First-Name Basis
Nothing had been more embarrassing to Vi than having to ask Sevika, of all people, for help tying her own skates. She doesn’t like having to ask people for help to begin with, but it's a new reality she has to live with if she still wants to get back onto the ice.
Besides being able to tighten her laces on her own, there are a lot of things that Vi had taken for granted. Even signing her name is a major pain in the ass, along with pretty much anything she has to use her wrist for. She thanks whatever omnipotent force there must be for sports bras, however: Vi would downright throw a tantrum if she had to figure out those damned torture devices that undergarment manufacturers and women alike refer to as ‘clasps.’
Sevika’s grin doesn’t help Vi’s ego, either, and she finds herself having to hold back from throwing her foot upward and embedding the blade into the toughened flesh of her smug face.
And that’s another thing–the anger. Vi can’t help but feel so angry at everything, especially at the aforementioned omnipotent force—she figures that, if there is a God, he must be a sadistic maniac, Hell-bent on mass torment and destruction
As soon as Sevika finishes lacing Vi’s beat-up hockey skates, she hastily takes the opportunity to take to the ice. It’s euphoric—that first scrape of her blades. It’s as if she never stepped off to begin with. Though it does feel a little strange, Vi concludes, skating without tens of pounds of gear weighing down her body. She almost misses it. It’s a sort of imprisoned freedom, like how young adults feel after moving away from their parents for the first time. As though they know they can do anything they want, but the freedom from restriction is sort of suffocating. There’s no handbook for that sort of thing. You just kind of figure it out.
As Vi passes the bench on her tenth—no, it must be her twentieth—lap around the rink, she notices Sevika speaking with a woman much smaller than the former, clad in high-end athletic wear. It doesn’t take Vi’s eyes long to wander from her slender legs to that signature space-blue hair, and she realizes that it’s none other than three-time Olympic champion figure skater, Caitlyn Kiramman.
Vi nearly topples over upon her realization, but she catches herself, and promptly skates over to the two. Vander had mentioned that her new coach would be “one of the best,” but she hadn’t expected this.
“You must be Violet.”
Ah, yes. That signature posh accent, cool as the tone of her hair. Vi offers a kind but small smile, accompanied with a little wave. “Yep.”
“I see you came unprepared,” Caitlyn muses, her arms folded as her eyes snake down Vi’s body, like an unimpressed mother scanning her delinquent child for signs of mischief. Vi’s smile disappears in an instant. “I’d like to ask that, going forward, you bring proper skates, and refrain from wearing restrictive clothing.”
Vi looks down at her jeans before snapping her gaze back up to Caitlyn. “But I’m not wearing any gear, so I thought I would–”
“You’re going to have to learn how to adhere to rules, it seems.” Okay, ouch. Vi has no idea why this woman is being so curt with her, as if she had done something to personally offend her. “It’ll do for today, as we’re mostly doing intake. I’ll go fetch a pair of rental skates from the bin, which you’ll have to make do with.”
After Caitlyn momentarily leaves, Sevika clears her throat a little, the awkward tension seeming to get to her. “I’ll be in the lobby,” she announces bluntly and stands up, promptly leaving Vi alone with the recently returned Caitlyn.
“Do you have any prior figure skating experience?” Caitlyn asks, her stance still as rigid as her tone. She’s holding a pair of rather abused-looking figure skates—what Vi assumes was once a pristine white has been yellowed with use and age.
Shifting her balance a little on her beloved hockey skates, Vi shakes her head ‘no.’ This seems to only further aggravate the woman. She wants to add a snarky retort about Caitlyn’s coaching experience, but refrains. Something about the woman is so… submitting, as if she’s reached into Vi’s throat with one of her gloved hands and yanked the words right out from her.
“Figures,” Caitlyn hums. “And you’ve been medically cleared to participate, correct?”
“Yeah,” is all Vi can respond with as her gaze remains fixated on the figure skates, which dangle limply due to Caitlyn’s firm grip on the laces.
“Is something the matter?”
“Well…” Vi clears her throat and scratches the back of her head, anticipating a snide remark from Caitlyn after she confesses her inability to tie her own skates. “My physiotherapist says I shouldn’t exert my wrists too much, at least until my splint is off.”
“What does that have to do with–”
“I can’t tie my own skates,” Vi eventually forces out, mentally bracing for impact. It was bad enough being forced into such vulnerability, let alone in front of an athlete as highly decorated as Caitlyn.
