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November 14, 2009 - Five Days Before Skate Canada - Ottawa, Canada
“You have less than a week of training time,” Shayne’s mother says, like Shayne might have forgotten. “You already submitted your music—”
“I’m changing it.” Shayne’s anger is white-hot in her veins. “Just—just call the event team, or whatever. I have to change the exhibition program.”
“Shayne, this isn’t like you. You’ve been training Sealion for months—”
“I can do a quad Salchow.” Shayne looks away from her mother, towards Coach Wiebe, who is tactfully staring at the junior skaters warming up on the ice instead of watching Shayne argue with her mother. “You know I can do a quad, Coach. I’ve landed it every single time in practice for the past month. I can do a quad. Just replace the triple towards the opening. It’ll be almost the same choreo. Just different music.”
Wiebe presses his lips into a thin line. He still won’t look at Shayne. (Probably because he knows she’s right, but he doesn’t want to piss her mom off.) “It might be too late.”
Shayne slams her hands down on the boards, smacking snow off her gloves. “It’s the fucking exhibition, not—”
“Shayne Midori Hollander, you mind your language,” her mother snaps. “You are the face of the Canadian Skating Association and there are juniors here. Take a few laps and come back when you’re ready to talk like a grown-up.”
Shayne takes a harsh breath in and spins around, pushing off into an easy lap around the circumference of the ring. This is all Iliana Rozanova’s fault. Rozanova skates to classical music, to instrumentals, to jazz. She’s never skated a single program to anything with real lyrics. Except for last week, at Skate fucking America, where she did her exhibition skate to fucking “Don’t Cha” by the Pussycat Dolls. A free skate Rozanova did while wearing the fucking wrist-length black gloves she’d clearly stolen from Hollander’s suitcase back in Montreal, and a black dress almost identical to the one Shayne wore at the Montreal Cup.
And the press just ate it up. They called it playful. They raved about how Rozanova was showing a side of herself they never imagined, someone with a sense of humor and a personality beyond her dedication to skating. They said they wanted to see more of this new tongue-in-cheek side of her.
But Shayne knows exactly what the whole thing really was: Rozanova challenging her. Even Soo-Jin Kim, who in any other universe would be practically unopposed as the world champion, hadn’t been able to beat Rozanova. Rozanova beat Kim by a tenth of a point. A single tenth of a point. And then Rozanova got on the ice at the gala, wearing Shayne’s clothes, running her hands up and down her own body over lyrics about how everyone wishes their girlfriend was hot like her, was a freak like her—
Shayne throws her arms up in the air and takes a deep breath, folding her arms behind her head as she takes another lap around the rink. Okay. This is how Rozanova wants to play? She can do it. Even if it means disobeying her coach and her mom, which Shayne has never in history ever done.
“Are you ready to talk?” her mom shouts across the rink.
Shayne nods reluctantly and skates back to the boards in front of her mom. “Sorry. She just gets right under my skin.”
Her mom sighs and rubs her own temples. She looks a little less pissed now, at least. “How many times have you successfully done the quad?”
“I got five back-to-back yesterday. No falls. No wobbles. That’s the record. But I’ve been practicing it for longer.”
“If I asked you to do one right now?” her mom asks pointedly. She raises an eyebrow.
“I could do it. Guaranteed.” Shayne can feel her pulse picking up again. “Now?”
Her mom nods. Shayne steps back and tries not to grin as she skates into position.
Turn. Left inside edge launch. Arm rotation. One, two, three—four, fuck yes, four, turns, arms out, outside edge right back. Arms sweep out, in, spread out, leg out to counter-balance. Fucking perfect. Perfect. Shayne feels almost hysterical as she skates back to her mom again.
“Was that good?” Her mom turns to Wiebe like she doesn’t already know that it was, like the younger girls on the ice aren’t clapping and cheering for her.
“Arm choreo needs work,” Wiebe says. Shayne laughs breathlessly. “But yes. She’s Shayne Hollander. Of course it’s good.”
