Chapter 5: The Rivalry Ignites
The air in Benoit’s rink always felt different after a media storm. Sharper, colder, like the lights were judging you. Matthew pushed through the heavy door, the familiar scent of chilled concrete and Zamboni fuel hitting him, a weird kind of homecoming. Hillary was already lacing up, her phone face-down on the bench.
“Trending for thirty-six hours,” she said without looking up. “My mom says her book club is talking about us.”
“Terrifying,” Matthew said, dropping his bag. His blades felt heavier today. The ghost of the Rockefeller Plaza ice, that effortless performance under the chandelier, seemed like a taunt now. Here, under these sterile fluorescents, was where the real work happened. And the real competition.
The scrape of another door hinge cut through his thoughts. Shawn Lee entered, followed by Rachel. They were back from their post-season break in Whistler, tanned and looking irritatingly relaxed. Rachel’s eyes met Hillary’s across the expanse of the rink—a flicker of acknowledgment that was all ice. Shawn gave a single, curt nod to no one in particular and started his warm-up laps, his movements efficient and powerful.
“Welcome back, kids,” Benoit’s voice echoed from the boards. He stood with his ever-present clipboard, looking polished and detached. “The vacation’s over. For everyone.”
Practice unfolded with a brittle sort of politeness. They took turns running segments, the silence punctuated by Benoit’s instructions and the relentless, metallic sound of edges carving ice. Matthew and Hillary worked on the step sequence from their new short program, a complex series of turns that required absolute unison. He could feel the difference in his body, the months of retirement a subtle rust in his joints that Hillary’s muscle memory didn’t have.
“Again,” Benoit called after a slightly off-sync rotation. “Matthew, you’re anticipating. Let her lead into the twizzle.”
He bit back a retort. He was leading. He always led. But he nodded, catching his breath as Hillary squeezed his hand. “We got this,” she muttered.
During a water break, he leaned against the boards, watching as Benoit moved to the far end to work with Shawn and Rachel on a lift. Rachel was in Shawn’s arms, his face a mask of concentrated strain as he prepared to launch her. Benoit stepped in, adjusting Shawn’s grip on Rachel’s thigh, his hands firm and professional.
Then it happened.
Benoit’s hand lingered for a half-second too long on Shawn’s forearm after the correction. It was a micro-second, a non-event to anyone else. But Matthew saw the way Shawn didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He saw the almost imperceptible shift in Shawn’s posture, a softening of the shoulders. Benoit said something, his head inclined close to Shawn’s ear, and Shawn gave a faint, private nod. A ghost of a smile touched Benoit’s lips before he straightened up, clapping his hands to address them both.
The world tilted.
Matthew knew that touch. Knew the intimate space Benoit allowed himself to invade, the casual authority that was a disguise for something else. He’d lived it. The private coaching sessions that ran long, the hand on the small of the back that stayed just a beat beyond necessary, the whispered corrections in the dark hallway after everyone had left.
It wasn’t coaching. It was a language.
A cold, sharp clarity punched through his gut, stealing his breath. The pieces snapped together with a violence that made his head ring. Benoit’s unwavering focus on Shawn’s career the last two seasons. Shawn’s sudden, fierce loyalty to a coach who wasn’t known for taking on new senior teams lightly. The way Benoit had been…distracted, the few times Matthew had tried to talk about the past.
They weren’t just coach and athlete.
They were fucking.
The water bottle crumpled in his hand, a plastic crack that made Hillary jump. “You okay?” she asked, eyeing his white-knuckled grip.
He forced his jaw to unclench. “Peachy.”
He watched them, now with new, horrifying eyes. Every interaction became a loaded signal. The way Benoit’s gaze followed Shawn’s form, not just with a coach’s critique, but with a possessiveness Matthew recognized. The ease between them, a silent understanding that went beyond the ice. It was a gut punch disguised as a revelation.
His rival wasn’t just sharing his coach. He was sharing his bed. Benoit’s bed. The same bed Matthew had left, years ago, thinking he was the only one who’d ever gotten that close.
This wasn’t just competition. This was personal. This was a betrayal so deep and so quiet it felt like the ice was cracking beneath his feet.