There’s a pause.
“... Right. Come and sit on the bench, then,” Caitlyn finally and simply instructs, and Vi is utterly thankful for her choosing not to bully her for such a trivial thing. She does as told, stepping off the ice and taking a seat on the bench.
Caitlyn perches herself on one knee in front of Vi, gesturing for her to put her foot up. And she does, averting her gaze at their suddenly compromising position. Vi isn’t one to get easily flustered, but something about this woman’s bluntness—the way she doesn’t seem to care that Vi is a paying client, or maybe the way she seems so effortlessly put together and pretty-–makes it all too difficult for her to stop the fluid rushing to her cheeks.
It’s horrifying, frankly
She feels Caitlyn take her skates off, the familiar relief from the tension of her tightened-laces causing Vi to sigh. Caitlyn wastes no time in abruptly shoving the figure skates onto Vi’s sock-cladden feet, however. “How’s the fit?”
“Good,” Vi mumbles, glancing down at her feet and scrunching her nose in slight distaste. She never thought she’d see herself wearing a pair of figure skates, as she recalls looking down upon the idea of a toe-stop. It just never made sense to her. The stockiness of her legs contrasts all too jarringly with the dainty, white skates.
Caitlyn makes quick work of lacing up her left foot, her strength when tightening the laces surprisingly comparative to that of Sevika’s. After finishing up with the eyelets near the top of the skate, she wraps the laces tightly around Vi’s ankle, finishing off with a tight knot and placing Vi’s foot down on the floor. “Tight enough?”
Vi tries to wiggle her foot around in the skate, to no avail. “Yep,” she responds, while Caitlyn does the same for the other skate. As Caitlyn’s gaze is fixated on lacing up Vi’s skates, Vi takes the opportunity to examine her features. The woman absolutely embodies what it means to be slender—everything about her is as sharp as her accent. Apart from Caitlyn’s blunt attitude, Vi can’t complain about Sevika’s choice for her coach—at least she’s quite easy to look at.
Once she’s finished, Caitlyn stands up and brushes her knees off before swiftly tugging up the hem of sheer, black leggings—the kind that hug her body in a way that leaves very little to the imagination. Not that Vi is imagining anything, of course.
“I want you to get on the ice and skate a few laps for me, just to get used to the toe stop,” Caitlyn directs, placing her hands on her hips. Vi stands up and steps onto the ice, pushing forward with her left foot. She’s shocked at how easily the toe-stop likes to catch on the surface of the ice, and that shock swiftly turns into annoyance on her third lap.
Caitlyn eventually directs Vi to stop, and she nearly topples over in doing so. “It’s a little tricky at first, but you’ll get the hang of it,” she advises, pulling a booklet from her purse and waving it to grab Vi’s attention before setting it down on the bench. “That booklet contains each skill needed for your first pre-preliminary examination. I would like for you to try to familiarize yourself with each exercise before we meet for our first official lesson this upcoming Thursday.”
“You’re not gonna show me?”
“Of course not,” Caitlyn huffs, as if Vi should’ve expected a lack of instruction from her instructor. “You’re an experienced enough skater, it shouldn’t take you long.”
Vi examines her for a moment, and she notices how Caitlyn herself isn’t wearing any skates. She makes mental note of the hypocrisy, but doesn’t think much of it until she remembers that Caitlyn, too, is injured. Perhaps that was why she was so willing to help her with her skates. A weak point. “I’ll try my hardest,” she assures Caitlyn, who provides a satisfied nod in response.
“Good. I’ll see you in two days, then,” she announces, leaning down to grab her purse. “Should you need any guidance between now and next week, don’t be afraid to reach out, so long as it’s at an appropriate time.”
Vi blinks, a little shocked at the brevity of the “lesson,” if one would even call it that. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Caitlyn confirms, turning on her heels to leave. “Goodbye, Violet.”
»»——⍟——««
“Are you kidding me? You’ve practically hit the jackpot, Sprout.”
It had only been two days since Caitlyn’s first meeting with Violet, and she can’t help but let out an audible groan at Jayce’s words, absentmindedly swirling an ornate tea spoon in her London Fog. “I have no idea how to rewire someone who’s spent their entire life prioritizing body-checking over technical form,” she complains.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Jayce assures her as he takes a sip of his own hot beverage. “You’re Caitlyn freakin’ Kiramman, three-consecutive-time Olympic medalist. If anyone is gonna have success teaching Violet Warwick how to figure skate, it’s gotta be you.”
