Whispers on the Ice
Read Whispers on the Ice Online
Authors: Elizabeth Moynihan
Whispers on the Ice
Elizabeth Moynihan
Writers Club Press
San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai
Whispers on the Ice
All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Constance E. Moynihan
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.
Writers Club Press an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.
For information address:
iUniverse.com, Inc.
5220 S 16th, Ste. 200
Lincoln, NE 68512
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 0-595-16397-1
ISBN: 978-1-469-77603-3 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
I dedicate this book to those who have dreams and find the courage to make them a reality.
And, to Mom, who always believed in me. I love you.
Contents
Elizabeth Moynihan
Having fulfilled a lifetime dream, and completed her first novel, Elizabeth is busy completing the sequel to WHISPERS ON THE ICE. A transplanted Californian, she calls the mid-west home, and is married, and the mother of two.
“Twenty-four year old, Olympic Gold Medalist, and World Champion figure skating star, Aleksei Rocmanov, is resting comfortably after breaking his leg while mountain climbing with friends in Yosemite National Park. Aleksei’s coach, Frank Whittaker’s oft-heard comments that ‘Aleksei’s devil-may-care attitude regarding his off-ice activities would eventually catch up with him, and land him on his butt in the hospital’ apparently have come to pass. Doctors expect the skater to be released from the hospital tomorrow, with a recovery period of approximately eight to twelve weeks, barring any unforeseen complications. However, knowing this skater’s tendency toward pushing the envelope, and his lack of patience, don’t be surprised to see him back on the ice in half that time. This is Mark Foster, Channel 5 news. We’ll see you back here at ten o’clock.”
Everyone broke into cheers and applause as the packed hospital room erupted into noise at the end of the sports broadcast.
“Coach, is that anyway to talk about your favorite athlete? You make me sound like an accident waiting to happen,” Aleksei growled good naturedly, his dark eyes flashing mischievously as he threw a handful of smuggled popcorn toward his coach of eleven years.
Aleksei’s six-foot two-inch frame barely fit the hospital bed, his long legs reaching beyond the end of the mattress, the sheet forming a tent over his feet. His broad shoulders nearly spanned the width of the twin-sized bed, his elbows reaching into air as he folded his hands and rested his head on his hands. The full, firm muscles of his chest and shoulders flexed visibly through the fabric of his hospital gown as he sought a comfortable position against the pillows. His face was the stuff that women envisioned in their fantasies; a strong chin, a full upper lip that begged to be nibbled on—and often was—and frequently displayed a rakish smile, a straight nose, high cheekbones and his trade-mark ebony-black eyes. Eyes that gave away his every emotion, whether flashing dangerously in anger, smoldering in passion or sparkling in mischievous wickedness, as they were now.
“If you’d listened to me in the first place, you wouldn’t be here now. We’re looking at a twelve week training delay because of your latest stunt,” Whittaker stated gruffly, more than a little serious.
His coach, Frank Whittaker, was a good six inches shorter than Aleksei and outweighed him by at least seventy-five pounds. His hair had thinned and grayed, his speed had slowed and he didn’t look as good in tight pants as he once had, yet he was still considered to be one of the best coaches in the world. Aleksei continued to prove that fact each time he stepped on to the ice and brought home another championship. In his hey-day he’d won his own fair share of figure skating competitions, but had decided his real love was in teaching and so he’d taken Aleksei on as a student more years ago than either of them could remember.
“You heard the sports guy, I’ll be back in half the time they’re expecting,” Aleksei responded smugly, running his hands haphazardly through his dark, wavy hair.
“You hope you will. You’re not some young buck any longer that bounces back like a rubber ball. Your bones don’t heal like they did ten years ago!” Coach Whittaker referred to the time when Aleksei had tried ice hockey without the pads and broke his shoulder when he’d been checked into the wall by some kid.
“That was just being stupid and cocky,” Aleksei stated.
“And this wasn’t?” his coach argued, waving his arm toward Aleksei’s left leg, fully encased in a heavy cast, now covered with questionable comments and pictures from his friends still crowding his hospital room.
“My leg was fine until Viktor fell on it,” Aleksei argued, pointing at his friend, now filling his mouth with garbage pizza. Viktor only smiled, shrugged and continued eating.