Shawn glided past him then, heading for a towel. Their eyes met. Shawn’s were dark, unreadable as ever, but now Matthew saw the secret in them. The advantage. He saw the ghost of Benoit’s hands on him, and a white-hot spike of jealousy, sharp and hateful, lanced through his chest.
“Looking strong, Callahan,” Shawn said, his voice flat.
Matthew’s charm was a reflex, a weapon. He flashed a smile that felt like broken glass. “Vacation suited you. You look…rested.”
Shawn held his gaze for a second too long before turning away. The dismissal was absolute.
Hillary nudged him. “You’re zoning. We’re up.”
He followed her onto the ice, his body moving on autopilot. But his mind was somewhere else entirely, reconfiguring the entire landscape of his comeback. The gold medal wasn’t just a prize anymore. It was a knife. And he intended to use it.
And he intended to use it. The final hour of practice passed in a blur of forced focus, each movement feeling like a lie. He could smell the phantom scent of Benoit’s cologne on the ice where Shawn had just been. When the session finally ended, the silence that fell was thick enough to choke on.
“Meeting. My office. Ten minutes,” Benoit announced, his voice cutting through the chill. He didn’t look at anyone in particular, but Matthew felt the command like a tug on a leash.
Natasha was already in the office, her presence as sharp and imposing as the line of her black sweater. She sat perfectly upright, a notebook open on the glass table. Hillary slid into a chair, exhaling heavily. Matthew remained standing, leaning against a filing cabinet, the cold metal seeping through his shirt.
“The rhythm dance theme is tango,” Benoit began, all business, spreading out a federation bulletin. “Structured, traditional. We build a solid foundation there.”
“Yes, the steps are a cage. We know this,” Natasha said, her Russian accent clipping the words. “But the free dance is our canvas. I see something angular.Modern. Think Pina Bausch on ice.”
Matthew felt a spark ignite.“Yes. Something raw. Not another warhorse symphony.”
Benoit tapped the table with a pen. “Your signature is classic elegance. The ‘Stay’ program worked because it had a familiar core wrapped in contemporary packaging. We should develop that. A powerful, romantic piece. The judges understand romance.”
“The judges are asleep,” Matthew countered, pushing off the cabinet. “We need to wake them up. We’re not twenty-two anymore trying to prove we’re pretty. We’re trying to prove we’re necessary.”
“You prove you are necessary by winning, not by confusing an old Italian man with arthritic hips,” Natasha said, though a glint in her eye suggested she agreed with Matthew.
Hillary held up her hands. “Can we maybe find a middle ground that doesn’t involve accusing the entire judging panel of being comatose?”
“The middle ground is where medals are lost,” Benoit said flatly. “You have a history of classic success. We leverage that history. Natasha, draft two concepts. One classical, one… whatever this is. We’ll assess.”
The dismissal was clear. Hillary gathered her things, shooting Matthew a look that said drop it. Natasha stood, her posture stiff. “I will draft. Matthew, come by the studio tomorrow. We will brainstorm without the… committee.”
They filed out, leaving Matthew and Benoit in the sudden quiet. The low hum of the rink’s refrigeration system vibrated through the floor. Benoit busied himself with papers, not looking up.
“Are you sleeping with him?”
The words hung in the air, blunt and ugly. Benoit’s pen stopped moving. He slowly set it down.
“That is not your concern, Matthew.”
“The hell it isn’t. He’s my direct competition. You’re my coach. If you’re in his bed, you’re in his corner. This whole thing is a fucking conflict of interest.”
Benoit finally looked at him, his expression a mask of weary patience. “My personal life is separate from my professional duty. Shawn is an athlete under my guidance. Just as you are.”
“Bullshit.” Matthew laughed, a harsh, dry sound. “We both know nothing with you is ever just professional. I know the signs, Benoit. I lived them. So, is he a quick fling to motivate your new star, or is it something you’re actually feeling?”
“You are being childish.”
“And you’re being transparent. This won’t work. I can’t do this if you’re fucking my competition. How am I supposed to trust a single correction, a single strategy?”
Benoit stood, his chair scraping back. “This is exactly why we did not work. This jealousy. This need to possess, to make everything about your wounded pride. You left, Matthew. You walked away from us and from the sport. You do not get to storm back in and question my loyalties based on your paranoid imagination.”
