Absolutely Not Him
At eleven o’clock exactly, Róisín Quinn placed the federation’s confidential partner-feasibility sheet on the conference table and said, “I’d like to begin by objecting to the phrase ‘accelerated pathway.’”
The High Performance director blinked at her.
Across the table, Mara Kovács did not.
Mara had coached Rory long enough to recognize the tone. It was the one Rory used when she had already read the document three times, highlighted it twice, and decided somebody else’s morning was about to become significantly worse.
The conference room at North Harbor had been designed by a person who believed morale could be generated through glass walls and grey carpet. One side overlooked Rink Two. The other looked into a corridor where six-year-olds in rental skates marched toward their lesson with the solemnity of infantry.
Rory preferred the children.
The federation’s performance director folded his hands. Beside him sat a legal adviser, a technical specialist, and a woman from athlete services who had offered Rory tea and then looked personally wounded when Rory had asked whether the water was actually boiling.
“It’s standard language,” the director said.
“It’s inaccurate language.”
“In what way?”
“In every way that makes it sound easy.”
Mara lowered her eyes to hide what might have been amusement.
Rory tapped the page.
“New pairs teams don’t become Olympic-calibre because someone adds the word accelerated. We need testing. Eligibility confirmation. International minimums. Monitoring. Program construction. Pair elements that don’t kill either of us. A competition calendar that is already moving. And that’s before we get to whether the two people involved can stand each other.”
The legal adviser adjusted his pen.
“You’re not being asked to commit to anyone today.”
“Excellent. Then we’ve already achieved something.”
The performance director exhaled through his nose.
Rory had known him for seven years. He had once handed her an American flag after a medal ceremony and told her to enjoy the moment while simultaneously reminding her of a press obligation in twelve minutes. He was not cruel. He was not stupid. He was simply employed by an institution whose clocks never stopped because a human being’s life had gone sideways before breakfast.
“We understand this morning has been difficult,” he said.
Rory’s spine went rigid.
Mara glanced at her.
The director saw it too and corrected course.
“Evan’s decision changes the timeline. It does not erase your options.”
“Option,” Rory said.
He paused.
“Potential options.”
She pushed the sheet toward him.
“Candidate one has a shoulder restriction and hasn’t completed a full lift load in five months. Candidate two has no senior international pairs minimums and would require a technical development window we do not have. Candidate three is Matteo DeLuca.”
Nobody spoke.
Rory sat back.
“There. We’ve completed the plural portion of the meeting.”
The technical specialist rubbed a thumb over the edge of his folder. “There are developmental candidates.”
“For Milan, maybe.”
The room tightened.
Rory knew the line was sharp. She also knew pretending otherwise would waste everyone’s time.
Her Olympic campaign had been reduced, in less than three hours, to a page of names and a calendar.
She wanted facts.
Facts could be handled.
People were where the trouble started.
The performance director opened a second folder. “We have also reviewed international release possibilities.”
“No.”
“That’s before we discuss citizenship—”
“No.”
“Rory.”
“I’m not spending twelve months hoping another federation releases a male pairs skater, then praying the citizenship and residency issues align, while trying to build Olympic-level elements from scratch.”
“We agree it is not the preferred route.”
“Then why are we using meeting time on it?”
The athlete-services woman looked down at her notes.
Mara finally spoke.
“Because if you reject the obvious candidate, they are required to show you that the alternatives are worse.”
Rory turned her head.
“Thank you, Mara.”
“You are welcome.”
“That was not gratitude.”
“I know.”
The performance director made the mistake of looking relieved.
Rory noticed.
“Has DeLuca agreed?”
The relief disappeared.
“No.”
“Has anyone spoken to him?”
“His representation was contacted this morning.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Not directly, no.”
“Does he know Evan is retiring?”
“The information was shared under confidentiality.”
Rory’s jaw set.
She thought of Evan leaving through North Harbor’s front doors with his skates over his shoulder. Three days before the public announcement. Three days in which his decision was supposed to belong to him before the internet turned it into everybody’s entertainment.
“Who authorized that?”
“Rory,” Mara said quietly.
She looked at Mara.
Mara’s expression was steady.
The answer was obvious.
Evan had.
Of course he had. Because unlike Rory, Evan did not believe information became safer when he personally guarded every exit.
She hated when people she loved behaved reasonably at her.
“Fine,” Rory said. “Does DeLuca want to compete?”
