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January 10, 2010 - Montreal, Quebec
“What the hell is she doing here?” Shayne hisses, face red.
“Look, look,” Wiebe says placatingly, “I tried to call you, didn’t I? I didn’t want to spring this on you, but you didn’t answer my call.”
Shayne isn’t looking at her coach or his obvious embarrassment at this entire situation. No, she’s looking at Iliana Rozanova, gliding around the ice in a pair of skintight black over-heel leggings and cropped tank top, hair tied back into a loose bun. Fucking Rozanova, at Shayne’s fucking club rink, skating around like everything is fine and dandy and normal. Rozanova, who skates right up to the fucking boards, leans an elbow up on them, and blows Shayne a fucking kiss from maybe two feet away.
“So why is she here?” Shayne asks again. She does not let herself look over at Rozanova, who is probably blowing her more kisses or something else equally ridiculous to humiliate Shayne publicly. Shayne can only pray that her panic is coming off as anger at a rival.
“I am attending skate clinic, Miss Hollander,” Rozanova says. She is smirking, which is one of her three default expressions (the other two are annoyance and boredom), which Shayne is ignoring because she is not looking at Iliana Rozanova right now.
“A skate clinic? From who?” Shayne glances around the rink wildly, but there’s nobody else on the ice or in the rink. It’s normally—
Oh. Shayne realizes it with a twisting sensation deep in her gut as she turns back to Wiebe. “What the hell?” Shayne snaps.
Wiebe is sweating like he’s standing in front of a bonfire, face neon red, and he’s looking at the floor, the ceiling, the stands, the boards: anywhere that isn’t at Shayne or Rozanova.
“I pay your salary,” Shayne says. “I pay a lot of money for you to be my coach, and for your time.”
“I will not take him forever,” Rozanova says, like she’s involved in this conversation at all. “Is just clinic, Hollander. No need for being jealous.”
“Shayne, most coaches train dozens of skaters. It’s two hours a day for a week, well outside of your normal schedule—”
“Yes, but I’m an Olympian,” Shayne whines. She’s whining now. That’s what Rozanova has reduced her to: whining like a child and lording her Olympian status over Rozanova. “I need more ice time than before.”
Wiebe pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“And I’m the current world champion.” Rozanova sticks her tongue out and blows a raspberry at Shayne.
The straw that broke the camel’s back is one of Shayne’s mother’s favorite sayings, and like all of Yuna Hollander’s sayings, it took Shayne a couple of years to understand it was a metaphor, though it never really clicked for Shayne personally. Now, finally staring at Rozanova, seeing her blow a fucking raspberry at Shayne like they’re little girls pulling each others’ hair on the playground, Shayne understands it. The raspberry is the straw that broke the back of Shayne’s camel.
Shayne collapses into a seated position on the nearest bench and groans. “Fine,” she says. “Fine. Fine. Fine.”
Rozanova has the audacity to blow her another kiss. “I love Canada. Very polite country. Good at sharing.”
“Fuck you,” Shayne says. At least there’s nobody else around to reprimand her on her language.
From: Shane
You said you were coming to Montreal to do new choreo.
From: Ilya
yes. i say that.
From: Shane
So you lied? Why?
From: Ilya
bc u are SO cute when u r angry xo
From: Ilya
u only sleep w me when u r mad @ me
From: Ilya
so i want u 2 b mad @ me more :)
February 9, 2010 - Winter Olympics - Vancouver, British Colombia
“I don’t know that missing the Olympics is worth jumping over,” Hollander says, arms folded over her chest like she doesn’t know what to do with them.
Iliana doesn’t laugh. She only exhales smoke towards the Vancouver skyline. “Mm. Maybe not.”
Hollander leans on the railing right beside her, elbows propped up on the rooftop balcony rail as they both stare out at the glowing sprawl of the Olympic Village below. “How’d you even get in here?”
“A friend invited me. I have them, you know. Is not impossible for me to have a friend.” Does it sound like a joke, if Iliana says it like that?
“Are you drunk?” Hollander sounds incredulous. Maybe, Iliana thinks, Hollander thinks every Olympian is a nice, well-behaved athlete who did not do things like drink or invite friends over. Maybe Hollander cannot imagine that sometimes people like to have fun and relax.
But Iliana is not drunk. She just wishes she was. The skaters of Team USA are boring and obedient, and all they did was drink terrible Canadian beer in their bedrooms. They’re more boring than Hollander, even.
“I’m not,” Iliana says. She ashes her cigarette over the edge and Hollander makes her little angry face, brows pinched together.
“So why aren’t you skating for Russia?” Hollander asks, because she may be less boring than the Americans downstairs but she is, ultimately, still very fucking boring.
