Sidelined
“I’m very sorry, Ms. Warwick, but I don’t see you being medically cleared to play again in the foreseeable future.”
The words cut into Vi’s stomach like a freshly-sharpened skate blade, allowing her internal organs to spill out on the floor in front of her, killing her in the most excruciating yet poetic way possible. She has no choice but to watch as she comes undone, as she bleeds out and stains the pristine carpet of the office a deep crimson.
How could she have been so stupid ?
On the contrary, it had been quite easy. All because of the greatest mistake that Vi has ever made—underestimating her own stubbornness. Her entire life has consisted of a ruthless yet redundant game of tug-of-war; on one side is the notion that her stubbornness is her greatest strength, and on the other, it is by far her greatest weakness. The latter side had won, of course: a fatal flaw is nothing if not a proper spin of one’s greatest strength. It’s what makes Vi a sort of tragic hero, with a bittersweet undertone of unrequited potential.
“Can’t we just put it in a splint for a couple months? It should heal just fine that way, right?” Vi pleads, flexing the fingers of her right hand and having the nerve to wince at the pain in her tendons. Yep. Still fucked .
The physiotherapist– Viktor , as he insists to be referred to–only shakes his head, leaning back in his rather high-end office chair. “That won’t be possible, I fear. Violet, you have extreme nerve damage in your wrist due to the severity of your injury. You’re lucky you can still move your hand. I’m a physiotherapist, not a miracle worker.”
Vi can’t believe what she’s hearing. She wants to throw a chair at the uncomfortably stoic man, to demand he try just a little fucking harder to figure out a way for her to play again. To play soon . She’s only been off the ice for about a month, yet she craves her beloved sport like an enslaving addiction. Vi yearns for the cacophony of blade slicing through ice, for the crescendo of said blades sliding to an abrupt stop, the feeling of the resulting snow plow ever so faintly tickling her neck. She even yearns for the albeit awkward sensation of sweating her ass off under her gear, only for her damp skin to prickle with the cold shudder of the arena’s atmosphere. And, if she thinks hard enough, she can still hear the airhorns that would signal a period’s end, the airhorns that were the source of both her comfort and her madness. Her drive to win, her competitive edge. She needs to get it back. Vi has to play again, if it’s the last thing she does.
Despite Vi’s silence, Viktor continues, “Listen, I understand that this is a particularly difficult situation. However, there are many steps you can take from here. Your life isn’t over just because of an injury. For now, we’ll keep it in the brace to avoid further damage and hopefully jump-start the healing process. Then, when we meet again in a few weeks, we can talk about moving towards KT tape.”
Vi can only nod at that, pulling out her phone after feeling the specific vibration pattern she’d assigned to a particular contact:
DAD GUY : Heya Sport! Outside now when u r ready!
“Ride’s here. Thanks, Viktor,” Vi says half-heartedly as she stands from the arm chair she’d been sat in for the past half-hour. It was designed to be comfortable, obviously, but if you were to ask Vi, she’d say it’s the most uncomfortable piece of furniture that’s ever been designed.
“So, how was it?”
Vi hasn’t even had the chance to buckle up before Vander starts to interrogate her. Well, she knows he means well. But it can get a little bothersome when his curiosity overtakes his overall understanding of common social cues. “Fine, I guess.”
Vander sighs as he starts the car, pulling out of the crowded parking lot. “You don’t sound very ‘fine.’ What’s the prognosis?”
And just like that, Vi can already feel her throat start to close up. She quickly turns her head to stare out the window, crossing her arms and closing herself off. This truly wasn’t like her–Vi wasn’t weak . She rarely cries, not even after a particularly rough fall or a stick to the gut. However, she finally allows the tears to form at the corners of her eyes, deciding that being told that her career–the one thing she’s truly passionate about–is over warranted more than a good cry.
“He says I won’t be able to play again,” is all she can choke out, and she’s surprised by how pathetic her voice is.