“Aleksei, you’re missing the point,” Whittaker stopped, took a deep breath and trudged on. “Your off-ice escapades are catching up with you. I can’t keep wondering if every time I see you leave at the end of the season I’ll get a call from some hospital administrator letting me know where to come pick up whatever is left of you. You’re going to have to make a decision to either skate or be a wild-man. I’m not going to wait for those calls any longer.”
Abruptly the room became silent; thirteen pairs of eyes all focused solely on Coach Whittaker.
“What exactly are you saying?” Aleksei asked quietly, his voice dangerously low.
“You have a choice to make, Aleksei. You come skate with me on my terms, under my rules, or you find yourself another coach. It’s time to decide what’s important.”
“Clear the room!” Aleksei demanded, his tone leaving no room for questions. Within seconds the room was empty save for Aleksei and the only coach he’d ever known. Fixing Whittaker with an unflinching gaze, he stated clearly, “That was un-called for.”
“I disagree. You need a wake-up call and shocking you seems to be the only way to get through that sludge you call brains. You take everything as a joke, Aleksei, and there is not a damn thing funny about any of this,” Whittaker cursed angrily.
“I’ve never looked at my skating as a ‘joke.’ It’s my life, Whittaker, and I have you to thank for it. But I can’t live by ultimatums. I have a right to an off-ice life. No one can eat, drink and breathe skating all the time. There has to be more to life than that. I have a right to more than that!”
“I agree, you have a right to a life other than skating but not things that can take away everything you’ve worked your entire life to attain. Your body is a God given gift and you can’t keep taunting him to take it away. Where will you be when you fall off the next cliff and they don’t find you or if they do manage to find you you’re so mangled you never walk again? Where will you be then? Is putting a little zing in your life worth losing everything?” Whittaker ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “Christ, Aleksei, get a dog, or a hobby, write a book or God forbid, find a girl—but stay the hell off of mountains, motorcycles and bungi cords. Life can be exciting without being life threatening!” he roared.
“Whittaker, I’m on a damn bus for nine months a year touring. Hardly the makings of a stable relationship with either a wife or a dog.”
Whittaker shook his head in frustration. “I didn’t say a wife—I said a girl. Someone to hang out with, be friends with, maybe even soften your hard edges a bit,” he suggested.
“Generally speaking, soft edges are not what the girls I meet seem to have any interest in,” Aleksei replied smugly.
“I have no desire to know about your sex life, what I hear is enough to send me running screaming in the opposite direction as it is! Find a …” he scrambled for the right words, “a companion; someone you can talk to, laugh with, share books and go to movies with. Share pop-corn—not necessarily a bed,” he suggested.
“Sounds rather boring,” Aleksei grumbled.
“Right now, I want you boring. Boring and in one piece.”
“Suppose I take your advice? Where would you suggest I find such a paragon of womanly virtue?” Aleksei demanded, scowling at Whittaker’s smug grin.
“Leave everything to me. I’ve got a few ideas.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Aleksei grumbled. “The last time I ‘left everything to you’, you forgot my skates in the locker room in Canada and I had to run through that maze of tunnels back to the dressing room to get them.”
“That’s hardly a momentous occasion, and it warmed you up quite nicely, as I recall,” Whittaker offered.
“Yeah, it warmed me right up, especially after I tripped over the ‘Ice Queen’ and her blade sliced my leg open,” Aleksei complained.
Aleksei’s comment drew Whittaker’s undivided attention. The less than complimentary title had been attached to only one person he knew of. “It was Jordan Jamison you body-checked?” Whittaker choked in disbelief.
Aleksei cast a bewildered look at his coach. “This is old news, coach. I told you she tripped me.”
“No, you said some ‘snotty bitch’ tripped you,” Whittaker corrected.
“Same thing,” Aleksei answered, shrugging his wide shoulders. “They shouldn’t let babies compete anyway.”
“She’s hardly a baby,” Whittaker mumbled, making notes in his ever-present notebook. “Why she must be about sixteen or so.”
“Which would have made her twelve at the time. Like I said—a baby.”
Whittaker sent Aleksei a disgusted look and silently scribbled more notes. Aleksei watched his coach; curious at the frantic writing and felt the small hairs on the back of his neck start to tingle, surely a bad sign if past occurrences were an indicator. “Whittaker, what are you up to?” Aleksei questioned suspiciously, his voice low.
Whittaker looked up from his notebook, scratched his head with the end of the pencil and with great enthusiasm stated, “If it can be done—you’re about to become half of a pair.”
“Bull shit!”