“I was not supposed to stay good at skating. You know?” Iliana has spent two days a week for the past year in English courses taught by a meek little woman who claps like Iliana is a dog doing tricks when she pronounces the words correctly, and still Iliana feels the limits of her English skill like a fish hitting the glass of its tank. “This is what is done in Russia. Little girls are smaller, can do more jumps, more spins. Easier for their body. Easier to train. I was very good skater as child, yes?”
Hollander nods, even though Iliana didn’t need a real answer from her.
“My coach, she says I am good, I am great, even. But then I am a teenager, no longer little girl, and I cannot make weight check. Important to make weight, because smaller girls can do more rotations in jumps. Landing is easier. But I am a teenager, and I weigh too much, and I am losing my skills. So my coach, my school—I go to sports school, only for athletes—says I am fat and getting old, and they do not want to waste time with me if I cannot do a simple thing like keep my weight. But I did not have—is called a plan B?”
“Yeah.”
“I did not have plan B. Skating, skating is the only thing I have ever been good at. But my coach said if I will not stay with her, no coach in entire fucking country will work with me.” Iliana’s eyes sting. Her cigarette is mostly a column of ash now, but she takes a drag anyway. “And she was right. No other school will take me. No coach will talk to me. Is like I am suddenly invisible. So I find new club in America that will finally take me, and I skate for the Americans.”
Iliana smiles, smoke curling into her nostrils. “But then I do not get worse. That was not supposed to happen. All the other girls from my school, they turn seventeen or eighteen, and their careers are over. Old and fat. But me? I am Iliana fucking Rozanova. I am the fucking world champion. And every medal I win now, I win for America. But for the Olympics, you need citizenship to compete, not like ISU. It does not fucking matter how good I am, of course, because I am a traitor to my country. Russia will not let me skate, and I cannot skate for the Americans, so.”
“But none of that’s your fault,” Hollander says, and she’s so sweet, so naive. She lives in a world that is equitable and balanced. She has worked hard, and the world has rewarded her for that work.
“Does not matter.” Iliana can’t look at Hollander anymore. Hollander, pretty and sweet, face pink from the cold and eyes wet like she’s going to cry, like she can’t imagine the world being anything less than fair. “That is life.”
“But it shouldn’t be. I mean, fuck, Rozanova—”
“You live a pretty life,” Iliana says, stubbing her cigarette out on the railing and turning her body towards Hollander. “Is nice and kind. You have a mother and father who love you. You are lucky.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Hollander’s even prettier in the pools of artificial light coming through the balcony doors. Big brown eyes, soft pink lips, black hair pulled back into a low ponytail.
Iliana rests her palm on Hollander’s shoulder, fingertips running over the edge of a Canadian flag patch. Shayne Hollander should be nothing but a pretty little distraction to look forward to when they compete at events. A nice way to spend a few hours every now and then, when they get the chance. Iliana likes sex, and she likes pretty girls, and she likes a challenge; sleeping with Shayne Hollander is a nice way to get all three in one.
But it’s been almost six months since they first hooked up, and Iliana doesn’t even bother flirting with other girls anymore. They just piss her off every time, because they never say the right things or look the right way—because they’re never her.
Stupid fucking Shayne Hollander. Just Iliana’s luck that it would be Shayne fucking Hollander. Even if Iliana could be with her in any way that mattered, they would never last. They get along just enough to get each other off. They’re not even friends.
There is no use in thinking about this. Shayne Hollander is fun to fuck, and that’s what they do. That’s all they do.
But still—
Iliana kisses Shayne, a little desperate.
She wants this. There is some part of Iliana that has known from the moment she entered that hotel gym and saw Shayne on the stationary bike that’s always known how this ends. Iliana wants, for the first time in her life, and she wants something she can never let herself have. And wanting is dangerous. Wanting is how Iliana might end up throwing away every single thing she’s ever worked for.
Shayne pulls away, shocked. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Iliana realizes suddenly that she’s crying. She’s been crying, it seems, because her face is wet and stings in the cold breeze blowing past them. Stop crying. You’re not a baby, Iliana can hear her father say.
So Iliana wipes her face with the sleeve of her jacket and makes herself laugh, like this has all been a very funny joke and she didn’t mean that kiss.
What the fuck had Iliana thought would happen? Did she think Hollander would kiss her back and then wrap her arms around her shoulders and tell Iliana that she wants all those impossible things, too? They fuck, and they irritate each other, and they skate against one another. That’s what they do.
“It’s just—” Hollander is blinking fast, trying to hide tears too. “We’re on a balcony, in fucking public. What are you even thinking?”
Iliana fixes a smile on her face and gropes around in her jacket pocket for her pack of cigarettes. “Having fun,” Iliana says, like some part of her isn’t dying right now.