“That is part of what we are determining.”
“He retired.”
“His partner retired.”
“He said he was moving toward shows and choreography.”
“He has not filed formal retirement paperwork.”
Rory stared at the director.
“Are you telling me that because he hasn’t completed an administrative form, I’m supposed to treat an Olympic champion with a damaged shoulder and a different career plan as available inventory?”
“No.”
“That sounded remarkably like yes.”
“It means he remains eligible.”
“Eligibility and desire are not synonyms.”
Mara’s mouth moved.
Rory caught it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I am old. Sometimes my face settles strangely.”
“You are fifty-eight.”
“Ancient.”
The technical specialist coughed into his hand.
The performance director leaned back.
“We are not proposing that either of you be coerced. We are proposing one private technical tryout if both athletes consent.”
Rory laughed.
It surprised her.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the sentence was so polished it seemed to have arrived wearing a suit.
“One private technical tryout.”
“Yes.”
“With Matteo DeLuca.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The answer sat there.
Clean.
Fast.
Everything Rory needed it to be.
The director did not immediately challenge her.
Neither did Mara.
That should have made the no feel stronger.
Instead it left too much space around it.
Rory looked through the glass.
On Rink Two, a little boy had fallen onto both knees. His coach skated backward in front of him, talking. The boy shook his head vigorously. The coach said something else.
The boy got up.
Rory looked back at the table.
“I am not partnering with him.”
“We asked about a tryout.”
“And I’m answering the larger question to save everybody time.”
The legal adviser finally spoke. “Is your objection technical, personal, or both?”
Rory looked at him.
Mara’s chair made a tiny sound against the carpet.
The question was professionally legitimate.
Rory still wanted to put his pen through the table.
“Personal.”
“Is there a present safety concern?”
“No.”
“Any known conduct issue that should disqualify him from consideration?”
“No.”
“Any reason you would be unable to participate in a supervised training environment with him?”
Rory’s throat tightened.
For one flicker, the conference room disappeared.
A corridor eight years earlier.
A hand too tight around her upper arm.
Matteo’s voice, lower than she remembered it in interviews.
Róisín.
Then noise.
Questions.
Her own mouth saying something she had spent years refusing to replay in full.
She brought herself back by pressing her thumbnail into the side of her index finger.
“No,” she said.
The lawyer nodded and wrote something.
Rory’s irritation flared.
“What did you write?”
He looked up.
“That there is no current safety barrier.”
“You could have remembered it.”
“I’m counsel.”
“Tragic.”
“Rory,” Mara said.
“What?”
“Do not bully the lawyer. We may need him later.”
The athlete-services woman looked down quickly, shoulders moving.
The lawyer, to his credit, smiled.
Rory folded her arms.
“I’m not bullying anyone.”
“Your sister is an attorney,” Mara said. “You know exactly what you are doing.”
“My sister bills by the hour. I was raised to be efficient.”
That broke the room.
Not much.
Enough.
The pressure eased for three seconds.
Rory hated that she needed it.
The director closed the first folder.
“Let’s separate the questions. You do not have to decide whether Matteo DeLuca becomes your partner. You do have to decide whether you are willing to collect enough information to know if he could be.”
“I know enough.”
Mara spoke before the director could.
“No, you know history.”
Rory turned.
Mara met her gaze.
“There is a difference.”
The words landed harder than the lawyer’s question.
Rory’s voice went quiet.
“You know what happened.”
“I know enough.”
“Then you know why I’m not interested.”
“I know why you do not like him.”
Rory felt heat rise beneath her collar.
“That is an offensively small description.”
“Yes.”
Mara did not soften.
“I used it on purpose.”
The room had gone very still.
Rory stared at her coach.
Mara had a gift for making stillness feel less like gentleness and more like being placed under a microscope.
“You are allowed to say no,” Mara said. “Completely. Permanently. You do not owe the federation a medal. You do not owe Matteo DeLuca a conversation. You do not owe me another Olympic cycle.”
Rory’s chest tightened.
“But?”
“But if you say no, I want you to say no to the man he is now and the skater he is now. Not to a corridor from eight years ago.”
Rory’s hands went cold.
The performance director looked as if he wished he had suddenly remembered another meeting.
Good.
Let him.
Rory stood.
“I need five minutes.”
Nobody stopped her.
She left the conference room, crossed the corridor, and kept walking until the glass walls disappeared behind a concrete corner.
