Chapter Text
“That was a strong finish by Aiden Brown!”
“A podium place for sure, his family back in Scotland must be proud. His artistry was flawless as usual, and even with that slight under-rotation on the triple Lutz, he’s in the running for a personal best score.”
“Not bad for the man who said he was ‘just here to cause problems.’”
“In just a few moments, we’ll see Jesse Torres from the U.S.A., then Lukas Adler from Germany to close off the short program.”
“Two of the most talked-about men on the circuit this season. Should be interesting.”
Olivia’s eyes are glued to the rinkside. Two more minutes, she thinks, two more minutes before Jesse takes the rink at World’s. She’s been picking her nails all day, a bad habit she’s adopted since she started competing internationally. The skin around her fingers are raw and bleeding, the pain of it coupled with her nervousness is almost enough to tune out Petra’s screaming in her left ear for her teammate.
Olivia placed 9th in the women’s division just a few days ago. A respectable standing, all things considered. Still, it leaves her with a strange mix of relief and unfinished tension that refuses to settle in her chest. Her season is over, technically. Her skates are packed away, the dress already hanging limp in its garment bag back at the hotel. But the atmosphere of the arena hasn’t released its grip on her yet. The lights, the music, the sweaty locker room smells and cold metal seats; it all still clings to her nerves like static. Watching the men skate almost feels worse than skating herself. At least when she’s the one out there, she has control, everything narrows down to muscle memory and the next edge. Up here she’s just…ugh. Waiting. For something to go wrong, undoubtedly.
Her internal spiral pauses for a moment when Aiden Brown’s score is announced; 96.12, which puts him currently in 1st, so he’s guaranteed at least 3rd place for the entire short program. The stadium cheers, somehow Petra is even louder at her side, and Scottish flags wave about across the stands. Aiden himself gives a cocky salute to the camera, his grin is wide enough to show the gap between his front teeth, and he blows a theatrical kiss toward the section of fans waving flags. Someone in the crowd yells his name in a thick accent and he answers with a dramatic bow, nearly losing his balance on the edge of the rink before righting himself with a frankly obnoxious flourish. Petra finally sits and finally folds into the pretzel that’s laid forgotten on her seat’s armrest.
“So,” Petra starts through a mouthful from Olivia’s left. She had placed 2nd in the women’s division, and her wide-reaching fanbase hasn’t let her have a moment’s rest since. Even since sitting down in the stands a couple hours ago she’s been approached no less than three times for photos and congratulations. “you think he’ll take gold?”
“Who?” Stella asks from Olivia's right. She has her arms crossed, posture stiff as a rod. She hasn’t relaxed since the final group of the night began to take the ice.
“Uh, Jesse, the American’s go-for-gold.”
“Hah! That’s a funny joke, but Lukas is still skating. And he’s at the top of his game.”
“Really?”
Stella rolls her eyes. She was the one to secure 1st place, this year’s World Champion of women’s figure skating. Her free skate earned the highest PCS totals of the season, and Stella had spent the last two days walking around the arena with the satisfied posture of someone who knew exactly how good she was. “I mean, sure, Jesse has had a good season. Grand Prix and whatever. I bet even if he somehow got dead last in this and the Nebelhorn Trophy, they’ll probably find a way to sneak him backstage to the Olympics anyway. But as long as Lukas is competing, Olympic gold will always evade him.”
“Hmm, I heard Lukas hasn’t been strong with his tech scores recently. Jesse’s been dominating him in that regard for a while now.”
“Well, that’s a given, he basically just spams jumps and gets top scores that way,” Stella sighs. “I miss the artistry…”
“Can you blame him? All coaches make the guys do that,” Petra wipes her hands on her jacket, “At least a few of them are competent enough to make it nice to watch.”
“Yeah, like Lukas. Not Jesse.”
“Jesse’s got a lot to work on,” Olivia finally speaks. She pulls her jacket sleeves down over her hands, thinking carefully before answering. She’s known Jesse long enough to recognize both sides of his skating; the idiot who will throw a triple into a transition just because he thinks it might work out, and the guy who will stay in the rink hours past closing, drilling until his legs give. “But he’s doing things no other competitors have the guts to do, you gotta give him that.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re on the same team,” Stella accuses. Petra is just focused on her pretzel.