“I’m not—I’m not like that,” Hollander says, which would hurt Iliana’s feelings if Hollander weren’t such a terrible fucking liar.
“Mm.” Iliana finally manages to get a cigarette from the pack, then fishes out her lighter with hands going a little numb from the cold. “Neither am I.”
“Okay.” Hollander is crying, which isn’t fair. All Hollander had to do was kiss back. All Hollander had to do was say yes, Iliana, I want you too. I want you all the time. And Iliana would have thrown her entire fucking life away, just like that, just to hear those words in Shayne’s voice. She would have thrown away her entire fucking skating career away, maybe even her ability to ever return to Russia—and Shayne Hollander is just standing there, like she has no idea.
“You can say it’s my fault,” Iliana murmurs as she lights her cigarette. She turns her back to Hollander, staring down at the road below. She can’t look at Hollander again, or she’ll say something stupid, like I think I love you, or I would give everything up if that’s what it took.
“What’s your fault?” Hollander asks. She’s using her monotone voice again, the one she uses when she’s having a panic attack. Her breathing is fast.
“If we got caught. You can say it’s my fault.” Iliana blows smoke through her nostrils. “I know what I am.”
“What? No, what the fuck—”
“No, is simple, Hollander. I know what people think about me. It does not matter to me anymore. I am a slut, and you are a nice girl. Is only what they will say anyway.” Iliana shrugs like she is not bothered by any of this. “Go back to your room, Hollander.”
“But...” Hollander doesn’t finish her sentence. There’s a few agonizing minutes of silence, and then Hollander leaves the balcony, slamming the door behind her.
Fuck.
Iliana needs to be better than this. She needs to be stronger. She needs a fucking drink and she needs a distraction. This never should’ve happened. She can fuck Shayne Hollander, sure, but it can never be more than that. This is enough. This will always be enough.
It has to be.
Iliana’s not sure she can handle what losing this would do to her.
“I’m here with Shayne Hollander, the future Olympic gold medalist in figure skating. Just how did you secure first place in the short program for the Great White North?” Hayden holds her fist out like a microphone to Shayne’s face as Shayne finally takes her seat, grinning.
“I landed my flying sit spin a fraction of a point better than Soo-Jin Kim,” Shayne says, and it feels insane to say that out loud. She just set the world fucking record for short program scores. She can hear the announcer in her head still: Shayne Hollander has earned in the short program 79.4 points. She is currently in first place. “That helps.”
Hayden laughs. “You were like a machine on the ice, man. I’ve never seen anyone like that. What’s your secret?”
Shayne scratches the back of her neck and shrugs. She hopes she looks casual. The truth, embarrassingly, is that the entire time she was skating, all she could think about was the last text Rozanova sent her, just a few minutes before Shayne was due on the ice: how many times can you cum in 1 hour?
“I don’t have any secrets, really,” Shayne says lamely.
Because Hayden is a good friend, she lets that answer slide. “Damn. I was hoping you had some trick to share, because I am never living down earning sixth place at the Olympics twice in a row. Jackie is threatening to replace me with one of our toddlers.”
“Jackie’s too old to qualify for Juniors again,” Shayne says, only half-paying attention.
“That’s what I said!”
“This hockey boy of yours gets under your skin, doesn’t he?”
Iliana rolls her eyes and shoves her phone in her pocket, and resists the urge to flip Claire Marleau off. Marleau is annoying, like most of the Americans, though she is marginally less boring. Marleau trained under a Russian coach for a few years as a junior, which is maybe why Iliana tolerates her a little more than the rest of them. Even if she is only an ice dancer.
“Shut your idiot face, Marly,” Iliana snaps, staring back out at the ice where the second-to-last skater of the day is preparing herself.
“You’re straight-up blushing, Roz.” Marleau slaps Iliana on the shoulder and grins.
“Um, no. Never in my life have I blushed. Russians do not do this.” Iliana shoves Marleau right back, pushing her into Brad Hammersmith, sitting on Marleau’s other side. Marleau laughs while Brad glares at the two of them over Marleau’s shoulder. Fucking ice dancers.
At least Marleau and Hammersmith had taken home the silver medal. If the Americans had gone home with only a single medal to show for all this work, Iliana might’ve started looking for a new country to skate for.
“Sure.” Marleau’s still laughing. “Is he playing in the semifinals tomorrow?”
“I never said he played hockey,” Iliana huffs.
“Aw, come on. I’ve caught you watching, like, every home game the Montreal Metros play, and you got weird as hell after the Coupe de Montreal last summer.”
“Is not true.” Iliana chooses to blame how flushed her face is right now on the arena’s temperature. The only reason Iliana even paid attention to the Metros was because Hollander was usually at their home games, smiling and telling the TV crews, well, I’ve been a Metros fan my entire life, my mom’s the biggest Metros fan in the world...