“Thanks.” A small smile graces Caitlyn’s lips at Jayce’s praise—not too big, of course. She doesn’t want to seem boastful, yet the compliments do little work to phase her. “We’ve got our first actual lesson this afternoon, actually.”
Jayce quirks a brow at that. “Oh? Are you gonna put a pair of skates on yourself, then?” He asks, and Caitlyn chews on her lip, glancing around the cafe.
She’d barely touched her own skates since her injury. Well, she hadn’t necessarily needed to, as she’d only been cleared to skate a month or so ago. Albeit, she isn’t necessarily allowed to do anything too strenuous.
“That’s the plan,” Caitlyn sighs. “I’m going to head to the rink shortly, just so I can warm myself up before Violet gets there.”
“First name basis, are we?”
Caitlyn blinks at Jayce’s insinuation before promptly folding her arms in defense. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but yes. Obviously.”
“Be so real with me, Cait,” Jayce says through a hearty laugh, “if I opened our messages right now, I bet I’d find some pretty incriminating comments you’ve made about her.”
“Those were sent in strict confidence,” Caitlyn gasps, feigning upset. But he’s right. The two of them shared a lot of joy in sending various posts pertaining to rather attractive women to each other to discuss their favorability. And Violet Warwick just so happened to often be the subject of their ‘queening out,’ as Jayce so charmingly referred to it as. “Besides, it’s different now that she’s a client.”
Jayce only shrugs at that, finishing off the rest of the deep brown liquid in his cup. “I suppose, but please keep me extremely updated.”
“Will do,” Caitlyn laughs and checks the time on her phone. She promptly downs the rest of her beverage, gingerly placing the mug back onto the table. “I’d better get going. How long are you in town for?”
“I’m headed back to Connecticut on Sunday,” Jayce replies after giving Caitlyn a knowing nod.
“Dinner tonight, then?”
“Dinner tonight.”
The trek to the arena is as brisk as the chilly January atmosphere, and Caitlyn finds herself having a keen issue keeping her nerves at bay.
The idea of lacing her skates again and finally stepping back on to the ice is gravely daunting, but she uses spite as her main motivator.
Upon arriving, she takes a seat on the cold rink-side bench and begins expertly weaving the laces through the eyelets of her custom skates—her mother had gotten them made for her as a congratulatory gift after winning her second Olympic gold medal, and they were the most stunning things Caitlyn had ever laid her eyes on. The skates are a deep navy, coloured like the night sky, adorned with intricate, gold embellishments. She often only wore them for special occasions or for performances, but she figures they may be a good-luck charm for today. But, she still wonders if she’d worn them on the day of her last performance, things would’ve gone differently.
When the time finally comes for Caitlyn to step onto the ice, she finds herself hesitating by the entrance, as if she’s considering bolting and never returning. How cruel it is: her safe haven, the one place she truly could feel like herself, now was the source of her own grief and hesitation.
However, after a rather dramatic deep breath, Caitlyn extends her good leg and finally steps onto the ice. For a second, she worries about falling, but she quickly reminds herself of her accomplishments.
She’s Caitlyn Fucking Kiramman.
And that does it. After putting a bit of weight on her bad leg in order to assess any discomfort, she finds the slightness of the dull ache to be a good sign, and she’s off.
Caitlyn maneuvers her blades in expert fashion as she roams around the freshly-tailored arena, the sweet rhythm of metal against ice causing her spine to erupt in shivers. Yes, this is home, this is where she needs to be.
A euphoric grin spreads across her lips, and it’s as if the muted ache of her calve slowly fades into the distance, as if her newfound disability simply can’t keep up with her spirit. She’s superhuman, untouchable.
That is, until she spots that familiar mop of red hair examining her from the sidelines.
And suddenly, it’s as if she’s back in Beijing, curled up on the ice as millions of people watch her wallow in failure. She doesn’t allow herself to trip, however. That would be suicide.
Instead, she skates over to the rink’s exit, to where Violet is standing. “You’re early,” she observes, stepping onto the solid ground.
“I’m nothing if not punctual,” Violet remarks with a sort of goofy grin. It’s lopsided, Caitlyn notices, and she would take it for a smirk if not for the utter cheekiness of Violet’s expression. “Never thought I’d get to see the Caitlyn Kiramman skating for free.”