Mara followed.
Of course she did.
Rory stopped beside a vending machine that had been out of order since February.
A handwritten sign read NO, REALLY. IT’S BROKEN.
Below it, somebody had added WE BELIEVE IN YOU.
Below that, in Mara’s handwriting:
DO NOT.
Rory stared at the sign.
Mara stood beside her.
Neither spoke.
Finally Rory said, “You could have told me you were going to do that in front of them.”
“You would have prepared an answer.”
“Prepared answers are useful.”
“Sometimes.”
Rory looked at her.
Mara’s face had lost the dry amusement.
“You think I’m afraid of him.”
“I think you are afraid of many things.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“So am I. Anyone with sense is.”
“I am not afraid of Matteo DeLuca.”
“No?”
“No.”
Mara nodded.
Rory immediately disliked the nod.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“There. You did it again.”
“Did what?”
“The face.”
“Róisín, if I were required to explain every expression you dislike, we would never train.”
Rory leaned back against the wall.
Her pulse had settled, but she could still feel the echo of the equipment-room floor in her body. The strange betrayal of lungs that had worked through altitude training, bronchitis, nerves, painkillers, medals, and loss, only to fail beside a cardboard moon because Evan wanted children someday.
She closed her eyes.
“I had a plan at eight this morning.”
“Yes.”
“I had it written through Worlds.”
“I know.”
“There were contingencies.”
“I know.”
“Evan’s shoulder was a contingency.”
Mara said nothing.
Rory opened her eyes.
“I had modified-load contingencies. Surgical contingencies. A full partner-loss contingency was not—”
She stopped.
Mara waited.
Rory swallowed.
“It wasn’t useful.”
“No.”
“Because if your partner retires eighteen months before an Olympics, you’re finished.”
“Perhaps.”
Rory’s head snapped around.
Mara’s expression did not change.
“Do you want me to lie?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you are finished.”
The words hurt.
Rory wanted them anyway.
Mara continued.
“Or perhaps you are not.”
“With him.”
“Possibly.”
“You make it sound like he’s a new blade I can test.”
“No. New blades are easier. They do not speak.”
Rory almost smiled.
Almost.
Mara leaned one shoulder against the wall.
“You and Evan had thirteen years.”
“Exactly.”
“Which means you know what a mature partnership feels like. It does not mean you know what every successful partnership must feel like.”
Rory looked down at the rubber flooring.
“I don’t trust him.”
“Then do not let him lift you.”
Rory frowned.
Mara shrugged.
“A tryout is information. Start with stroking. Steps. Basic holds. Side-by-side timing. You are not legally required to climb above his head because a federation employee created a spreadsheet.”
“That is almost supportive.”
“I am full of surprises.”
“What if the timing works?”
There.
The question had been hiding under everything else.
Mara knew it.
Rory knew she knew it.
“That,” Mara said, “would be inconvenient.”
Rory laughed despite herself.
The laugh vanished quickly.
“What if it works?”
“Then you will have a different decision to make.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“You will have lost one private session and gained certainty.”
Rory stared down the empty corridor.
A boy in hockey gear clomped past with his father, each step landing like construction equipment.
“Has he said yes?”
“No.”
“So we’re having an emotional crisis over a man who may be laughing at the proposal as we speak.”
“I imagine he is.”
“Good.”
“You do not mean that.”
“I do.”
Mara folded her arms.
Rory sighed.
“I mean I want him to say no so I don’t have to.”
“That is different.”
“Yes.”
They went back into the room.
The performance director did not ask whether Rory was all right.
For that alone, she forgave him approximately four percent.
She sat.
“Here are my conditions.”
The legal adviser uncapped his pen.
Rory pointed at him.
“You may write now.”
“Thrilled.”
“One session. Private ice. No cameras except technical review equipment controlled by Mara’s staff. Nothing released to federation social media. Nothing leaked to press. Nothing teased to broadcasters. Nothing described as a partnership.”
The director nodded.
“Reasonable.”
“Full current medical clearance relevant to pair work before we attempt any overhead lift. Mine too. I’m not asking for access to his entire medical history and he doesn’t get mine. Relevant restrictions, load parameters, current clearance.”
The athlete-services woman began taking notes.
“Mara and Theo present,” Rory continued. “Anika available if we need medical clarification. We establish touch and correction rules before we start. If either athlete ends the session, the session ends. No one calls it lack of commitment.”
