Chapter 6: Back on Top
The ice in Moscow held a different kind of cold. It wasn’t just temperature; it was a historical, deeply competitive chill that seeped through the boards and into the bones. For months, every waking moment had been choreographed, every muscle scream analyzed by Benoit and Natasha. The discovery about Benoit and Shawn had become a hard, quiet knot in Matthew’s gut, a private fuel he burned during punishing run-throughs. He used it to push harder, to land his twizzles with more bite, to grab Hillary in their lifts like he was reclaiming something.
Now, under the cavernous ceiling of the arena, the fuel had ignited. Their “Libertango” had been a declaration. Sharp, aggressive, all staccato tension and predatory grace. The crowd, partisan but knowledgeable, had roared. Hillary, her eyes blazing, had finally matched his fury step for step.
Back in the kiss-and-cry, the adrenaline was still a live wire under his skin. He sat between Hillary and Benoit, the digital scoreboard flashing. Hillary gripped his hand, her nails digging in. Benoit’s arm was slung casually behind them, not touching Matthew, but his presence was a physical warmth against Matthew’s left side.
“Come on, come on,” Hillary muttered, bouncing her knees.
The scores popped.A personal best. First place.
Hillary shrieked, throwing her arms around Matthew. He hugged her back, laughing into her shoulder, the sheer relief a tangible wave. Benoit’s hand came down firmly on Matthew’s shoulder, squeezing once. A coach’s congratulations. Matthew tried not to lean into it.
“Good,” Benoit said, his voice low in Matthew’s ear. “You channeled it.Now reset. The free dance is a different beast.”
The beast was Elena and Nikita, three points behind them. Home favorites. Political darlings. Their rhythm dance had been technically pristine, emotionally resonant, and scored with a generosity that made Natasha suck her teeth audibly from the stands.
The mixed zone was a wall of microphones and flashing lights. The questions came in a jumble of English and Russian through translators.“Matthew! How does it feel to be back on top?”
“Does this performance silence the critics who said you were too old to return?”
“Hillary, comment on the dynamic with your new rivals, Elena and Nikita?”
Matthew wielded his smile like a shield. “Feels like coming home,” he said, his voice smooth. “We’re just building our story. The free dance is where we really live.”
Hillary, ever the diplomat, added, “Elena and Nikita are incredible skaters. It’s an honor to compete alongside them here in Moscow.”
Later, in the sterile quiet of their hotel hallway, the facade cracked. He fumbled with his key card, his body beginning to ache with the impending crash. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Jonathan’s face lit up the screen, a photo from happier times at a beach in Malibu.
He swiped to answer, leaning against the doorframe. “Hey, you.”
“I saw the scores! Baby, that’s amazing!” Jonathan’s voice was tinny through the connection, layered with the distant sounds of New York traffic. “You looked incredible. So fierce.”
“Thanks. Felt good. How’s the play?”
“Exhausting.Preview audiences are tough. But we’re getting there.” A pause, filled with digital silence. “I wish I was there. This sucks.”
“Yeah,” Matthew said, closing his eyes. “It does.”
He could hear the unspoken words. Jonathan wished he wasn’t there at all, that he was in L.A., that this comeback wasn’t happening. Their calls had become a careful dance of logistics and superficial updates, the distance expanding into more than just miles.
“You’re gonna kill it tomorrow,” Jonathan said, but the enthusiasm felt rehearsed.
“We have to. The Russians… the judges here love them. It’s not just about skating.”
“Since when is it ever?” Jonathan replied, a tired edge in his voice. “Get some sleep, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too.”
The call ended. Matthew stared at the dark screen, the loneliness a sharper bite than the Moscow air. He thought of Benoit’s hand on his shoulder. A professional touch. He thought of the way Benoit had looked at Shawn in that private moment months ago, a look Matthew knew intimately. He wondered if Benoit was calling Shawn tonight, reviewing footage of his rivals, his voice dropping into that private, instructive register.
He pushed into his room, the silence oppressive. He scrolled past messages from friends, from his agent, and pulled up the practice video Elena and Nikita had posted. Their free dance was to something from a Russian epic, all sweeping tragedy and soaring strings. It was flawless.Passionate. It would play like a symphony to this crowd.
His phone buzzed again. A text from Hillary.
Saw the Russians’ practice clip. Don’t you dare get in your head.Our story is better. Sleep.
He smiled, a real one this time. She knew him too well.
The restlessness in his limbs became unbearable. He needed to move, to escape the four walls that seemed to be quietly discussing his every insecurity. Shoving his feet into sneakers and pulling a hoodie over his head, Matthew slipped out of his room and headed for the hotel’s side exit.