“Big fan, huh?” Caitlyn huffs, trying her hardest to pay no mind to Violet’s flattery as she grabs her skate guards off the bench and slips them onto her blades.
“Oh, you know, the biggest.”
Caitlyn feels an odd spark inside her gut, and she can’t help but keenly wonder which one of them is striking the match.
“Did you bring proper skates this time?” Caitlyn asks, promptly switching the subject. Violet’s cocky demeanour drops for a second as she rifles through her rather large skate-bag—one that Caitlyn presumes has been to many-a-game, due to the beat up nature of it—and pulls out a pair of pristine, cherry-red skates. She can’t help but let out a chuckle, “You didn’t bother to break them in?”
“…No. Just wore ‘em whenever I’d practice,” Violet answers, albeit bashfully. “Hurt like a bitch, actually.”
Caitlyn lets out an amused hum at that. “Do you need me to tie them for you again?”
“I mean, if you’re offering—“
“Sit.” And the look on Violet’s face is priceless. Caitlyn is almost disappointed in the lack of continued banter, yet she prides herself in her superb poker face, just another perk of skating since nearly before she could walk.
Violet does as told, of course, which almost shocks Caitlyn. The woman often did such a splendid job playing the rebellious no-shit-taking type, but it seems as though she has some sort of weak point. Beneath her stoic projection, Caitlyn feels the urge to exploit it. This may be fun, after all. Besides, her own confidence has only peaked since her resurgence into her own skating prowess.
Caitlyn resumes the position she held a few days ago, knelt in front of Violet. She can tell she’s nervous, from the way breaths stagger from her lips.
“I don’t think less of you because of your injury, Violet,” Caitlyn admits as she shoves a skate onto Violet’s right foot, getting to work and stringing the laces in a well-practiced fashion.
The sound of a gulp, and then a prompt “Thank you” sounds from the woman above Caitlyn. “It actually fucking blows, being injured, I mean.”
“Trust me—“ Caitlyn yanks the laces as tight as she possibly can—“I know.”
“And it’s Vi.”
“Hm?”
“My name,” she responds, shifting a little in her seat. “Nobody actually calls me Violet. It’s just Vi.”
“That feels rather unprofessional, don’t you think?” Caitlyn muses once she’s finished tying the first skate. She swiftly moves to the next one, repeating the motions.
“What, you want me to call you Ms. Kiramman?”
“Has a good ring to it,” Caitlyn says through a chuckle as she sneaks a glance up at Vi, whose silver gaze is fixated ever so intently on her. “Loosen up, I’m kidding.”
She stands up, brushing any stray dirt from her knees as she examines Vi. “I’m assuming you’ve stretched?”
Vi nods in confirmation and stands up, and Caitlyn notes the slight increase in Vi’s confidence on her skates. “Yep, God forbid I fuck something else up.”
This earns a small smile from Caitlyn, who follows Vi onto the ice. “Okay, we’re going to start today with spirals. Watch,” she instructs before pushing off. As she glides on the ice with her good leg, she extends her other leg out behind her with ease, holding the position for a moment before placing both feet onto the ice and skating back over to Vi—who was watching with a rather bewildered expression.
“Something wrong?”
“No,” Vi quickly defends. “You just make it look so easy.”
“I would hope so, I’ve been doing this for years,” Caitlyn comments. “Now, I don’t want you smashing your face on the ice, so I want you to put your hand on the wall and try to extend your leg while you’re stationary, first.”
“Gotcha,” Vi huffs and does as told, placing a gloved hand on the ledge of the boards. She extends her leg back, and Caitlyn frowns at the measly attempt.
“Higher.”
There’s a slight improvement, but it’s nowhere near satisfactory for Caitlyn. Without much warning, she places her own hands on Vi’s leg—one on the back of her thigh and the other on the front of her calve—and pushes it up about five inches higher.
This earns a surprised yelp from the hockey player. “What are you—“
“I’m going to take my hands away in a moment,” Caitlyn explains, unplaced by the whole ordeal. “I want you to hold this position until I tell you to put your leg down, got it?”
Vi nods, and Caitlyn removes her hands, watching Vi’s position closely. She has to admit, as reluctant as she was to take on a student, it is quite enjoyable telling someone what to do and having them obey instantly.
She was learning all sorts of things about herself today.