“Uh-huh.” Marleau will never let Iliana live this down. “Right. So you’re not going to watch the semifinals tomorrow? That’s not what you were just texting him about?”
“No.” Iliana stood up and shook her shoulders out. It was hard to imagine the girl on the ice now was going to beat Shayne Hollander’s new world record, given what just happened on her triple Lutz. Besides, this way Iliana could torment Hollander more over text, which was infinitely more fun, and she’d still be back in time to watch the medals ceremony.
“See you at the game, Rozy,” Marleau says with a laugh.
“Fuck you, Marleau,” Iliana mutters.
Mesdames et messieurs, voici la cérémonie de remise des vainqueurs du patinage artistique chez les dames.
Ladies and gentlemen, the victory ceremony for ladies’ figure skating.
Les médailles seront remises par Monsieur Aldo Scimeca, d'Italie, membre du Comité international olympique, accompagné de Monsieur Laurent Morin, représentant de l'Union internationale de patinage.
The medals will be presented by Mr. Aldo Scimeca of Italy, member of the International Olympic Committee, accompanied by Mr. Laurent Morin, representing the International Skating Union.
Médaillée de bronze, représentant le Japon: Sei Miyake.
The bronze medalist, representing Japan: Sei Miyake.
Médaillée d'argent, représentant la République de Corée: Soo-Jin Kim.
The silver medalist, representing Republic of Korea: Soo-Jin Kim.
Médaillée d'or et championne olympique, représentant le Canada : Shayne Hollander.
The gold medalist and Olympic champion, representing Canada: Shayne Hollander.
Shayne’s entire body feels numb. She steps onto the ice, feeling nothing and everything all at once, and raises her arms, waving at the crowd. One and nine-tenths of a point, that’s all it took. A world record high score and Olympic gold, and all because she landed two moves just a single subjective fraction of a point better than someone else.
She stops in front of the photographers and hits the poses she’s been trained to hold for years now. This is what Shayne spent countless hours dreaming about as a little girl: skating in the Olympics and taking home a medal. Of course, Shayne thinks, every little girl who gets on the ice wants that.
Shayne skates to the podium, smiling and waving still, and hugs Kim and Miyake before she steps up to the center spot. Her parents are hugging and crying in the stands, along with the rest of her team. Shayne Hollander, the second-ever Canadian woman to win gold in figure skating, and the first ever Japanese-Canadian woman to win. Shayne Hollander, who did all that on Canadian soil at the Vancouver Olympics.
Shayne’s eyes sting.
It’s not a real victory.
Rozanova should’ve skated. She won the Grand Prix Finals and Four Continents, and she’ll probably win the World Championships again, too—a Grand Slam—but she missed the Olympics. All because some coach back in Moscow didn’t want to admit she was wrong. How fucking stupid and unfair is that? Shayne wipes at her eyes, and is grateful that at least the other girls on the podium are teary-eyed too.
Médaillée d'or et la championne représentant le Canada: Shayne Hollander.
Gold medalist and Olympic champion: Shayne Hollander.
The crowd goes crazy, clapping and screaming, waving Canadian flags and dozens of posters with Shayne’s name on them and various slogans. Shayne can’t even tell if she’s smiling anymore because she can’t really feel her own skin or hear anything except the roaring of her pulse and the yelling in the crowd. She bends down so Mr. Morin can slip the medal over her head and Mr. Scimeca can shake her hand before handing her a little bouquet of green flowers.
The medal is heavy. Shayne doesn’t know why she expected to be light, but it must weigh over a pound. She holds up her bouquet and hopes she’s still smiling.
Mesdames et messieurs, l'hymne national du Canada.
Ladies and gentlemen, the national anthem of Canada.
The flags are being raised on the opposite end of the rink as “O Canada” starts playing, and for some reason, that’s what makes Shayne finally burst into real tears. It’s over. She got Olympic gold.
As Shayne steps off the podium for the victory lap, she grabs the Canadian flag held out for her and looks up at the stands again.
There, in the second row, wearing an oversized white sweatshirt that says I ♥︎ SHAYNE HOLLANDER in red embroidered letters above the Canadian Figure Skating logo, is Iliana Rozanova. For a solid minute, Shayne wonders if maybe she’s hallucinating.
Then Rozanova winks at her.
I’m gonna fucking kill you, Shayne mouths at her. She hopes Rozanova can read lips. Rozanova just points to her own shoulder, where Shayne’s own signature is scrawled in black marker.
Those sweatshirts had been auctioned off as merch for a fundraiser a few months ago. The money went to cover all the costs of skating for a little girl at the Montreal Ice Center whose father just died. It would’ve cost Iliana a good amount of cash—at least a thousand Canadian dollars.