After a few painful seconds, her mom finally looks at her and shrugs her shoulders. “We’ll have to pay the fee for changing your music last-minute. That’s coming out of your prize earnings.”
“Fu—I mean, yes, thank you. Thank you,” Shayne says, reaching over the boards to hug her mom.
“I know this is about Rozanova,” her mom says. “That was what you wore in Montreal, wasn’t it? Wiebe just pointed it out.”
“Yes.” Shayne doesn’t feel the need to mention that those actually are her gloves. As far as Yuna Hollander is concerned, Shayne just was uncharacteristically frazzled and left the gloves at the rink.
Her mom looks pissed again, Shayne realizes. “Well, pardon my language for this, but she’s a real bitch,” she whispers, glancing between Wiebe and Shayne conspiratorily. She speaks so quietly that Shayne has to strain to hear her over the sound of girls skating.
Shayne slaps a gloved hand over her face to avoid laughing too loudly. “Yeah.” Fuck Rozanova.
“I’m sorry, but I mean it. Dressing up like you? Dancing to that song? Who does she think she is? I’m sorry, but she’s a bitch.”
“Mrs. Hollander, we have kids on the ice,” Wiebe hisses, like he hasn’t heard infinitely worse from the high school hockey players he used to train.
Her mother smiles, the mirror image of Shayne’s own grin. “We can always get some new gloves for the Montreal dress.”
November 22, 2009 - Skate Canada International - Kitchener, Ontario
Shayne’s eyes scan over the crowd automatically. There’s her mom and dad, sitting together near the front. No other familiar faces, it looks like. Well, except...
“Here comes Shayne Hollander, the ladies’ gold medalist, skating a completely new routine for tonight’s exhibition. She’ll be representing Team Canada on home ice for the Winter Olympics in February.”
Shayne shakes her shoulders out, fixes her face into a smile, and skates onto center ice as the music starts: And I was like, why you so obsessed with me? All up in the blogs, saying we met at the bar when I don’t even know who you are.
Double Axel. Shayne’s biggest strengths are her consistency and muscle memory. She knows, down to a fraction of a centimeter, the exact places she needs to position herself to complete any given element of a routine. It comes automatically, as soon as she thinks about the move. Rozanova calls her a figure skating robot. Triple Lutz. Sideways sit spin. Choreo for hands as she skates backwards to gain momentum.
Why you so obsessed with me? It’s clear that you’re upset with me. Finally found a girl you couldn’t impress.
Quad Salchow. For a single second, Shayne is worried about the jump being overrotated and costing her GOE, and then she remembers this is an exhibition skate, and then her back edge is catching the ice and Shayne’s muscle memory takes over once more.
You’re delusional, you’re delusional, boy, you’re losing your mind. It’s confusing, you’re confused you know. Why you wasting your time?
Choreo. Camel sideways spin, choreo into Biellman spin. Cantilever back so her hands brush the ice behind her head.
Got you all fired up with your Napoleon complex, seeing right through you like you’re bathing in Windex.
Step sequence. Double Salchow.
You on your job, you hating hard, ain’t gonna feed you, I’ma let you starve.
Single Axel. Choreo. Triple Lutz, double toeloop, double loop.
It’s confusing, yo, you’re confused, you know. Everybody knows you love me, you love me, you love me.
Shayne hits her ending position and poses for a few seconds before she skates back to the gate, where Wiebe is waiting for her with a look of total delight on his face. Shayne waves to the crowd as she skates past them, breathing hard, which is when she finally recognizes the face she thought she knew at the start of her skate.
It’s Iliana Rozanova, wearing a black track suit under a black puffer jacket, sitting only a few seats away from her own parents. At this distance, it’s impossible to see what look Rozanova has on her face. Humiliation? Anger? Irritation?
The petty jealousy Shayne’s been nursing since she watched Skate America evaporates into shame. Shayne Hollander is a nice girl; she doesn’t do things like this. Look at what Rozanova has done to her. Shayne’s sunk to a new low.
Still, the crowd is cheering. This is going to be what people are talking about, Shayne knows: how Iliana Rozanova goaded sweet Shayne Hollander into doing something mean. Rozanova the bitch, and Hollander the sweetheart, just like always.