Olivia turns to face her. “If I was you, Stella, I’d worry about the victory lap interviews you’re going to have to survive back home. You’re going to be answering the same five questions for the next couple weeks.”
“Ugh, you’re right,”
“Taking the ice now, representing the U.S.A. is Jesse Torres.”
All three women immediately lean forward. The stadium feels multitudes more energetic than it was for the last 34 skaters. The American flags are popping up across the crowd like bright red weeds sprouting through concrete. Jesse’s outfit is black and deep emerald, the fabric cut sharply through the torso with gold threading that flashes under the lights when he moves. He rounds the rink with a confidence that looks almost lazy if you don’t know how hard it is to move that smoothly.
“This kid is a whizz with his jumps, not to mention a fan favorite! Hah! I really do love the Americans.”
“Magnus, you’re not supposed to say that out loud.”
“Yes, it’s true he’s a technical prodigy, but he’s also reckless. He pushes elements when he doesn’t need to, often risking his performance score in the process. A sort of glass cannon, if you will.”
“Well, Soren, glass cannons do tend to explode spectacularly. And that’s what Jesse Torres has been showing this whole season. What I’m really interested in, is how he compares to Germany’s darling Lukas Adler, especially after Jesse took gold over him in the Grand Prix just a few months ago.”
“I guess we’ll find out when he goes on after. Don’t you love a good rivalry, Ellegard?”
Jesse all but collapses into the Kiss and Cry. His legs are still trembling from adrenaline, blades tapping against the floor as he shakes them to release the last of his nerves. The crowd is still cheering from his finish, and well fucking deserved. That was one of the cleanest skates he’s ever had, the music was practically controlling him like a mecha, and he swears gravity itself had loosened by the end of it. Someone in the stands is spinning an American flag over their head so hard they’re about to fly away. His coach hands him a water bottle, which he drains half of immediately.
“Well done, Jesse!” Ivor pats him squarely on the back, “How do you feel being a World Champion?”
“This is just the short,” Jesse answers automatically, craning his neck to find Olivia in the crowd. “and Lukas s’about to go.”
“Who’s that again?” Jesse slaps him on the arm.
The two watch the rinkside screen for his score. It’s almost enslaving, the adrenaline of waiting for one of the numbers that determines how you feel about yourself for the next year. He probably only likes it because he’s not used to it being any lower than he was told to get.
Jesse Torres – 101.33
Jesse exhales deeply, then scrubs a hand over his face. Thank. God. After a moment of quiet respite he stands and waves to the cheering crowd with a wide smile. What’s even more addicting than the numbers— the sound of hundreds of people cheering for you, and you alone, after putting your heart and soul on a voyeuristic display.
He goes to take the Leader’s Chair, shaking hands with Aiden as he gets up. The Scot’s expression is one of trying very hard to look gracious while privately considering several crimes. He leaves backstage and Jesse sinks into the chair— man… he’s so fucking cold. He wishes he could just go to the green room. This sucks. He’s itching to give Radar a proper congratulations, considering his score today was his determination for India’s spot in the Olympics next year. The face he made was a stunned mixture of stupefaction and pure joy, like someone had told him he’d just won three lotteries back to back. It was adorable.
“Representing Germany, now taking the ice is Lukas Adler.”
The stadium erupts, it’s vibrating so intensely Jesse feels like the chair he’s sitting in is starting to drift across the floor. It’s at least twice as lively than they were for him (not that he’s keeping score). Lukas’ outfit is dark purple and silver, sleek lines that catch the arena lights when he moves. Jesse settles into the chair and focuses entirely on keeping his expression blank as concrete. There’s cameras everywhere. ‘You have a loud face’, Ivor told him. ‘It’s like you do it on purpose to stress me out! I’ll have to tape it in place one day.’
“Finally!” (there’s a loud slap of someone smacking someone else’s arm, followed by a quiet ‘ow’)
“Adler— the name means ‘eagle’, and I think that perfectly describes his presence on the ice. A commanding, elegant display of pride and grace.”
“Very true, but can he beat Torres’ score?”
“It’s certainly a toss-up with these two. What Lukas has going for him is PCS, he possesses an artistry unlike anyone else in the game right now, and on top of that he has some of the most consistent jumps I’ve ever seen.”
“His short program contains two quads, the same amount as Torres’. It’s certainly gonna be close.”