The Moscow night air hit him like a physical slap, cold and bracing, carrying the faint scent of diesel and distant cooking. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the frigid air clearing the digital fog from his brain. Then he saw the familiar glow, a tiny orange ember punctuating the shadows near a service door.
Benoit stood there, a silhouette against the brick, a cigarette caught between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily upward in the still air. He didn’t turn, but his voice cut through the quiet. “Could not sleep either, champion?”
“Adrenaline hangover,” Matthew said, walking closer, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “And the Russians’ score is an itch I can’t scratch.”
“It was generous,” Benoit acknowledged, taking a drag. He exhaled slowly, watching the plume dissipate. “But yours was honest. It had a tension, a real anger. It was good.”
“Turns out having your world upended is decent motivation.”
Benoit finally looked at him, his face half in shadow, half lit by the distant hotel sign. The familiar lines seemed deeper, wearier. Four years had passed since they’d stood like this, since everything had fallen apart. “It has been a long time since we just… talked,” Benoit said, his voice softer now.
“Whose fault is that?” The words were out before Matthew could stop them, sharper than he intended.
A slow nod. “Mine.” Benoit dropped the cigarette, grinding it under his heel. “I told myself it was to protect you. To let you have your gold, your life, without the complication of a hidden older lover. It felt noble.”
“It felt like being pushed off a cliff.”
“I know.” Benoit’s gaze was unwavering. “These past years… they have been quiet.Efficient. I have built a reputation, trained champions. My bed has been empty more often than not, and my house is far too large. It is a very clean, very quiet museum of regret.”
Matthew’s heart hammered against his ribs. He’d never heard Benoit sound like this—stripped of all coaching bravado, just a tired, lonely man. “You had Shawn,” Matthew said, the name tasting like acid.
“I have a talented skater I am coaching,” Benoit corrected, his tone final. “It is not the same. Nothing has been the same.”
The space between them vanished, charged with four years of unsaid words and a history that felt as immediate as the cold on their skin. Matthew could smell the faint tobacco on Benoit’s coat, see the silver threads in his stubble. Every reason to turn away evaporated.
When Benoit’s hand came up to cradle his jaw, the touch was devastating in its familiarity. Matthew’s breath caught. Then he closed the last inch, their mouths meeting with a hunger that was both a reunion and a collision.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was heat and desperation, a silent argument of lips and teeth and four years of furious, lonely want. Benoit backed him against the cold brick wall, the roughness a stark contrast to the soft, searching pressure of his mouth. Matthew fisted his hands in Benoit’s coat, pulling him closer, surrendering to a tide of feeling he’d desperately dammed up.
Time slipped its gears. It was the scrape of stubble, the taste of coffee and smoke, the solid warmth of Benoit’s body against his. It was every secret practice kiss, every stolen moment from a past life, flooding back with an intensity that stole the oxygen from the Moscow night.
Benoit finally broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Matthew’s, their breath clouding together in the narrow space between them. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “Come upstairs,” he murmured, voice ragged. “Please. My room is just… come upstairs.”
The words were a key turning in a long-locked door. Reality, cold and insistent, came rushing back in—Hillary, Jonathan, the competition tomorrow, the watching world, Shawn. Matthew flinched as if burned.
“I can’t,” he breathed, pushing back from the wall, from Benoit’s warmth.“Jesus. I have to go.”
He turned and practically fled across the pavement, his sneakers slapping softly in the darkness. He didn’t look back. He took the stairs two at a time, his blood roaring in his ears, his lips still burning. He burst into his empty room, locked the door, and slid down its length until he was on the floor.
He brought his fingers to his mouth, tracing the ghost of the pressure. His whole body trembled. What had he just done? And why did running away feel like tearing his own skin off?
And why did running away feel like tearing his own skin off?
Sleep never came. The hotel bed was a foreign landscape of stiff sheets and shifting shadows cast by distant streetlights. He stared at the ceiling, his body buzzing with a toxic cocktail of adrenaline and shame. Each time he closed his eyes, he felt the rough brick against his back, the warm weight of Benoit’s body, the specific taste of him. He checked his phone.Nothing from Benoit. A single text from Jonathan: “Dream of gold. xo.” He turned the screen face down.
The morning practice was a disaster. His edges were soft, his timing a half-beat behind Hillary’s. During their step sequence, he overcooked a turn and skidded, nearly taking them both down.
“What the hell, Matt?” Hillary gasped, catching herself on his forearm.
“Sorry. Ice is weird.”