Maybe that’s what Rozanova wants. Maybe she likes being the bitch, the villain, the bad guy. God knows that nobody will ever let Shayne be the bad guy, even if Shayne decided to start a fight.
Shayne slides her guards on her skates and takes her jacket from Wiebe. He’s congratulating her, like everyone, but Shayne’s good mood has been thoroughly spoiled. Her only consolation is that, maybe, just maybe, Rozanova hasn’t left yet, and Shayne might run into her on the way out of the rink.
“Her quad was overrotated,” Iliana mutters to herself in Russian, watching Hollander disappear with her coach as the next skater’s exhibition begins. “It would never work in competition.”
Iliana’s phone rings, for the third or fourth time in a row, and she pulls it out of her purse as she heads to the rink lobby from the stands. She slides the pink gem-encrusted phone open to check the Caller ID: Alexei Rozanov.
“Ah, little sister.” Her brother’s voice booms in Iliana’s ear, Russian words slurred like he’s drunk. “You finally fucking answer!”
“Hello, Alexei,” Iliana says coolly. Knowing Alexei, he probably is drunk. “What the fuck do you want?”
“You’re such a nice girl, Iliana. So polite, so ladylike. You must make dear Mama so proud.”
“What the fuck do you want?” Iliana repeats, stressing the fuck for impact.
Alexei sucks his teeth. Music is pounding in the background of the call. Is he at a club? Or is he just partying in his own apartment? “You won at your, uh, Skating America, yes? The grand prize?”
“Yes.” A knot forms in Iliana’s stomach.
“Good. I need eighteen thousand dollars.”
“Eighteen thousand dollars?” Iliana’s mouth falls open. That’s the total amount she won at Skate America. It’s the last bit of prize money she has until the Grand Prix Final, where she’ll have to skate against Hollander and Kim, which means she might end up in third and only get ten thousand dollars—if she’s lucky.
“Ah, I’m glad your hearing is okay!”
“I don’t have eighteen thousand dollars, Alexei. I have to pay to register for my competitions for next season, I have to buy new skate boots, I have to get new costumes—”
“Fuck you. You are all over the fucking news, oh, Iliana, she’s the world’s best fucking ice skater, but you don’t have any fucking money to spare? Your club should fucking pay you to skate there. Fuck you.”
Iliana’s hand hurts from how hard she’s gripping her phone. Her eyes sting. It’s always fucking like this with Alexei. Always jealous that Mama liked her better, always jealous that he was bad at skating and even worse at hockey, always jealous that Daddy spent more time with Iliana than him—even though Iliana would have preferred to be left the fuck alone by their father. Always wanting more, more, more from Iliana now that their father is retired and there is no more family money left.
“I can give you eight thousand,” Iliana says. She tries to sound strong, to sound cold and bitchy and detached. To sound like she was never a humiliated little girl cowed into submission by her father’s screaming and violence, and instead has always been a capable, independent woman.
“Not fucking good enough.”
“I have nothing else to give. There is no more money, Alexei. America is not like Russia, there is no exhibition tour until the season ends. I don’t have citizenship for the Olympics, and sponsors only want Olympians right now—”
“Excuses. You always have some bullshit excuse. But fine. Send the eight thousand.”
“How is Dad?” Iliana asks.
“What the fuck is up with you and Dad? Jesus fucking Christ, he is fine. We can all live without you, Iliana.”
“On the phone yesterday, he asked me to bring home some bread.”
“Well, he is stupid. He is an old man.”
Alexei, Alexei. Alexei who wants to be Daddy’s favorite but doesn’t even notice that Daddy is calling Iliana for help with groceries, even though Iliana hasn’t been back to Russia in more than two years. Iliana swallows her urge to scream at Alexei. “Good night, Alexei,” she says instead.
“Fuck you, Iliana.”
Iliana snaps her cell phone shut and throws it into her purse. She lets the Canadian cold wash over her as she leaves the arena lobby, zipping her jacket up.