“No bull shit here, son. Your body won’t hold up to the rigors of singles right now, but dollars to donuts, you can make it as half of a pair.”
“I’ve—we’ve—never even done pair skating in an exhibition. Come on, Whittaker, I’m the biggest of all the male skaters. Who’s going to risk letting me partner them? For that matter—who’s missing a partner? No one worth a damn’s available.” Aleksei prayed his last statement was true. “Let me worry about that. I’m the coach—the one in charge—remember?” “ Yeah, I remember, and let me tell you, it’s starting to scare the hell out of me!” Aleksei stated firmly, shaking his head at his predicament. “Good, you should be scared. It’ll give you an edge!” Whittaker declared reasonably and left the room to head for the pay telephone.
* * * * *
Jordan Jamison skimmed effortlessly over the frozen surface of the ice rink. Her petite form, now covered in a sedate black and white warm-up suit, hid the curves of her journey toward womanhood that she was still becoming used to. There were still days when she was certain it had been easier not having breasts; they somehow always seemed to be in the way and it took having to re-learn certain jumps and spins to reacquaint herself with her center of gravity. Thankfully, her hips still retained their slim, boyishness, but when she looked at her training films it seemed her bottom had grown more curvaceous, and heaven knew if her legs got much longer, she was going to scream. Still, all in all, she was basically happy with her figure. Her skin was peaches and cream, her eyes varying from emerald to forest green; depending on her mood, her lips full and soft; a warm shade of peach. But her crowning glory, she felt, was her shoulder-length head of softly waving shades-ofcopper hair. Now worn up in a snug French-braid to keep it out of her face, she absently pushed an errant strand behind her ear and slowly circled the ice, warming her muscles in preparation for the rigorous practice session to come with her partner, Bob Hanks. For the last four years the two had been skating partners, winning several titles and now contemplating competing for a slot on the up-coming Olympic team. Jordan, too serious at the age of sixteen continued her warm-up slowly, cautious to a fault that her muscles be completely warm and ready to skate and thus avoid possibility of an injury due to being cold and stiff. Unlike Bob, who thought he knew everything at the age of nineteen, who would come in, put on his skates and proceed to toss her around like a rag doll until he warmed up and could better judge his throwing and lifting power. With Jordan barely hitting five foot two on skates and weighing all of ninety-five pounds, her partner at almost six feet tall and eighty pounds more than she had all too often thrown her into the boards more times than she cared to count. She’d long ago quit looking for bruises and simply opted for thicker stockings to hide the telltale marks of her numerous assisted falls. She often wondered why she did-n’t just get another partner but the difficulty of re-training with another partner terrified her in such a way that she simply stuck it out with Bob. Now, Bob was an hour late and Jordan continued to slowly circle the ice and run through their program in her mind.
“Jordan…” A voice over the loud speaker called.
Jordan gracefully slid to a stop, a little rooster tail of ice flying up in front of her, and looked across the ice and through the window dividing the front office from the rink.
“Bob’s not going to make it,” The voice cautiously stated.
Jordan spread her arms and shrugged her shoulders, mouthing the word
why
?
Jordan watched as Mindy, the Office Manager at the rink continued her conversation on the phone with Bob. When she suddenly dropped the phone and cast a quick disbelieving glance at Jordan then quickly picked the phone back up to finish the call, Jordan cautiously made her way across the ice toward the office. The small hairs at the back of Jordan’s neck signaled a catastrophe in the making. Jordan skated to the open door, slipped her blade guards into place and quickly crossed the rubber-covered floor to the office. Mindy’s loudly voiced “you son of a bitch!” greeted her as she opened the door, followed quickly by the resounding bang as she slammed the phone back into its cradle.
“Mindy…” Jordan asked softly, numerous questions in her green eyes.
Mindy heaved a huge sigh, ran her hands through her hair for lack of another way to stall the inevitable and bluntly stated. “That bastard left you for Chanelle Watts.”
* * * * *
Coach Whittaker had stayed at the hospital with Aleksei and continued to outline the various points that Aleksei would have to follow to maintain their coach/athlete relationship (which was closer to a father/son relationship than either one cared to admit). During the hours since the early sports report they had alternately yelled, cursed, threatened, argued and laughed to get their opinions across, causing nurses to check the room more than once to insure no blood had been shed. Eventually, the noise had lessened and then finally disappeared completely into a comfortable silence as Whittaker watched the final news of the evening and Aleksei thumbed through an old
People
magazine and listened with one ear.