Despite Lukas Adler only being a mere 2 years older, Jesse always considered him his grand senior. Someone in a different league entirely, just by the air of maturity and poise he brings to every competition. He’s always electric on the stage, he has an authority in which he skates under like an impenetrable blanket. It’s as if he decided long ago that the ice belonged to him and the world agreed.
His program starts slow and patient, drifting across the rink like a fairy. He always starts his programs with a quad. He begins a perfect setup, he picks into the ice—
—and pops it into a double. The crowd gasps. Jesse blinks in surprise. Has that happened before? He can’t remember, and he’s certain he’s watched every Adler program that exists online.
Lukas continues without hesitation. If the mistake rattled him, he buried it deep beneath his usual polished composure. His transitions remain clean, his spins sharp and centered. Still, Jesse can feel the tension creeping into the stadium now, like a collective rush of adrenaline. He C-steps and lines up for the next quad, skating backwards on a deep inside edge. His picks his right foot into the ice and—
Falls. A somehow louder groan ripples through the crowd. He hit the ice hard, but he keeps going like that wasn’t a disastrous mistake. Jesse can’t help but lean forward in the Leader’s Chair, Ivor’s warnings be damned. Falling isn’t rare in men’s skating, but seeing Lukas fall still feels strange. Like watching a monument crack, Adler’s reputation for consistency is almost mythical.
He finishes in an elegant pose. Despite the stand’s rapture, he moves off the ice with a potent air of disappointment. While Jesse would never revel in a fellow athlete’s failure, especially one he looks up to so fondly, it does take a great deal of effort not to crack a premature smile at the thought that he beat someone who’s been called the best of the best for years. Again.
Lukas sits in the Kiss and Cry with his coach, an older man with white friendly mutton chops and purple jacket. Hadrian, was it? He leans in close, speaking quietly while Lukas stares straight ahead at the monitor. Whatever he says doesn’t seem particularly comforting, as from only a few feet away Jesse can see Lukas’ jaw tighten.
Lukas Adler – 92.56.
5th place. Jesse winces despite himself. That’s an unfortunate hole to have to crawl out of.
Hadrian is talking animatedly now, gesturing toward the ice as if he can replay the missed marks with a hologram from his hands. Then Lukas stands. He nods once to his coach, and offers a polite smile-and-wave toward the crowd. As he walks past the Leader’s Chair, he pauses just long enough to shake Jesse’s hand in shortsmanlike congratulations.
“Good skate,” he says. He was smiling, and yet it seemed genuine despite his unfortunate standing. Jesse can only muster a short ‘thanks’.
They release, and Lukas passes him by. Jesse watches him disappear behind the stadium walls, his gray jacket and mussed blonde hair being the last things he processes before the noise fades behind dull ringing in his ears, and Jesse switches to post-comp autopilot.
Olivia rushes to meet Jesse outside the stadium the moment the doors open.
The cold evening air hits her face as she pushes through the crowd spilling down the arena steps. Floodlights glare against the snowy pavement, turning the whole plaza into a bright, buzzing mess of fans, reporters, and volunteers in event jackets trying and failing to herd people in organized directions. Somewhere behind her, Petra is swearing while attempting to wrestle her scarf free from some stranger’s backpack zipper, tugging at it like she’s trying to start a lawn mower.
A metal barricade lines the side of the building where competitors usually come out after interviews. Fans cluster along it with flags and photos clutched in their hands, hoping for autographs and photos. Security guards stand nearby with the long-suffering expressions of people who have been answering the same question for four hours.
Petra steps up beside Olivia, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet to peer over people’s shoulders. “You dick, you left me to untangle that thing myself,” she mutters, finally freeing the scarf and wrapping it firmly around her neck. “You’re sure he’s coming out here?”
“Yeah,” Olivia checks her phone, “he texted me that he’d be here.”
Petra huffs. “Like that means anything.”
They stand there for a moment watching the revolving door as groups of skaters wrapped in national team jackets trickle out. Radar appears first, laughing at something Gill says as they walk toward the parking lot. Petra lifts a hand in greeting. Radar spots them immediately and waves back.
“Congrats!” Olivia calls.
“Thanks!” Radar grins. “You guys leaving already?”
“Waiting for Jesse and Aiden,” Petra says.
“Tell them not to start any international incidents,” Gill adds before walking off.