“Ah.” Vi can tell Vander wants to say more, but the truth is, he’s never really been well-equipped to deal with emotions, especially not female ones. Ever since Vi was little, Vander would always get just a little awkward whenever a tear would surface on either her or her sister, Powder’s, cheeks. He’d usually redirect the conversation, his strategy one of distraction and not confrontation.
Thus, Vi isn’t surprised at what comes out of his mouth next: “That gelato place you like is just up the street from here. How about it, huh? My treat.”
Vi pulls her eyes from the window to glance over at Vander, reaching up to wipe a stray tear with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I could use about a pint right now.”
Vander chuckles, then pauses for a beat. The vibe in the car shifts ever so effortlessly, the previous comfortable cheeriness disappearing in an instant. “So, I’ve been talking with Sevika about your next phase.”
Vi whips her head to look at Vander, annoyance lining her features. “I’m sure she’s got some great ideas,” she sarcastically spits. As Vi’s agent, it was Sevika’s job to ensure she was always in the public eye, to ensure she was always making some sort of steady income. When Vi got news of her prognosis due to her self-neglected wrist sprain, it was hard to tell whether Sevika or her own dad had been more upset over it.
“She does, actually,” Vander replies. “She thinks you should try your shot at figure skating. Already got her eyes on some posh trainer. The best of the best, of course.”
Vi can’t believe what she’s hearing. “ Figure skating? Are you two out of your fucking minds?!” She scoffs in disbelief. “That would be the day that I’d wear a pair of those bum-ass prissy skates with a goddamned toe-stop.”
Vander purses his lips at Vi’s incessant cussing. “Well, Vi, you don’t really have much of a choice, do you? Besides, I think you’d be good at it. Get all artsy-fartsy with it, or somethin’ like that.”
Rolling her eyes, Vi turns her head to stare back out the window. “I can’t believe I’ve been demoted from future NHL trailblazer to having a hockey stick literally forced up my ass.”
“Okay first, gross,” Vander breaks the tension with a chuckle, “and second, you need to learn discipline somehow. Might I remind you of how easily avoidable this could have been had you gone to the doctor right after you noticed something was wrong?”
“It was the day before playoffs!” Vi defends, throwing her hands in the air. “I thought I would just take one for the team. God knows they’d be screwed without their kick-ass center.”
“Maybe this’ll be good for your ego,” Vander snickers as he pulls into the parking lot, the familiar neon pink exterior of Vi’s favourite gelato spot coming into full view. She feels her stomach grumble, a confusing mix of anticipation and dread. “It’s been too long since you haven’t been good at something.”
“Thanks,” Vi scoffs, unbuckling her seatbelt at light-speed and nearly stumbling out of the muggy-aired vehicle in a haste attempt to rush towards the parlour.
»»——⍟——««
“My God , she’s about to do it!”
“Caitlyn Kiramman may just become the first woman to win her third consecutive Olympic medal in the singles free skate!”
The rush is exhilarating. The blades of Caitlyn’s beloved skates slice through the ice in perfect and precise patterns. A curve here, a hop there — her technique is masterful, perfect, even.
She’s worked for this, it’s all she’s ever wanted.
Adrenaline pumps through her veins as she anticipates her next movement—the famed Triple Axel. Sure, it’s a cliche to strive so hard to incorporate such a difficult move into her program, but she doesn’t care. Not if it’s the finishing touch that allows her to win. To secure her third medal in a row.
Caitlyn is explosive. Every movement sharp yet miraculously fluid. She’s as graceful as they come.
She braces herself, skidding on her left skate and propelling herself into the air.
She pulls her body towards itself, and she rotates at light speed.
But, instead of the blunt shhhhing! of a stuck landing, she lands with a blunt thud, which is instantly overtaken by a contrasting sharp pain in her calve.
No, not her calve. It was a faintly familiar feeling of fractured bone.