Mara looked at her.
Approval, this time.
Small.
Real.
Rory continued.
“And if he says no before any of this, you do not circle back with a guilt campaign because he’s an Olympic champion and I have inconvenient timing.”
The director nodded again.
“Agreed.”
Rory sat back.
Nobody moved.
She frowned.
“What?”
The technical specialist said, “Was that a yes?”
“It was a protocol.”
“For a tryout.”
“For a hypothetical tryout.”
Mara looked at the ceiling.
Rory ignored her.
The director’s phone vibrated on the table.
He glanced at it.
Something changed in his expression.
Rory noticed immediately.
“What?”
He looked at Mara, then Rory.
“DeLuca’s agent.”
Her stomach dropped.
“He declined?”
“No.”
Rory hated how quickly her body reacted to that single syllable.
The director read the message.
“He has agreed to a direct call this afternoon.”
“Not a tryout.”
“No.”
“Fine.”
“But he asked who would coach it if he agreed.”
Rory looked at Mara.
Mara’s eyebrows rose.
The director continued.
“He also asked whether current medical restrictions would be exchanged before overhead work, whether the session would be closed, and whether technical footage would remain private.”
Silence.
Rory stared at him.
Mara looked down at her folded hands.
The traitor was enjoying this.
“He asked that?” Rory said.
“Yes.”
“Those exact things?”
“Essentially.”
Rory disliked the warmth that crept up the back of her neck.
Not attraction.
Absolutely not.
Irritation had temperature.
So did homicide.
The director set down his phone.
“There is one other request.”
“Of course there is.”
“He wants you to be able to stop the session at any point without federation consequence.”
Rory stopped.
The room changed.
Not dramatically.
No music swelled.
Nobody exchanged meaningful looks.
A legal pad remained crooked. The vents continued humming. A six-year-old outside the glass chased a dropped glove.
Yet Rory felt as if somebody had moved the floor half an inch.
She hated him for that.
More accurately, she hated that Matteo DeLuca, of all people, had asked the question before anyone in the room thought to reassure her of the same thing.
The lawyer tapped his pen.
“That can be included.”
“Good,” Rory said.
Her voice sounded normal.
She made sure of it.
The director turned to Mara.
“Can North Harbor hold private ice Thursday morning?”
Mara checked her phone.
“Yes.”
Rory looked at her.
“You already checked.”
“I am a coach. We plan.”
“You mocked me for that ten minutes ago.”
“I mocked your emotional spreadsheet. Scheduling remains civilization.”
“What time?”
“Six fifteen.”
Rory groaned.
“Why is all suffering scheduled before sunrise?”
“Cheaper ice.”
The director almost smiled.
Rory gathered her papers.
“Nothing is confirmed until he says yes.”
“Correct.”
“And if he says yes, this is still only one session.”
“Correct.”
“And if I hate every second of it—”
Mara cut in.
“You will survive ninety minutes of disliking a man. You survived thirteen years of Evan’s music choices.”
Rory looked offended.
“His music choices were our music choices.”
“No one believes that.”
Rory stood.
The meeting was over.
At least officially.
She walked out with Mara, past the broken vending machine, past the glass, past the blue sofa outside Rink Two where two junior skaters were sharing fries and pretending not to stare at her.
Her phone buzzed.
Evan.
One message.
HOW MANY FEDERATION EMPLOYEES REMAIN ALIVE?
Rory typed back.
ALL. MARA INTERVENED.
Three dots appeared.
PITY.
She smiled despite herself.
Then another message.
YOU DON’T HAVE TO SAVE THE OLYMPICS TODAY.
Rory stared at it.
She typed three different replies and deleted all of them.
Finally:
I KNOW.
This time, she did not add a lie.
At 12:07, Rory returned to Rink One alone.
She told herself she wanted to cool down.
That was absurd. She had barely trained.
Still, she laced her skates and stepped onto the ice.
No music.
No program.
She pushed into long edges, letting the cold strip the conference room from her skin.
One lap.
Two.
Three.
Her body settled.
Skating had always been easier when there was something precise to ask of it.
Press the edge.
Hold the hip.
Wait.
Turn.
She moved through the opening footwork from the free program, then stopped herself before the first pair entry.
Habit had already placed Evan beside her.
Her right hand lifted automatically.
There was no one there.
Rory lowered it.
For the first time all day, she let herself look at the empty side of the ice.
Not metaphorically.