Shayne just holds her gold medal up towards Rozanova. Yes, Rozanova could still win at the World Championships and get her first Grand Slam this season, but Shayne’s got the Olympic gold. Her momentary pity for Rozanova is gone almost as quickly as it came.
Shayne turns away from Rozanova and smiles at a photographer instead, skating towards where the other two medalists are posing with their country’s flags. At least Shayne has one thing now that Rozanova doesn’t: an Olympic gold.
“Why the fuck did you think it was okay to sext me during the fucking Olympics?”
Hollander is seething. It is almost a little scary, though Iliana is reluctant to admit it.
“You want to murder me?” Iliana asks, only a little joking.
Hollander buries her face in the palms of her hands and groans. “Just—get in.” She yanks the back door to her apartment building open.
“I mean, what the fuck?” Hollander says, as they walk up what feels like too many flights of stairs. If Iliana knew they would be climbing a fucking mountain, she would not have worn Uggs this afternoon.
Eventually, after maybe ten or more flights of stairs, Hollander opens a door to a carpeted hallway and gestures for Iliana to follow. “And how did you even get that fucking sweatshirt?” Hollander gestures to Iliana’s new favorite item of clothing, her I ♥︎ Shayne Hollander sweater, which Iliana has pulled over her skimpiest denim skirt and black leggings.
“It was for sale,” Iliana says simply. “For good cause. I am generous. And you missed me, didn’t you?”
Hollander rolls her eyes as she opens the door to her apartment. “You’re such a fucking bitch,” Hollander mumbles. “And take off your shoes before you come inside.”
Iliana grins as she steps into Hollander’s apartment for the first time. The last time she’d been in Montreal, working on her jumps with Brian Wiebe, Hollander had come over to Iliana’s hotel room.
Hollander’s apartment is a little nicer than Iliana's, which makes sense. Hollander was in the Disney World Christmas parade and does advertisements for McDonald’s. Elizabeth in Boston says Iliana captures a ‘more mature’ audience, which is a complicated way of saying that little girls don’t like Iliana but drama-hungry adult women and horny men do. Most little Canadian girls probably have a picture of Hollander holding up her gold medal on their wall right now. Meanwhile, there is now a common joke that if a straight man says he likes figure skating, he means he just likes Iliana’s photoshoot for Victoria’s Secret PINK.
“Wow,” Iliana says as she stares around the apartment. There’s a marble island and a large kitchen, and a fire going in a long glass fireplace that reminds Iliana of the Panera Bread near her own apartment. “Nice place.”
Hollander shrugs and stuffs her thumbs into the pockets of her sweatpants. “Thanks. It’s supposed to be an investment, you know? Because I’ll want to retire eventually, and right now, I’ve got prize money and the Athlete Excellence Fund money coming in, so...”
“Ms. Businesswoman,” Iliana teases. “Ms. Investments.”
“Shut up.” Hollander rolls her pretty brown eyes, but she’s blushing. “You asked.”
“No, I didn’t.” Iliana crowds Hollander up against the kitchen countertop, hands sliding to Hollander’s hips.
“Fuck you,” Hollander mumbles. She wiggles free of Iliana’s grasp then grabs Iliana’s hand in her own and tugs her towards a doorway that looks in on a bedroom.
The bedroom is... excessively plush. That is the only way to describe it. The bedding is pure white, and there are four shelves hanging above the bed completely packed full of Beanie Babies. There are so many throw pillows on the bed that only half of it is visible, and more Beanie Babies scattered around the room, on a chair and lined up on top of a dresser. “Wow. You like Beanie Babies?” Iliana asks, raising one eyebrow.
Hollander gently kicks Iliana in the ankle with one of her socked feet. “Shut up. Fans give them to me.”
“You know you do not have to keep them, yes?”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“I think maybe you like it.” Iliana drops her overnight bag and tries to step closer to Hollander, but Hollander steps back and makes that funny little half-smile, half-frown face she only ever makes for Iliana. Normally that face means Hollander is trying to be pissed at Iliana but finds her too charming to stay angry.
“I can smell the cigarettes from here,” Hollander complains.
Iliana groans and takes her sweatshirt off, making a show of neatly folding it and setting it on the dresser, near a collection of identical Beanie Baby bears with red Canadian maple leaves printed on them. “I had one.”
“You shouldn’t be smoking.” The frown half of Hollander’s face is losing to the smile half.
“You shouldn’t be wearing clothes,” Iliana says back, leaning down to take her socks off and then sauntering closer to Hollander. “Come here.”
“No, you come here.” Hollander finally smiles, big and bright, and Iliana simply must kiss her now, so she does.
Hollander wraps her hands in Iliana’s hair, fingers tangling a bit in the curls Iliana hadn’t bothered to straighten this morning. Hollander is greedy this afternoon, lips as soft as ever, tilting her head back to let Iliana get her own fingers in Hollander’s hair.
