And yet, of course, there are still boys — and by the looks of them, they’re good. It's day four of the eight-day championship, and the juvenile boys — the lowest competitive level, most of them between ages 10 and 13 — are training at the Skating Club of Boston's frigid and charmless rink. Even in their leggings and training jackets, the boys seem distinctly feminine, perhaps because they're younger and more flexible than the top male skaters. They're doing moves that are often reserved for women, layback spins and spirals, curving their arms and cocking their wrists. One boy spots his upright spin, whipping his head to face the same wall with each rotation, a move classic to ballet but atypical in skating. Another pulls his leg up behind his head while he's spinning, arching his back into a Biellmann position. They swing their arms and exaggerate their facial expressions, gaping at one another's double axels or pressing their lips flat in concentration. They're young enough that they still glance around when they fall, checking who saw.

Their mothers watch from the sides of the rink, clenching their mittens without looking at each other. There are very few fathers. They're probably at work, one tells me, earning money; he estimates that he's already spent two to three college educations paying for his 13-year-old's training.

Across town, the junior men — the second-highest level, eligible for some international competitions but not the Olympics — compete in the short program. They're older, in their late teens, and fighting to control themselves: Where the juvenile boys seemed precociously unwieldy, these men's movements are careful, decided. I skated for 10 years growing up and have spent a lot of time in ice rinks, but I’m still surprised, somehow, by how fast these guys are — I can hear the wind as they pass, and their blades leave inch-deep slices in the ice. There are skaters with straight arms and puffed chests, the skating version of men's men, jumping with their jaws clenched. As if — no, because — they have something to prove. And there are skaters whose shoulders don't square into place so much as roll languorously back, who seem to luxuriate in their graceful fingers and loose hips.

Off the ice, a cluster of male skaters in slim-cut jackets keep a running commentary, snapping their fingers and rolling their eyes at one another. "That's my baby!" they shout. "Who run the world?!" They call the men on the ice "Princess" and "Beyoncé," as in, "I love you, Beyoncé!" Gracie Gold, soon-to-be-ladies champion, watches nearby, and someone yells to her, "Gracie! They're not red enough!" Then, to his friend, "her lips." When one guy wears fingerless gloves and performs to music with the sound of engines in it, they snort with laughter: "What is this, the Cars soundtrack?

If you've heard anyone talk about skating, you'd be forgiven for thinking that there are two kinds of skaters: athletic and artistic. But these are coded butch/femme terms, ones appropriate to an activity that still can't decide where it falls on the gendered spectrum between art and sport. For male skaters, athletic means manly, muscular, stoic; artistic means elegant, graceful, showing emotion. Athletic means tight T-shirts, fists, and military beats; artistic, flowy shirts and delicate fingers. Athletic seems straight. Artistic seems gay. Never mind that some of the best skaters are both athletic and artistic, by standard definitions: In men's skating, as in any high school locker room, a drop of femininity will negate any quantity of testosterone. That's why some skaters are considered artistic even if their technical abilities are higher than their competitors’ — and why others are considered athletic, even if theirs are not. For ladies, of course, the pattern runs in reverse, with athletic reserved for muscular, less-than-ultra-feminine skaters, or, often enough, women of color.

To the outside world, the idea of a butch male skater may seem ludicrous. In a 2010 story for New York magazine called "The Less Flamboyant One," "athletic" skater Evan Lysacek models a bejeweled snake in Vera Wang's showroom. But the characterization belies an odd truth. In addition to outwardly policing outfits — say, forbidding men from wearing tights — the world of skating has created its own hierarchy of masculinity, which is subtle to the point of being near-indiscernible from the outside. For instance, twirling is masculine but arm-flapping is not. Sheer sleeves are only dangerously feminine if they come to a point at the wrist. Sequins are fine. Cutouts are not fine. Lunges are more macho than spirals. Fewer feathers are manlier than more feathers. It's a clever, unspoken system, based on the premise that it's a lot easier to prove a skater's manliness by comparing him to another skater than by comparing him to some other kind of athlete.

I'll note here that without exception, the parents I spoke to at nationals expressed pride and support of their boys' achievements in the sport. But I noticed something else too. Almost all the parents, including those whose sons were "living the dream" as international competitors, offered a list of other sports their sons participated in: hockey, lacrosse, soccer, martial arts, hockey, gymnastics, running, downhill skiing. Offered proudly, as if amazed by their children's breadth of achievement, as if compelled to justify their sons as real athletes — not just the most elite skaters in America.