Not sentimentally.
Just the space where a body should have been.
Thirteen years of muscle memory did not understand retirement.
Her muscles expected Evan.
The ice expected nobody.
Rory breathed once and pushed forward alone.
When she came back to the boards, Mara had appeared with a clipboard.
She said nothing.
Rory glided closer.
Mara turned the clipboard around.
A temporary ice schedule had been printed and clipped beneath the day’s training notes.
THURSDAY — RINK ONE — 6:15 A.M. PRIVATE HOLD QUINN / DELUCA PENDING ATHLETE CONFIRMATION
Rory stared at the two names.
They looked ridiculous together.
Wrong font, wrong universe, wrong life.
Mara waited.
Rory took the clipboard.
With one gloved finger, she covered DeLuca.
QUINN.
Normal.
Then she covered her own.
DELUCA.
Also normal.
She removed her hand.
QUINN / DELUCA.
Her stomach turned.
“Pending,” Rory said.
Mara nodded.
“Pending.”
Mara reached beneath the clipboard and produced a second sheet.
Rory stared at it.
“No.”
“You have not seen it.”
“I recognize the shape of a trap.”
“It is a technical summary.”
“That is trap-shaped.”
Mara held it out anyway.
Rory did not take it.
The first line was visible from where she stood.
MATTEO DELUCA — CURRENT ELEMENT CAPACITY / LAST VERIFIED COMPETITIVE DATA.
Below it were numbers. Lift levels. Throw history. Side-by-side consistency. Height differential. Shoulder-load notes stripped of diagnosis and reduced to what a partner and coach would actually need to know.
Rory hated numbers only when they failed to support her preferred conclusion.
She took the page.
Mara’s expression remained neutral.
“Do not.”
“I said nothing.”
“You are radiating satisfaction.”
“My circulation is excellent.”
Rory skated away with the paper.
She made it halfway to center ice before realizing she was holding a document while wearing skates, which was neither safe nor dignified. She returned, stepped off, pulled on blade guards, and sat on the bottom row of the empty bleachers.
The summary was worse than she expected.
Matteo’s left shoulder required load management, yes, but his most recent assessments cleared him for controlled overhead work. His last competitive season with Sofia had included some of the strongest lift execution scores in the field. His throw technique favored a release path compatible with Rory’s rotational speed. Their height differential sat comfortably inside the range Mara preferred. Their skating skills, on paper, filled one another’s weak places with offensive neatness.
Rory read the page twice.
Then she opened her phone.
Mara, still at the boards, looked over.
“I thought you hated him.”
“I do.”
“What are you doing?”
“Research.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t ah me.”
Rory found the Olympic free skate from Matteo and Sofia’s gold-medal year.
She had seen it live.
Of course she had.
Everybody in skating had.
But she had watched it then as a rival watched another country’s score: checking levels, base values, mistakes, possibilities.
Now she watched Matteo.
Only Matteo.
It was deeply irritating.
He was thirty now, but even years earlier the central quality was there. He did not muscle Sofia through the lifts. He moved under her. Adjusted before the problem arrived. Gave her height without making the lift look labored. On one exit, Sofia’s free leg drifted half a beat from ideal; Matteo changed his edge so subtly the television commentator never mentioned it.
Rory replayed the moment.
Then again.
Mara had come closer without Rory noticing.
“What?” Rory said.
“You replayed that three times.”
“I’m checking the save.”
“What save?”
“Exactly.”
Mara’s mouth curved.
Rory paused the video.
“That does not mean anything.”
“It means you noticed.”
“He’s good.”
Mara waited.
Rory scowled.
“He’s extremely good.”
There. The sentence cost less than she expected and more than she wanted.
Mara took the technical sheet back.
“Personal history does not alter edge quality.”
“No.”
“And edge quality does not erase personal history.”
Rory looked up at her.
“No.”
“Good. Now you are dealing with two facts instead of choosing one.”
Mara walked away.
Rory sat alone with Matteo frozen on her phone screen, one hand lifted toward a partner who already knew exactly where he would be when she came down.
She locked the phone.
At the boards, the temporary schedule still showed both names.
QUINN / DELUCA.
Rory had spent the morning wanting the federation to prove there was another answer.
Instead, she had just proved to herself why there might not be.
Rory looked through the glass at the sheet until the letters stopped resembling names and became what they really were.
A possibility.
Which, she discovered, was considerably more frightening than a no.