Her hands are shaking. She could use a smoke. She could use a shot of vodka. She could use Shayne fucking Hollander moaning in her bed like she’s never been touched before. “Fuck,” Iliana says out loud. She fumbles around in her tiny knockoff LV for her pack of Vogue menthols. It takes her a few tries to get a cigarette out and lit, but her hands steady out almost instantly once she takes the first drag in.
In the back of her mind, Iliana can remember Hollander wrinkling her nose and frowning when they first met. Like an angry little kitten. Very cute.
A fucking quad Salchow. Even if it was a little overrotated, and even if this was just an exhibition skate, nobody else would even dare to try a quad like that. Iliana smiles to herself. She knew stealing those ugly gloves would work. Hollander just needs the proper motivation to push herself.
Iliana just provides the motivation.
December 3, 2009 - Grand Prix of Figure Skating Final - Tokyo, Japan
Rozanova is sitting alone on a bench outside of the hotel when Shayne finally gets off the last shuttle from the Yoyogi arena. Rozanova looks frankly miserable, sucking on a cigarette like it’s a lifeline, speaking angrily to someone on the phone in Russian. It... it makes Shayne sad, a little, to see Rozanova sitting all alone, so once she sees Rozanova shoves her hot pink rhinestone-encrusted Blackberry into her purse (also hot pink, covered in the Coach brand monogram), Shayne hustles over and sits on the other side of the bench.
“What you want?” Rozanova asks, eyes narrowed as she looks Shayne up and down. Shayne has a terrible sense of deja-vu about the very first time they’d ever met in person, back as junior skaters in Lake Placid. Rozanova drops her cigarette to the concrete and grinds it out with the sole of her Ugg boot.
“You looked upset,” Shayne says.
“So you think solution to my upset is for you to come bother me?” Rozanova fishes a little squeeze tube of lipgloss from inside her purse and uncaps it, sliding more pink glitter gloss on top of the gloss she was already wearing. It seems redundant to Shayne, though she’s not really a makeup girl unless it’s for a skating event; she’s never cared about her style or makeup or anything like that before. All that stuff would take away time and brain power from skating.
“No, I just wanted to be polite. And you should pick that cigarette butt up and throw it away.”
“Fucking Canada.” Rozanova smacks her lips together and rolls her eyes. Notably, she does not make any move to pick up her cigarette butt. “Always very fucking polite.”
Shayne’s aware that she’s blushing furiously. “Okay, well, I really came here to—”
Rozanova cuts her off with an irritated huff. “To call me a bitch for stealing your costume? For making fun of you at Skate America? I will not say sorry. I do not say sorry. You landed quad Salchow. Would you try quad Salchow, if I did not make you angry?”
Shayne opens her mouth to answer the question, but Rozanova raises her hand and cuts her off before she says a word. “No. Shayne Hollander is good, polite Canadian girl. She takes no risks. Unless she skates against me, because I make her angry, and I make her horny, and this is when she skates the best. So I make you upset, and you land quad, even when I am not there. But sure, I am the bitch, for making you angry and horny and gold medalist.”
“Make me what?” Shayne sputters, hoping feverishly that nobody walking past understands English.
“Angry and horny and gold medalist,” Rozanova repeats. The grin on her face makes it clear she knows damn well Shayne didn’t need her to actually say it again. She did that just to embarrass Shayne.
“Wow, those English words just roll right off your tongue, huh?”
Rozanova tosses her straightened blonde hair over one shoulder. “You have fun today, before practice?”
“What?” Shayne’s head is reeling with the sudden way Rozanova always changes topics.
“With your little Canadian team. Get meal, go shopping...”
“Oh.” Shayne clears her throat and hopes it clears her head. “Yeah, um, we had fun. Just went to the Saizeriya in the hotel and walked around Shibuya. I’ve been to Tokyo before, with my family. Not really interested in a lot of sightseeing. You?”
Rozanova clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Yes. I went shopping. Many fun stores here in Tokyo. Only myself.”
“Okay,” Shayne says, suddenly aware that Rozanova is trying to imply something. (Exactly what Rozanova’s trying to imply is beyond Shayne’s social skill level.)
