National Championships (2)

Modern figure skating is built on two components.

The first is the short program—an examination of fundamentals that functions as a kind of preliminary. In just two minutes ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and forty seconds, a skater has to pack seven or eight required elements into a single program, and the judging is merciless. One mistake can erase an entire score. It is a program that evaluates pure technique and nothing else.

Then comes the free skate.

This is the part people usually picture when they think of figure skating—the performance. It runs four to five minutes, and with that length, the spacing and placement of elements, and the artistry that fills the gaps between them, become critically important.

This will be my first short program at an official competition.

Every competition I had entered so far had been the kind without a preliminary round, so only the free skate was scored. But this one doubled as a selection event for international competitions, which made the short program mandatory.

The crucial point was this: at any competition that included a short program, the final ranking was determined by the combined total of short and free. You didn't simply need a passing score in the short—you had to score highly in both if you wanted to win.

That didn't mean ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pouring everything into the short was automatically smart. Even a short program, brief as it was, put the body under intense strain. There was usually a day of rest before the free skate, but the free could still suffer. Take a skater with an unstable triple Axel who forced one into the short just to chase points—odds were high they wouldn't be able to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠land it the next day.

Which is exactly why coaches matter so much in figure skating.

The free skate offered a far higher maximum score. You still couldn't throw away the short. But to bank points in the second half of the free, you had to conserve energy the day before. That was why coaching ability was such a decisive factor in this sport.

By that measure, Yerim was an excellent coach. She understood my capabilities precisely, carried none of the territorial pride some medalists did, and harbored no strange inferiority complexes. A perfect hundred points—if you ignored the occasional nights she drank herself into a stupor.

Though she's been better about that lately.

After about an hour in the car, we arrived at our destination. The venue for the two-day competition—today and tomorrow—was the Uijeongbu Ice Rink. For reasons I couldn't fathom, the National Championships never used the rinks in Mokdong or Taereung; they were always held here in Uijeongbu. Taereung made sense, given that the national team used it for training camps, but Mokdong had good access and seemed perfectly fine to me.

The moment we arrived, that opinion shattered completely.

...This is the Uijeongbu rink?

Mokdong had grown since my past life, so I'd expected this place to be different too. But this was something else entirely. What had once been a two-story building now looked at least three stories tall. The ice only occupied the first floor, which meant the extra height existed purely for spectators. More importantly, there were two buildings—and judging by the look of it, the unfamiliar structure next door was another rink.

This big...?

I'd been feeling figure skating's rising popularity for a while, but I never imagined the Uijeongbu facility would grow to two rinks. In my past life, the federation had barely managed to keep the place running, always complaining about money.

Maybe I should have done streaming.

This level of popularity, plus me—a genderbent beautiful girl. Even a simple figure-skating lecture stream might have drawn a huge audience. Not that I had any intention of trying. Figure skating was something you did with your own body. That was the whole point.

"I'm going inside to finish registration. Wait here a minute."

Skaters close to the national-team cutoff usually arrived early to practice, but I had shown up on the day of the competition itself.

...I should have come yesterday.

Honestly, I'd assumed there was only one rink, so I hadn't bothered arriving early. Better to use Yerim's private rink alone than fight for ice time at a packed single facility—that had been my thinking. If I'd known there were two, I would have come ahead of time. The National Championships were an annual obligation anyway. From next year on, I would arrive early. I waited a few minutes with that resolution in mind.

"Got your start order~"

Registration had been completed in advance, but for a competition this large, start numbers were only assigned on the day itself for fairness. I checked the paper in Yerim's hand.

...Again?

My start number was five. Number one was Jin Sehee.

Hang in there, Jin Sehee.

I checked the clock. Two in the afternoon. The short program started at five, which left about three hours. I'd eaten an energy bar on arrival and wouldn't eat again until after my skate. That left warm-up and getting a feel for the venue.

The groups hadn't started formal warm-ups yet; this was still the informal window where skaters took turns by reading the room. I stepped onto the ice to check the surface quality as well.

Not bad.

I didn't jump. I simply pushed from side to side, gliding across the ice. The way the surface answered my intent with a clean, effortless slide felt wonderful. This place was a gem for ice quality. Not only was the scale impressive—the facilities were excellent too.

After one full lap, heat began to rise through my body. It wasn't just from moving. The thrill of performing again in a venue like this was electric.

"Hey, Cha Seolhwa!"

I finished a light warm-up and stepped off the ice, only to hear someone call my name. I turned. Jin Sehee stood there, radiating pure, undiluted confidence. She hadn't trained at this rink during the prep period either, but she had clearly come ready for war.

...Cute.

She was so full of drive I almost wanted to reach out and ruffle her hair. Was this why Yerim and Mom were always petting me?

Whether she sensed any of that or not, Sehee launched into a bold declaration that she was definitely winning today, then started her warm-up. I simply smiled a little and nodded. There was no need for words—eye contact was enough right now.

Sehee looked like she'd wanted more of a response, but she quickly composed her expression and sank ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into her own preparation routine. On one side of the rink she repeated steps, then hopped lightly into the air as if checking her jump timing. Her eyes were alive. How hard she had prepared was written all over her.

Show me.

Jin Sehee had spent an entire year buried in training for the sole purpose of beating me, even after aging out of juniors. Having watched her do it, I knew better than to take her lightly.

Time moved quickly. The PA system crackled to life.

Start numbers one through six. My group.

I quietly retightened my skate laces and drew a deep breath. Yerim came over and tapped the back of my hand once.

"Remember? This is the stage where you prove it."

The short program was proof. The distilled essence of every hour of training, laid bare in two minutes and forty seconds. A competition that certified your right to enter the free skate. No matter how brilliant a free program you had prepared, none of it meant anything if you failed to clear this stage.

"Yes."

I answered briefly and headed for the ice. The moment my blades touched the surface, the sensation returned. Soft, fluid, solid—the ice was waiting for me, ready.

The other skaters in my group stepped on together and began their individual warm-ups. Someone checked their spins; someone else calibrated jump timing. In the middle of it all, I ran through a short step sequence and centered myself with a simple spin.

The PA announcement cut in at the last possible second, ending the warm-up.

I stepped off quietly. Yerim, already waiting, held out a towel and a water bottle. I took a sip without a word. The tension that had been boiling inside me settled a fraction.

Jin Sehee was called first. She moved to center ice, and the arena lights found her. The music began, and her expression transformed—nerves, excitement, and total immersion in the stage. With every step, jump, and spin, small gasps rose from the stands.

I nodded as I analyzed her program.

As expected.

The short program required three jumps: a triple jump, a combination of triple-plus-double or higher, and an Axel of double or higher. Sehee had built all three at a considerable level of difficulty. Opening with a triple Lutz, followed by a triple Salchow–triple toe loop, and finishing with a double Axel. Short of a triple Axel, it was more than enough.

Enough.

It was a short-program layout that could contend for gold even at a senior competition. But—

If she wants to beat me.

In the free skate, where jump combinations could be rearranged endlessly, maybe. But if she had come into the short already planning to beat me, a triple Axel should have been standard equipment.

My weapons.

The triple Axel. Level-four spins. Maximum GOE on every jump. The performance quality of the choreographic sequence. Precision, expression, the intersection of high-difficulty technique—I would not let a single one of them slip, short program or not. I had no intention of sacrificing completeness on the ice.