“I make no promises!” She shouts after him.
The doors spin again, this time Jesse finally steps out, alone. His hair is still damp from the rink, his jacket half-zipped, and the strap of his skate bag hangs crookedly over one shoulder. But the moment he spots them his face lights up, side-stepping reporters and giving friendly ‘hellos’ to fans as he jogs down the stairs towards them.
Olivia spreads her arms dramatically, “The champion arrives!”
“It’s just the short program,” Jesse and Petra speak at the same time.
The two start their own mini-conversation, and Olivia studies him. The adrenaline is still there in the way he twitches restlessly, his body hasn’t realized the competition portion of the night is over. His hands keep flexing unconsciously, shaking off the lingering electric buzz. She’s seen him look this way a thousand different times over a thousand different performances, and it always reminds her of how she feels after a won competition; that strange floating sensation where everything feels both impossibly dead and alive at the same time. Like she could run through a wall.
“Hey, you did good,” she says finally, patting him on the shoulders.
Jesse looks at her sincerely and smiles. “Thanks.”
“Where’s Ivor?”
“Where’s Aiden?” Petra butts in, “I wanna go back to the hotel, but I’m his damn ride.”
“Ivor said he was gonna catch up with Gabriel before he left for India,” Jesse says with a shrug, “and last I saw Aiden he was chatting with Maya.”
Petra groans. “God, I’m never getting to sleep.” She takes her phone out and types wildly for a few seconds, Olivia presumes she’s texting Aiden exactly how much time he has before she leaves him to walk.
“Okay, well, I have to ask,” Olivia starts. “What's the deal with Lukas?”
“‘The deal’?” Jesse repeats.
“Like, how are you feeling about it all? His loss, your win?”
Jesse inhales through his nose. “Not too good, not too bad. I mean, it’s no real loss or win yet, he’ll definitely make it to the podium after the free.”
“‘The podium’, huh? So you still think you can beat him for gold?” Petra raises an eyebrow mid-type, clearly enjoying the chance to needle him.
Jesse pauses to think. Out of any other skater she’s talked to, Olivia has determined herself to be the one most interested in the psychology of competition. The scores are simply tools, only fine details in the big picture of it all. What fascinates her is what goes on inside people’s heads. And right now Jesse looks more conflicted than she can say she’s ever seen him. She wonders what Lukas is thinking right now. If he’s furious, or embarrassed. If he’s already planning how he’s going to claw those points back in the free skate, or if he’s started to accept that this time it may not be his belt to wear. Rivalries always look simple from the outside— two skaters, two scores— but Olivia knows better than anyone that competition takes place entirely inside the mind.
Just as Jesse is about to respond, the doors open again and a choir of cheers and excited shouting ring out across the plaza. Lukas is there, Stella and Hadrian flanking him on either side, all three of them wrapped in heavy German team jackets against the cold.
Lukas glances over and makes eye contact with her, then Petra, then finally Jesse. She sees him wave from her peripheral, and Lukas just gives a tight smile and nods in return. The three dodge a maze of people and file into a single car.
“Welllll,” Petra starts, “he sure looked happy.”
“Hadrian’s probably been giving him an earful for the last hour, poor guy.”
“I know right? Jesus, I hate that guy.”
Jesse is quiet for a long moment, watching the crowd slowly dissipate like snowflakes melting into the ground. “You think he’s mad at me?”
“What? No,” Olivia reassures him, “He’s probably just mad at himself for missing those jumps, anyone would be. Don’t let yourself get down when you had a historic skate today.”
“I’m not, I’m not. I just…” He trails off, drawing his jacket tighter around his center. Petra and Olivia watch him expectantly, the former still periodically glancing at her phone. Jesse finally speaks up with a budding grin.
“I just hope he gets a good night’s sleep, because I’m not letting down for nothing.”
“That’s the spirit!” Petra grins and slugs him in the arm, “Now get more cocky, I still need you to fail and Aiden to beat you, or I’ll be the only one doing a press tour when we get back home.”
“Hell no, I’d rather quit entirely than have that asshole beat me!”
Olivia watches silently as the two bicker. She was already imagining the free skate in a couple days: Lukas starting first in the final group from 5th place. Jesse skating last. The tension of the crowd, the possibility of a single element changing everything. God, this sport is insane.