“So I think I will go to bed early tonight.” Rozanova finally puts her lip gloss tube back. She rises to her feet and slides her purse onto her shoulder.
Oh, Shayne thinks, so that’s what this is about. “Cool,” Shayne says, trying to sound casual and probably failing.
The corners of Rozanova’s lips twitch up, like she’s trying not to smile and failing. “1221,” she says coolly, and then saunters into the hotel lobby like she’s a supermodel walking in a designer fashion show. Even though she’s just wearing her American Figure Skating team jacket and black yoga pants with a foldover waistband that says PINK right over her ass.
“What was that about?”
Shayne nearly jumps out of her skin. She spins around on the bench to see Scottie Hunter standing in front of the bench, holding a Muji shopping bag packed almost to overflowing.
“Oh, uh. Nothing,” Shayne says. Maybe Hunter thinks how red Shayne is right now has to do with the cold outside. And maybe Hunter didn’t hear anything that Shayne or Rozanova just said to one another. “She’s just shit-talking.”
Hunter shrugs. “She’s kind of a bitch, right?”
Shayne hates the fact that hearing Hunter call Rozanova a bitch makes her want to defend Rozanova. It’s true, Rozanova is kind of a bitch, but she’s far from the only figure skater with a diva complex, and Hunter’s like twenty-two years old. Hunter should be trying to set a good example for her younger competitors. “Yeah, basically,” Shayne says, aiming for casual and achieving monotone, like usual.
“Lucky me. I'm in the hotel room right next door to her.”
Shayne’s stomach bottoms out. “Oh.” Shayne forces herself to laugh. “I bet she’s... really annoying to live next to.”
Again, Hunter shrugs. There’s a weird look on her face, like she knows something that Shayne doesn’t. Shayne gets to her feet and fakes a huge yawn. “Man, the jet lag is killing me. I need to head to bed.”
That’s true. It’s just that Shayne isn’t going to her own bed. And it’s not like Shayne owes Scottie fucking Hunter any explanation for any choice she makes.
“Is someone chasing you?” Iliana asks, shoulders shaking with laughter.
Hollander is making that face that reminds her of an angry kitten, eyes wide and fiery as she locks the hotel door as soon as she crosses the threshold. “I’m standing in the hallway like an idiot. Scottie Hunter is right next door.”
Iliana leans against the hallway wall and tries to hide her laughter behind her palm.
“Fuck,” Hollander hisses, and then angrily marches up to Iliana and slams their lips together.
Hollander has improved at kissing over the nine times they’ve hooked up since July. It’s nice for Iliana to get to enjoy the fruits of her labor, to enjoy how soft and slack Hollander goes as Iliana leads the kiss. Hollander runs her hands over every inch of Iliana’s body: grabbing at her hips, feeling up her ass, reaching under her camisole to cop a feel. It is sweet, really, how greedy Hollander has become about touching Iliana’s body.
“Shh,” Iliana murmurs, pulling Hollander’s hands to her shoulders so she can shimmy out of her purple slip nightgown. One of these times, Iliana will have the chance to wear some pretty lingerie for awkward, innocent Miss Hollander to blush about seeing her in, but for now, the plain black bra and thong make Hollander plenty red in the face. Cute, how easily Hollander blushes. It makes Iliana want to eat her up.
“Now you.” Iliana tugs at the hem of Hollander’s plain gray sweatshirt and Hollander lets herself be undressed like a doll, too busy trying to kiss every centimeter of Iliana’s bare skin possible to help Iliana undress her. Sweatshirt, then boring ugly black leggings, and then boring ugly black sports bra, and finally boring ugly black panties, of the style that only comes in the plastic-wrapped multipacks of cheap chain stores. Hollander wrinkles her nose at seeing all her clothes tossed around the floor, but she distracts herself by thumbing at Iliana’s nipples and nipping at Iliana’s neck.
It is a good thing Hollander is pretty. Less pretty girls do not get away with being so fussy. Iliana tries to wrap her hands around Hollander’s thighs, to carry her to bed, which is when Hollander suddenly remembers she can speak: “What are you doing?”