The frenzied worries of the announcers fade into the background as Caitlyn clutches her leg, her forehead resting against the unforgivingly cold ice as she curls into a fetal position for millions of people to watch:
Exposed, ashamed, failed.
Caitlyn wakes up in that same position, her right leg pulled up close to her chest as she lets out a cry of anguish. Only, the pain is muted, dull, unlike the memory of her last appearance at the Olympics.
Her forehead is slick with sweat, chest rising and heaving as she opens her eyes and realizes she’s safe , in her large, comfy bed in her equally large and comfy house. Once she’s calmed her breathing down, she relaxes her leg and sits up, glancing at the Scandinavian wall clock parallel to her bed.
It’s a comfortable 8:22AM. She sighs in relief at her timely awakening, pulling her plush duvet from her body and letting her feet dangle over the edge of the bed. Caitlyn examines her legs—her good leg, and the traitor , bare apart from the surgical scars indicating the screw placement that adorned her pale flesh. It didn’t hurt nearly as bad as it had in her memory—not physically, anyway.
If you were to ask Caitlyn the emotional toll her injury took on her, her response would illicit a prompt referral to a psychiatrist.
After taking a few moments to stretch out her legs, she slips out of bed and makes her way to the kitchen. Caitlyn turns the TV on before anything else, the channel conveniently still tuned to her preferred sports news program.
As she makes her way to the kitchen, she listens to the usual recaps of various sporting events from the night before. She pulls various supplements from her cupboard—some in little pill bottles, large, matte bags filled with powders, and a bottle of liquid electrolytes. She halts in her tracks however, at the announcement of a particularly intriguing headline.
“ After a sudden exit from the sport altogether, former to-be NHL trailblazer, Vi Warwick, is rumoured to be pursuing a shot at figure skating.”
Caitlyn whips her head to the TV screen, various highlight clips of said hockey player scoring goal after goal, then celebrating with her teammates. Small tufts of red hair peek out from beneath her bulky helmet, highlighting the prideful glimmer in her eyes.
No fucking way.
It was often that Caitlyn would keep up with women’s sports in particular. As a self proclaimed feminist, she quite admired Warwick’s efforts to become the first female center in the NHL Her injury was almost as heartbreaking as Caitlyn’s. Both were at the peak of their career, but Violet Warwick was about to make history , an important step in the advocacy for women’s sports becoming more widespread.
Plus, she’s eye candy. Caitlyn sure as hell doesn’t mind watching post-game interviews, where Warwick would be bombarded with various questions regarding her superb skill and technique. Sweat beading on her forehead, a proud grin adorning her lips…
Caitlyn quickly grabs her phone from its charging port in the kitchen—she rarely sleeps with it nearby, as she values her rest above keeping up to date with whatever it is that glues the general population to such devices all day—in order to text her bestest-friend-in-the-whole-wide-world, Jayce.
She’s shocked, however, when she finds an email from her manager, Grayson:
RE: Potential Partnership - Violet Warwick
Good morning,
As I am sure you’ve seen the news, word has gotten out about Ms. Warwick’s ambitions of maintaining a name in winter sporting.
Yesterday afternoon, I received an email from her agent, Sevika, in regards to a potential partnership, since you’re technically out of the game for the time being. However, when I awoke this morning, it seems as though whispering of Ms. Warwick’s change of heart have circulated already.
Sevika is willing to offer rather handsome compensation for your time. I do hope you’ll take her up on this, as I believe coaching may be the best next step for you and your career.
All the best,
Grayson.
P.S. - I have forwarded Sevika’s email to your inbox. Her contact information should be there.
To say Caitlyn is in utter shock is an understatement.
She doesn't coach . Has never had the patience for it. Yes, it is true that she admires Violet, but she absolutely does not have the patience to take on someone so stubborn and stupid enough as to sacrifice their entire career over getting proper treatment.
Violet Warwick isn't figure skating material, and that is a known fact. She's rough, a bull , and definitely not suited for a sport meant for swans.