The words were a physical slap. Matthew felt his face grow hot. “So that’s what this is? Punishment?”
“It is reality. You made a choice. I have moved on.In all aspects. My focus is on building champions, not coddling your ego. If you cannot handle that, perhaps you are not ready to return.”
The finality in his voice was absolute. Matthew stared at him, at the familiar lines of his face that now seemed like a map of a country he’d been exiled from. Every insecurity he’d ever whispered to this man was now a weapon in his hand.
He turned and left, not trusting himself to speak. The hallway to the parking lot seemed to stretch for miles. The cold night air hit his sweat-damp skin, a shock that didn’t cleanse.
He fumbled for his phone in the dark parking lot, the screen blinding. A text from Jonathan glowed: Packing is hell.Missing you. Call you tonight?
Jonathan. Steady, handsome, uncomplicated Jonathan, who was packing his life into boxes to fulfill his dream of starring on Broadway. Jonathan, who believed in him without understanding the rot at the center of this world. Matthew leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, the leather cool against his skin.
He had left the Benoit drama behind. He had a future, a good man, a life. He repeated it like a mantra as the engine turned over. But the sour taste of jealousy and the metallic scent of betrayal filled the car, a ghost-ride home to an empty house that would only get emptier. The gold medal felt very, very far away.
The gold medal felt very, very far away. The drive home was a tunnel of streetlights and simmering silence. He replayed Benoit’s words—paranoid imagination—until they lost meaning, just a sharp rhythm against his temples.
His condo was filled with the soft rustle of packing. Open suitcases bloomed like plastic flowers in the living room, fabrics spilling over edges. Jonathan was folding a sweater, his brows knit in concentration. “Hey,” he said, looking up. “You look like you lost a fight with a Zamboni.”
“Feels like it.” Matthew dropped his bag, the weight of it thudding on the floor. “I thought you didn’t leave until Thursday.”
“Flight got moved up. Rehearsal crisis, understudy needs more work.” Jonathan abandoned the sweater and crossed the room. He smelled like his sandalwood soap and the coffee he’d been drinking. “Talk to me. Was it that bad?”
Matthew let himself be held, resting his forehead on Jonathan’s shoulder. The solid reality of him was an anchor. “Just the usual first-day-back chaos. You know how it is.”
“I know Benoit.” Jonathan’s voice was careful. “And I know you. This is more than chaos.”
They ordered tacos and ate on the floor amidst the half-packed chaos, the TV playing some forgettable game show. Matthew pushed the conversation toward Jonathan’s play, the new director, the apartment sublet in Hell’s Kitchen. He praised, he asked questions, he crafted a performance of supportive interest.
Later, in the dark of their bedroom, the city’s glow painting faint stripes on the ceiling, they held each other. Jonathan’s head was on his chest. “It’s only a few months,” Jonathan murmured. “You’ll be so buried in training you won’t even notice I’m gone.”
“I’ll notice.” Matthew’s fingers traced idle patterns on Jonathan’s back. “My timing’s the worst. You get your Broadway debut, and I’m… diving back into the deep end of my own weird little iceberg.”
“Our timing is just our timing.” Jonathan shifted to look at him. “We do the distance. I’ll fly back when I can. You’ll be so sick of Facetime you’ll hang up on me.”
“Never.” Matthew kissed him, trying to pour every uncertain feeling into it. He felt Jonathan’s smile against his lips.
They talked logistics then, the mundane scaffolding of separation. Who would water the frankly tragic fiddle-leaf fig. How to coordinate time zones for calls. Whether Matthew would remember to eat anything that didn’t come pre-wrapped in plastic.
Matthew offered all the right assurances, his voice a steady, warm hum in the dark. He felt Jonathan relax, believing the act. The truth curdled in his gut. He saw the empty side of the bed, stretching into weeks. He saw the rink, a sterile arena where every glance from Benoit would now feel like a betrayal calibrated specifically for him. He saw Shawn’s calm, inscrutable face, and knew what—who—waited for him after practice.
Jonathan’s breathing eventually evened out into sleep. Matthew stayed awake, staring at the ceiling. The packing boxes in the next room seemed to hold more than clothes; they held the silence that was about to swallow his days. He was losing his cornerstone right as the ground beneath him turned to fracturing ice.