Winners Don't Have Bad Days (Watty 2020 Winner, Romance)

16. #SomethingOld, December 2017

This was exactly why Daya moved across the country from Toronto to Calgary. To not do this thing she was doing now. But the alternative was sitting in Shanti's place, obsessing over Mike. Not that it was unpleasant, on the opposite--

Anyway, it was too late for regrets. She had already pushed on the heavy doors of her former home skating club and walked inside from the chilly street. 

The place would look smaller and shabbier than she remembered it, she told herself. It never had the diamond aura of the famous clubs in the first place, and she had been away for nearly two years.

She turned on the spot, taking it in, noticing, to her dismay, that nothing changed since the day she had run out in tears.

The lobby paraded display cases with trophies. The posters of the club's former students in gauze and crystals decorated the walls next to the drawings on the same subject. They were signedSusan, grade 2; Abaz, grade 5, etc... 

There used to be a genuine Daya, grade 3 on the wall, picturing a figure-skater with her leg outstretched at an odd angle,  blue crayon streaks for ice, and happy faces above two crooked lines for the boards. To erase any doubts about who the model was, she scribbled Michelle Kwan in a bubble over the head.

The tunnels led away to the locker room and the skating rinks. The smell wafting from the lockers was as musty as ever, but the distances seemed to stretch on for longer than before. 

Daya sneaked through the locker rooms to the bleachers. To cinch her impression that some things would never change, Coach Brighton sat close to the boards, his legs propped on the back of the seat in front of him, with the same coffee mug as before. Shaggy curls still hang to both sides of his expanding bald spot and sallow cheeks blew in and out. 

His rheumy eyes darted between the kids on the ice. 

"Ava!" he yelled. "Yes, like this, but faster. You need to pick up speed. Speed up!"

A girl in the swirling swarm looked up, nodded, and took off. 

An older skater was warming up on the bleachers, bounding up and down the steps. The long-sleeved tee and sweatpants hung on him, but could not hide away the width of his shoulders. 

He fiddled with an earbud below the blond brush of hair, turning his profile to Daya, and recognition dawned on her. Oh my goodness, that's Pavel. 

Not that it was unexpected to run into him here. He was the club-mate who threw together the music mixes she'd been listening to the last month. Maybe she should go say hi after she had talked to the coach. Unless his ice-time started by then, duh.

She took in a deep breath and walked down the aisle's steps, feeling like an adolescent again. 

"Uhm, Mr. Brighton? Good afternoon."

Coach Brighton turned around, took a measure of her jacket and jeans. For a second, she thought he didn't recognize her, but then he said, "Miss Dhawan. You need a reference or something?"

"No, I--" Daya stammered, because her mind supplied, No, I don't need references from assholes, hardly a thing to say.

Pavel got closer in his tireless jog and flashed her a grin from behind Brighton's back. 

Brighton was losing his never abundant patience. "What is it then, Miss Dhawan? Looking for a job? I can ask around if anyone needs a junior instructor."

She coiled, as if preparing to jump. Her voice shook despite of her best efforts to keep herself in check. "Thank you Mr. Brighton, but no, I'm good. I was just wondering if you could try me out for a synchro team?"

"The synchro is all full, but if you want to go on the waiting list, be my guest. Rejoin the club, sign up on-line, you know the drill. Don't need me for it." He turned back to the rink, to the girls he had hopes for.

Until that moment, Daya had never realized how deeply she hated this man. Him, his reasonable attitude, his curly hair and his skimming eyes. 

And that casual dismissal! 

He'd given up on her, that was clear. He'd never give her a spot if there was one. He'd fill it in with a promising fifteen-year-old. But now she suddenly saw the truth—he had given up on her back then, all the way back, when she was a promising fifteen-year-old.

"Thank you for everything, Mr. Brighton," she squeezed out. 

Shouting, Why had you always wanted me to fail, you son of a bitch?! would have been so much more satisfying, but skating world was tight-knit. One e-mail mentioning how she was problematic, a few whispers during the training camps—and no coach would sign her on. 

There was no shortage of those promising fifteen-year-olds, and she'd just turned twenty-three in August.

In Shanti's etc world, she had barely hit adulthood. In the ice rink, she was a fossil.

But she was not dead and buried under tons of rock yet. 

With her back straight and chin held high, Daya walked back to the exit. Unhurriedly. That's how the little mermaid probably felt on land, with her voice gone, and each step hurting her legs like a thousand cutting knives.

Once she was out of Brighton's line of sight, in the tunnel, she slumped against the wall. 

How could she have been so stupid? Her plan to go local in Calgary was a winner. She had a job there. Mike would be overjoyed to hear she took his advice. Why the devil did she court rejection and came here? 

Stupid, stupid, stupid...

"Hey, Daya! Wait up!"

Daya lifted her head to see who was running after her.