“Carrying you to bed, like princess you are,” Iliana says, though she hasn’t lifted Hollander up yet.
“You can’t—”
“Hollander, I am not a waif Russian skater anymore. I have no weight checks. I do lifting at the gym. I can pick you up.” To prove her point, Iliana dips down and picks Hollander up easily. Hollander immediately wraps her legs around Iliana and clings to her.
“Waif? Where did you even hear that word?”
Iliana smirks as she tosses Hollander down on the bed. “You are cute when you are annoyed.”
Hollander rolls her eyes. “Come on, Rozanova. We’re wasting time.”
“Have you ever used a toy?” Rozanova asks, one hand petting the soft skin of Shayne’s inner thigh and the other wrapped around Shayne’s chest, spooned up together on their sides. Rozanova presses tiny kisses over Shayne’s shoulders and neck, like she’s tracing the freckles there.
It’s weird to still feel embarrassed about things when you’re having a conversation with someone who’s eaten you out until you cried because you couldn’t possibly come again, but Shayne is constantly experiencing things nobody else on Earth can probably relate to.
“Yes,” Shayne mumbles, burying her red face into the hotel pillow. It smells like Rozanova, like Viva la Juicy and rose-scented shampoo.
If Rozanova is surprised by the answer, she doesn’t make any sound that indicates it. “Are you embarrassed?” Rozanova sounds flirty, maybe even playful, if Shayne were to guess.
Shayne groans. “I... I have a thing, okay?”
“What kind of thing?” Rozanova drops her lips back onto Shayne’s shoulder. “There are many kinds. Vibrator... Dildo...”
Perhaps this was some kind of special punishment made just for Shayne, as karma for something she’d done and forgotten about. It takes a moment for Shayne to convince her mouth to say the words out loud. “Just... a little vibrator.”
“Hm.” Rozanova leans her head down, sucking a hickey on Shayne’s shoulder blade where it won’t be visible in her costumes. “What color is it?”
“Oh my god. Ugh. I’m leaving,” Shayne says, rolling over onto her front.
Immediately Rozanova settles right on top of her, like a heavy blanket. “But I have gifts for you, Hollander,” Rozanova whines. “I went shopping just for you.”
“Fucking Scottie Hunter is right next door!”
Rozanova looks thoroughly unfazed when Shayne rolls over on her back just to see her expression. “So? She is hot. We should let her listen, like mating call.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Shayne snorts, wrapping her arms back around Rozanova’s shoulders. Rozanova’s gotten satisfyingly muscular over the past two years skating for the US, with well-built arms that Shayne is equally jealous of and attracted to.
Rozanova sighs dramatically. “Fine, fine. So next time, I give you the gifts.”
“Next time?” Shayne’s eyebrows draw together. Next time?
“Yes, I have choreography session in Montreal in two weeks.”
Shayne’s heart races. Rozanova, in Montreal, in the same city as Shayne, and for once not because they’re skating against each other.
Oh, fuck.
“Okay, but... where would we... where would we meet?” Shayne’s thoughts are going almost as fast as her pulse. Could they meet up at Rozanova’s hotel? Wiebe would’ve told her if Rozanova was going to skate at the rink, right? There was an unofficial agreement between Shayne’s management team and Rozanova’s that the two of them should never share a rink except for competitions, and it’s not like the Montreal Ice Center is the only rink in the city. Right? And which choreographer was Rozanova going to see? Shayne had worked with Guy Fleury and Brian Friesen in Montreal, but her current programs had all been choreographed by Michelle Benton, who travelled specifically to Montreal from Toronto to choreograph for Shayne.
“You are homeless?” Rozanova asks. Shayne honestly can’t tell if Rozanova’s trying to crack a joke right now. Her brain is moving too quick. This is why Shayne likes skating: she doesn’t have to think about anything on the ice except what move comes next.
“No,” Shayne eventually says. You need to invest this prize money while you’re still bringing it in, Shayne can hear her mother say in her mind last year, and think of how much time you’ll be saving if it doesn’t take you forty minutes to get to the rink.