“I still have presents for you,” Iliana murmurs, tugging on Hollander’s hair as she pulls back when Hollander tries to chase her lips again.
“Huh?”
Iliana thinks, not for the first time, that the annoying asshole who called her “a figure skating Barbie bimbo” on his YouTube channel is wrong. If any figure skater is a bimbo, it is Shayne Hollander after a few simple kisses from Iliana. Her pupils are blown and her face is pink, and she is looking at Iliana like Iliana just recited Tolstoy in the original Russian to her.
“I have presents for you,” Iliana repeats, whispering into Hollander’s ear.
Hollander shivers, her free hand sliding up the back of Iliana’s thin t-shirt. “Oh,” she mumbles. “What kind of presents?”
“Mm, the sexy kind I got in Tokyo for you.” Iliana slips out of Hollander’s octopus-like embrace and bends down to unzip her bag. “Go lie on bed. Naked.”
Like a well-trained puppy, Hollander shoves the egregious amount of throw pillows onto the chair and pulls the sheets down before she starts taking her own clothes off. Iliana does not laugh when Hollander takes the time to fold and stack her clothes neatly, only because Hollander is so very earnest about it, and because the required motions give Iliana a great view of her naked body.
“First present,” Iliana finally says, once Hollander has settled onto the bed, sitting up against the headboard to see what Iliana’s grabbing from her overnight bag. Iliana tosses the first set of gifts onto the bed beside Hollander, who turns a shade of red that Iliana did not consider possible for a human to be.
“What is this?” Hollander sputters, grabbing the lingerie like she’d never seen any before. Considering what Iliana’s seen her wear, it is possible.
“Well, you do not have to put on now,” Iliana says, toeing off her socks and peeling her own leggings off.
Hollander picks the bra up by the straps like it’s a dead mouse a cat dragged into her apartment. The bra Iliana picked out is covered in ruffled pastel blue lace, trimmed in more white lace at the edges of the cups and a blue tulle frill on the shoulder straps, and the high-cut panties match, with more tulle frills on the sides. Iliana went to three different stores in Shibuya before she finally found something that was cute, wasn’t a thong, and was made of cotton. Unlike the men who’ve bought Iliana lingerie before, Iliana actually thought about something beyond how hot Hollander would look in it, like her comfort and preferences.
“How did you know my bra size?” Hollander asks.
“Hollander, I know the face you make when you come.” Iliana rolls her eyes and slips her t-shirt over her head. Predictably, Hollander’s eyes immediately lock onto Iliana’s own bra, which is a sheer black underwire that Iliana’s worn before. “Also, I read label on your bra. Not complicated.”
Hollander makes a grumpy noise and sets the bra down. “Pervert.”
“Yes.” Iliana smiles victoriously. “I know you like it about me. You want second gift now?”
“Is it more panties?” Hollander raises her eyebrow and dangles the underwear from a fingertip. “Seriously, Rozanova, I don’t even wear stuff like this.”
“Mm, not even for me?” Iliana pouts as she slides the next gift behind her back. “I wear nice things for you all the time.”
Hollander snorts. “Do you even own underwear that’s not a thong?”
“No, but this is because I have a great ass, is a waste to cover it up with ugly things.” Iliana tosses the next gift down onto the bed, where it bounces against the mattress.
“Oh,” is all Hollander has to say in response to this new gift. “Um.”
“Third gift, of course, is I use it on you,” Iliana says, in case Hollander managed to miss the obvious, which does happen often.
It’s a palm-sized black vibrator, sleek silicone that tapers into two stubby prongs, inside a clear storage bag, along with a small bottle of lube. Because Iliana is a good lover, she already charged and washed it before she got here.
“Huh.” Hollander gets quiet like this when she’s either embarrassed or aroused, like her brain’s wires got crossed at some point and can’t decipher what to do about it. Lucky for Hollander, Iliana likes it. “Okay.”
Iliana tugs her thong down and tosses it in the pile of her dirty clothes before she crawls into the left side of the bed next to Hollander, kissing up her jaw until their lips meet again. Her right hand slips between Hollander’s legs, petting the innermost part of her thigh with her fingertips. Hollander moans against Iliana’s lips, and Iliana gives in to the unspoken demand and turns her wrist so she can grind her thumb in gentle circles right above the base of Hollander’s clit.
Hollander whines when Iliana pulls her hand away, pouting. Iliana shushes her and opens the storage bag, fishing out both the lube and the vibrator. Just to be mean, Iliana pours the lube directly on to Hollander’s clit, watching as her eyebrows pull together and her kiss-swollen lips fall open. Maybe Iliana would be nicer to Hollander if Hollander didn’t like being treated rudely so much, Iliana thinks.