“The ice is fine. You’re in another country.” She released his arm, her breath clouding between them. “Look, I don’t need the details. But whatever you’re chewing on, spit it out before tonight. This isn’t just your comeback. It’s mine, too.”
Natasha’s voice cut across the rink, sharp as a blade.“Again! From the spiral sequence. Matthew, you are a ghost. Be a man with weight in his feet!”
They ran it again.And again. It was mechanical, soul-less. The subtle story of their free dance—a journey from dissonance to fragile harmony, set to Einaudi’s aching piano and Svabo Bech’s haunting voice—fell completely flat. He was just hitting marks. Hillary’s frustration was a silent, stiff-backed thing beside him.
After the third failed run-through, Benoit whistled them off the ice. Natasha was already storming toward the boards, her notepad clenched in a furious fist. Benoit held up a hand, stopping her. “Give us a moment.”
He gestured Matthew and Hillary to the side, away from prying ears. The arena was empty save for the Zamboni driver waiting in the wings. Benoit’s expression was unreadable, the perfect coach’s mask. “This will not do,” he said, his voice low. “Hillary, you are anticipating his mistakes. You must trust him, even when he is untrustworthy.”
“Fun,” Hillary muttered, peeling at her glove tape.
Benoit turned his gaze to Matthew. It was assessing, cool. “A word. Alone.”
They moved toward the deserted penalty box. Matthew braced for a lecture, for professionalism, for the wall to slam back down. Benoit leaned against the plexiglass, his profile to Matthew. He spoke quietly, watching the Zamboni begin its slow crawl. “I owe you an apology. Last night was a profound error in judgment. It placed my personal history above your professional needs. That is unacceptable.”
Matthew’s throat tightened. “Okay.”
“But.” Benoit turned his head. His eyes were not cool now. They held a quiet, devastating warmth. “The skater I saw last night, the one who kissed me with four years of passion in him, is the same skater who won that rhythm dance. That man is in there. Not the one going through the motions out there.”
He reached out, but not as a lover. His hand settled on Matthew’s shoulder, his thumb pressing gently into the tense muscle at the base of his neck. It was a coach’s touch, but it carried the memory of every private soreness he’d ever soothed. “You are capable of extraordinary beauty on this ice.You and Hillary. This program is not just steps. It is ‘Experience’. It is ‘Circles’. You have lived this music. So live it again, for six more minutes.”
The touch was simple, grounding. The words were not poetry, but they were a key. They bypassed the guilt and the noise and went straight to the part of him that knew how to fly. The tension in Matthew’s shoulders bled away under Benoit’s hand.
“Got it,” Matthew said, his voice rough.
“Good.” Benoit gave his shoulder a final, firm squeeze and walked away.
That night, as they waited in the dim corridor for their names to be called, Hillary eyed him. “You back?”
“I’m here.”
She nodded, taking his hand. Her grip was sure. “Then let’s go tell our story.”
The silence that fell when the opening piano notes of ‘Experience’ began was absolute. Matthew took his starting position, feeling the chill of the ice through his boots. He found Hillary’s eyes. He exhaled.
And then, they moved.
It was not perfect. Perfection was a cold, dead thing. This was alive. The early, jarring lifts held a new tension that felt true, a real struggle for connection. When the music transitioned, swelling into ‘Circles’, something unlocked. Their side-by-side step sequence was not just synchronized; it was a conversation, a push and pull of magnetic energy. He lifted her, and her arch was not just a shape, but a release.
He didn’t think.He felt. The ice, Hillary’s trust, the music, the ghost of a touch on his shoulder.It all fused. Their final pose, bodies intertwined and heads bowed, held the audience in a breathless hush for a full second before the applause detonated.
Hillary was crying as they hugged. He held her tight, his own eyes stinging.
In the kiss-and-cry, the wait was agony. Hillary clung to his arm. Benoit sat rigid beside them, a statue. The technical score flashed.Strong. Then the component scores. Artistry, composition, interpretation of music…
The crowd gasped before they did. A personal best by two points.
Ahead of Elena and Nikita.
Hillary screamed, leaping up. Matthew pulled her into a spinning hug, laughter bursting from him, pure and shocked. Benoit stood, clasping his hands above his head, a rare, unguarded triumph on his face. He clapped Matthew on the back, the contact brief and electric.
They stood on the top of the podium, the gold medal cold and heavy on his chest. The Russian anthem played for the silver medalists beside them. Matthew looked out at the sea of flashes, at Benoit watching from the boards with a small, private smile. The high was crystalline, undeniable.
Back in the hotel elevator, Hillary grinned, bouncing on her heels. “We’re so getting drunk on overpriced champagne.”
“Absolutely,” Matthew laughed.