“Good.” Rozanova nuzzles into the crook of Shayne’s neck. “Then we meet at your house.”
“It’s an apartment,” Shayne says automatically. Brian Friesen would be the most likely choreographer, right? He’d done some choreo for Hayden Pike, Polina Novik, and even fucking Scottie Hunter, so that made some sense, even though Hayden switched to Pairs in 2007 and neither Hunter nor Novik had won any ISU championships or Grand Prixes using Friesen’s choreo.
“Hollander, you are having panic attack.”
Shayne realizes suddenly that she’s been gripping Rozanova’s arm tightly enough to dig her nails into Rozanova’s skin, and also that her own eyes are overflowing with tears. How stupid, she thinks. She can’t handle fucking anything without freaking out about something, can she?
“It’s just a plan to fuck,” Rozanova says.
Shayne nods like she’s not on the brink of tears and tries to laugh. Right. Just a plan to fuck. That’s all. She lets Rozanova kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her, until her thoughts die down and are replaced instead with the burn of arousal.
Hollander is trying to look calm and normal, Iliana can tell, but she is not succeeding at it. She looks like she is trying not to cry, though that is (to be fair) not an entirely unusual face for Hollander. Hollander tugs her shirt on and begins looking down at the floor. She is probably pretending to not know where her socks are.
“Um, I know we just talked about Montreal—” Hollander starts, but Iliana cuts her off with a groan.
“Oh my god, Hollander, you are so boring. Give me your phone.” Iliana stretches her hand out expectantly from her position on the bed.
Hollander freezes like a cornered mouse.
Iliana rolls her eyes. “You have phone. Give.” How is Hollander so easily flustered? The Americans Iliana’s stuck spending most of her time with are not nearly as easily flustered. They think her attitude is charmingly foreign and that she is being sarcastic.
With trembling hands, Hollander fishes her matte black Razr from the pocket of her track pants. She hands it to Iliana like it’s a ticking bomb.
“Boring phone,” Iliana says, just to watch Hollander make that angry little face again while she punches in her contact information. “You should get fun phone.”
“It works,” Hollander sputters. It’s just too easy to get under her skin. “It does what I need it to do.”
Iliana smirks, tossing her hair over her shoulders and handing Hollander her phone back. “Hm. Small keyboard, not so easy to text on.”
“I don’t even text that much!”
Iliana settles back against the headboard and grabs her phone from her purse on her nightstand. She makes sure to push her tits out as she does so, and tries not to laugh as Hollander stares at her like she’s going to burst into tears, which apparently is Hollander’s sex face.
“You will,” Illiana says with a wink. Hollander smiles, just a little bit.
Hey Shane, see you in two weeks. XO Ilya.
Our last competitor represents the Boston Skating Club: Iliana Rozanova.
The eighteen year old, originally from Moscow, Russia, took gold at both World Championships and the Grand Prix Finals last year, and is a five-time national champion in both Russia and America. She says she’s not chasing any world records, she’s only chasing her own personal best.
We’ll get to see the influence of her ballet training tonight, as she portrays Giselle, from the ballet “Giselle.”
Triple Lutz right into the triple loop combo. Wow, gorgeous transition to that one-handed Biellmann spiral, and... Double flip. Flying camel spin. Layback spin. Next is her triple Axel. It’s a risk to save a big jump for the last half of a short program—and wow, just incredible. Triple Axel—a little shaky, but still, you can see how much work Rozanova’s put in with her new American training team. The height she gets in her jumps now is just amazing.
Iliana’s coach is waiting for Iliana at the kiss-and-cry with her team jacket and a water bottle covered in TEAM USA stickers. Dully, Iliana slides the jacket on and sips at the water, which tastes like ash in her throat.
Vlasova is excited, because she has been away from Russia long enough to adopt American optimism as her own. “You got the Axel,” Vlasova is saying in Russian, though Iliana can hardly hear her over the ringing in her ears. “You got the Axel, Iliana, you did it.”