“Shh,” Iliana murmurs. She slides herself half-underneath Hollander, one arm wrapped around Hollander’s ribcage and Hollander’s leg tossed over Iliana’s hip. Iliana clicks the vibrator on and gently runs from under Hollander’s belly button to her pubic bone, pausing for just a few seconds before she slides the vibrator down, until the two prongs rest on either side of Hollander’s pretty little clit.
The reaction is immediate: Hollander shivers and thrashes weakly, thighs clamping down over Iliana’s hand and abs clenching. “Oh, fuck,” Hollander mutters, “fuck, Rozanova.”
“Is okay?” Rozanova asks, even though she already knows the answer.
Hollander doesn’t bother responding. She’s grinding her hips in tight little circles against Iliana’s hand and the vibrator, eyes squeezed shut tightly and mouth open. Iliana adjusts her arm around Hollander’s ribs so she can grab one of her breasts instead, rolling Hollander’s nipple between her thumb and forefinger.
“Oh, God.” Hollander’s thighs tighten around Iliana’s hand, almost hard enough to hurt, and then her whole body tenses as she comes, hips jerking and chasing friction. “Fuck, oh—Rozanova.”
Iliana smothers her grin in the side of Hollander’s neck. “Good?”
“Oh, fuck—fuck you,” Hollander murmurs, trying weakly to squirm away from Iliana’s grasp. She’s always so sensitive after an orgasm, sometimes to the point of tears, which is why Iliana does not move, keeping the vibrator pressed up against Hollander’s clit even as Hollander winces. Hollander is pretty when she cries, and even prettier when she cries because of something Iliana does to her bed.
“Mm, I think you can do better than that,” Iliana murmurs. “One time in one hour? Anybody can do that.”
Hollander doesn’t say anything, only whines. Iliana nips at her neck in between kissing her shoulder, and smiles against her skin when Hollander starts working her hips again to grind against the vibrator, chasing friction. “Good girl,” Iliana whispers. “Good girl.”
“Now the bed’s all dirty,” Shayne mumbles, staring up at her bedroom ceiling.
Rozanova, who looked like she’d been halfway to sleep tucked under Shayne’s arm, flicks Shayne right on the shoulderblade. “What?”
“I should’ve gotten a towel,” Shayne continues anyway. “I feel sticky.”
“Oh my God, Hollander. Shut up.” Rozanova groans and cranes her neck up to kiss Shayne’s jaw and clavicle. “I will get you washcloth in a minute, okay? You killed me. I am dead now.”
Shayne snorts and kisses the top of Rozanova’s head. “It was so fucking hot, though.”
“So you like your presents?” Rozanova props herself up on one elbow, head tilted as she looks at the mess she’s made of Shayne over the past hour.
“Lingerie, really?” Shayne stares at the pile of blue and white lace sitting on her nightstand. “Where do you think I’m going that lingerie like that makes sense?”
Rozanova grins, lazy and confident. “My hotel room. After I win the World Championships in March.”
“You fucking wish,” Shayne says.
“Mm, like you’ve been wishing for silver medal for the second year in a row?” Rozanova stretches her arms, making a sensual show of it and pushing her tits into Shayne’s chest.
“Hey, fuck you. I just won the Olympics.”
Rozanova shrugs, smug as usual. “Remember when I made you beg to come?”
Shayne’s face feels hot. “Go fuck yourself, Rozanova.”
“No. I want to fuck you instead.”
April 3, 2010 - St. Petersburg Trophy - St. Petersburg, Russia
“You need to put more makeup on. You look pale.”
Iliana nods as her father pushes a glass of vodka into her hand. “Yes, sir,” she says, as meekly as she can make her voice sound. Russian has never felt as clumsy in her mouth as it does now, after so many months of speaking Russian only on the phone or to her coach.
“The minister still wants to meet you tonight, despite everything.” Her father sips at his glass of vodka and leers at her through the faint film of his worsening cataracts. In the photos Iliana’s seen of her father as a young man, back when Grigori Kirillovich Rozanov had all his hair and his mind, he had been handsome.
“It would be my honor.” Iliana knocks back half the glass in one swig, relishing the sting of the vodka as she swallows.
“You should be honored, after yesterday. You lost gold to...” Grigori trails off, eyebrows knit together. “To...”
“To Shayne Hollander,” Iliana says, staring at the medals clinking against each other on her father’s jacket. Iliana has always tried to be a good daughter. “The Canadian.”
“To the Canadian, and yet here you are. You drink. How could you let that happen?” Grigori’s lip twitches in disgust. There is a little spot he must’ve missed while shaving by his upper lip, Iliana notes blandly. Once Grigori Rozanov was handsome and successful, and now he is old, bald, fat, and unable to even shave his own face properly. “How are you not ashamed?”
