrugs and turns the conversation toward his junior skaters. They’ve had a promising season. He can see them on the podium at the next Olympics, and Tessa agrees that they’ve got real potential, what with Matthew’s natural skating talent and Colette’s dancing ability. They order another round of drinks and rejoin the group, sticking close by throughout the evening.
It occurs to Tessa that this is the easiest things have been between them since before it all went to shit. There hasn’t been a single awkward pause or loaded silence. She finds him stealing glances at her throughout the night. She feels his eyes on her, warm and searching. Feels the familiar warmth in her belly settling in, a flush creeping across her neck. Or is that the alcohol?
The night goes on. People start to peel off and head back to their hotels. Marie-France makes Tessa promise to visit Montreal soon, and Colette incepts Tessa into following her back on social media. She finds Scott at the bar, settling his tab, and announces her plans to call it a night.
“I’ll walk you out.”
She waits while he calculates his tip, then he waits while she runs to the bathroom.
It’s much colder outside than it was when she arrived, and Tessa is far tipsier than she had planned. She runs her hands up and down her arms for warmth and rolls her eyes as Scott drapes his jacket over her shoulders.
“Want me to call you a cab?”
“I didn’t realize you were competing in the Gentleman Olympics.” He raises his brow at this. “I was just gonna walk. It’s only 15 minutes.”
“Then I’ll walk with you.”
“And he’s going for gold.”
The walk is quiet. She had forgotten how nice it could be to just be around Scott. His hand at the small of her back when she stumbles on the uneven sidewalk. Making stray comments about passing scenery. The lingering scent on his jacket -- vetiver, amber, and sandalwood. It’s a new cologne, but it smells like home. When they arrive at her hotel, she removes the jacket begrudgingly to hand it back to him. He just laughs. He’s staying at the St. Regis, too. Because of course he is.
They ride the elevator up to her floor in electrified silence. When he follows her out, it's because this is his floor, too. She feels the destiny in their shared destination, like the universe is mocking them. She thinks about how easy it would be to invite him in for a nightcap. How easy it would be to bury herself in the crook of his neck. To laugh at his jokes and open him up. She can always plead drunk in the morning. Chalk the whole thing up to alcohol and nostalgia.
“Goodnight, Scott.”
She dips her key card into its slot and pushes the door open. He leans his head against the doorframe, biting his lip. Clearly thinking about it, too.
“Can I come in?”
One look, and she knows they're both fucked. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, too. We’re stupid, right? So fucking stupid. You smell nice. You smell nice, too. God, I missed you.
Can I kiss you?
And where’s the obvious light?
Where’s the obvious light?
Where’s the obvious light?
“Hey, do we have any spare bulbs?”
“Hall closet, behind the first aid kit.”
Tessa grabs the step ladder from the kitchen and carts it out to the hall. She finds the spare bulbs exactly where David said they would be. She folds up the ladder and brings it with her to the bathroom to replace the offending object above her mirror. Satisfied with her work, she steps down and finds that she’s winded.
She’s felt strange all week, frequently tiring after menial tasks. She couldn’t get herself out of bed for yoga on Tuesday and skipped her hip-hop and jazz classes just because. She’s chalked it up to seasonal change and PMS. Maybe she’s coming down with something. Or maybe she’s just getting old.
“I’m running out. Did you need anything from the store?” David appears at the bathroom door. He’s got week-old scruff and has forgone contacts for glasses today. Poor guy has been working around the clock on a grant proposal, but she loves him like this. Overworked and hyper focused.
“If you pick up some cocoa powder, I’ll make you the magic brownies.”
His face lights up, and he leans in for a kiss.
Ten minutes later, he pulls his pants back on and heads to the store.
It’s only then that she realizes she’s late.