Iliana nods, staring blankly at the boards and the rink beyond, where the sweepers are skating around. In her head, she can hear her father like he’s sitting right beside her: Your fucking knee, Iliana, I told you to watch it. You were shaky on that Axel. Do better next time? What fucking next time? There will be no next time if you skate that way again.
Iliana is aware people are staring at her, so she smiles, because she has been trained well. She waves. She looks polite.
“Iliana Rozanova has earned in the short program 69.86 points. Technical element score: 36.46. Program component score: 33.40. She is currently in first place.”
Vlasova wraps Iliana in a hug, murmuring about how incredible it is. About how hard Iliana has worked for this, and what potentially taking home a second Grand Prix Finals title could mean for her career. It is very American of her, and Iliana hates it. She misses her father. Nothing she ever did was fucking good enough for him, but it made her the best woman in this sport currently on the ice, even though she’s old and fat and should’ve retired a year ago, according to Russian standards.
“Thank you,” Iliana manages to say at last. Vlasova wipes her own face with the palm of her hand and sniffles.
Shayne Hollander is sitting in the stands, tucked between her mother and her coach. Iliana locks eyes with her and nods, as subtly as she can. Hollander doesn’t look half as disappointed as her mother does with the news of Hollander’s relegation to second place. This, Iliana assumes, is because Hollander is easily flustered by Iliana winking at her, and Mrs. Hollander thinks the wink was probably Iliana trying to gloat.
Iliana pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket and opens her contacts list.
To: Shane
Will I see you tonight, hot boy?
December 20, 2009 - Montreal, Quebec
“Hey, uh, you want to come over to my house for dinner?”
Shayne snaps her head up from where she’s been hunched over her phone, ready to glare at whoever it is who’s dared to interrupt her text message vigil. Then she sees it’s only Hayden Pike, and the urge to glare vanishes.
Pike is the girl that everyone thinks Shayne is. She’s kind, patient, just five years Shayne’s senior, and a talented skater. The only reason Hayden Pike isn’t being used as the face of Canada’s 2010 Skating Team is because Pairs skating has always been less popular than Singles when it comes to viewership. (Shayne only knows this last part because her mother lectured her about the history and nuances of Olympic figure skating last week.)
“What?” Shayne asks, unsure if she just heard Pike correctly.
“Come for dinner. Jackie said it’s cool—Jackie’s my husband, yeah, a married skating pair, what a cliche, right?” Pike smiles at Shayne like they’ve been friends for years already, which Shayne frankly does not know how to respond to. “He’s gonna throw on some steaks.”
“I’m on a macrobiotic diet,” Shayne says robotically. Does she want to... hang out with Hayden and Jackie Pike? Is that what’s being offered here?
“I don’t even know what that means,” Pike says cheerfully, “but Jackie can cook just about anything.”
Shayne just stares at Pike, unblinking. Not since high school has anyone invited her over to their house. A commentator once described her as having “the highest figure skating IQ out there,” right before saying she was “not the most outgoing or sociable.”
Pike does not appear to be discouraged by Shayne’s silence. She’s still smiling and pulling her street clothes on like it’s no big deal. “You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” Shayne eventually says. “I guess.”
“Hey, if you have other plans, that’s totally cool too.”
“No, uh.” Shayne clears her throat. “I wanna see you eat my weird food. Let’s do it.”
Pike pumps her fist in the air and turns to grab her phone from her locker. “Fuck yes. Jackie’s gonna be so happy. He’s obsessed with meeting the first woman to land a quad. You know he’s got me trying to do a quad now? I’m gonna text him right now. ‘Bird food only.’”
Shayne laughs. It occurs to her that this might be how she makes the first real friend she’s had in... possibly a decade? Rozanova does not count, Shayne decides. Whatever they have is way too complicated.
On the screen of Shayne’s new Samsung Alias 2, a message alert finally pops up.
From: Ilya
theres 2 much fking snow. Plane cancelled. >:(
Shayne types up a reply, then deletes it, then types another one before hitting send.
From: Shane
Ok. Another time :)
From Ilya:
:(