“I am ashamed, Daddy.” Iliana drops her eyes to her father’s shoes. Don’t challenge him, she recites to herself in her mind, in the voice that sounds like her mother: Keep your eyes down. Keep your head down. You’re strong, Ilja. You’ll go far.
“Not nearly enough. Do they teach you no disciple in America? Your jumps are ugly. You fell during your Axel. Were your blades dull, or do you just not care anymore?”
“No. I do care.”
“The real shame, Ilechka, is that you won’t give up. You insist you can’t retire yet, that you have so much skating left to do, but what are you really doing? You could retire and come back to an Olympic Reserve Sports School, like you talked about, become a coach. Spare yourself the humiliation.”
“I won the World Championships, Daddy,” Iliana says, not because she wants an argument but because she can’t tell if he remembers or not. “For the second year in a row, I am the world champion. I won Four Continents, I won the Grand Prix Finals. I am a better skater now than I have ever been.”
“You think that makes you special, Ilechka? You think you can do something as sloppy as fall during a basic double Axel, and it will not matter, just because you have some gold medals at home? Do the judges in America give you extra points for trying your best?” Grigori clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “And who did your makeup tonight? You look pale, you need to put more on. Was it your mother? See if she has some lipstick. Anything to make you look better.”
“No, Daddy,” Iliana says, wishing she felt angry, wishing she felt sad, wishing she felt anything at all. “Mama is dead. You remember?” There is so little room left in her heart to be angry with the husk of an old man her father is becoming. He’s hardly recognizable, sometimes, as the man who terrorized so much of Iliana’s childhood.
Grigori’s hands shake around his glass. “Ah,” he mutters. “I meant your stepmother. Where is Polina?”
“In Moscow, at home.” He’s like a child, Iliana realizes. A frightened child. But she can’t bring herself to feel pity for her father.
“Of course.” Her father nods, like this was all a test for Iliana’s sake.
“We should go,” Iliana says gently. “To the gala, so I can meet the minister.”
“Of course. Ready?”
Iliana smiles like she’s been trained to do since childhood. “Yes.”
Nod, and smile, and say nothing except polite agreements, and look pretty. Take up only as much space as you must, enough to let people know you are there, but no more. Do not show weakness, ever. Simple rules, Iliana knows, that her mother learned the hard way and tried desperately to teach Iliana.
“You’re boring her, Father,” a voice booms, interrupting both Iliana’s father and Sergei Mikhailovich Vetrov, the Minister of Sport, who have been trading barbs back and forth about Iliana’s free skate yesterday and how she was welcome to retire to Russia whenever she wanted.
Immediately Iliana’s smile ceased to be fake.
Slava scoops up Iliana’s right hand in his and lifts the back of her palm to his lips in a kiss, grinning up at Iliana. “Iliana Grigoryevna Rozanova, how lovely to finally see you again.”
“Olympic Reserve School Number 47 is looking for a coach,” Vetrov protests, “and Channel One is thinking of a new season of Ice Age, which would need a host.”
“She won the World Championship last month, Father. Give her at least a few weeks to enjoy that before you start offering her a job. Come on, Ilja. I’m taking you to the bar.” Sviatoslav—Slava, as Iliana’s called him since childhood—winks and slings his arm over Iliana’s shoulder, herding her away from their fathers and down the marble staircase.
This is how their lives have been, since they first met: Slava, who could probably get away with actual murder, sweeping in to rescue Iliana from her father’s tirades and cruelty, because nobody dares to question what the son of a politician like Sergei Mikhailovich Vetrov does, not even Iliana’s father. Especially not now that Slava’s building himself quite a fortune and reputation for himself by selling expensive yachts and luxury cars to the richest people on Earth.
“Thank you,” Iliana whispers once they’re out of earshot.
“I am an angel,” Slava says with a dramatic sigh. “It would be great if you remembered that.”
“I want a drink, Slava.” Iliana stares longing at a server walking by with a tray of champagne flutes, but makes no move to take one. Instead she lets Slava guide her through the gala, down a hallway.
“But I have something more fun in mind,” Slava says, leading her through a set of double doors.
It’s a bathroom, spacious and clearly part of the private section of the mansion being used for the gala, and inside is Aleksandra Igorevna Petrova, hunched over the black marble counter and snorting a line of cocaine. She’s rail-thin, dressed in a bright red halterneck dress that plunges nearly to her belly button and would’ve looked more appropriate at a nightclub than a black-tie gala. Her hair is sloppily pulled up into a high bun.
“Ah.” Aleksandra stands up, shaking her shoulders out. Her pupils are blown completely black. “It’s been a long time, Ilja.”
“It has, Sasha.” Iliana’s stomach twists. Sasha looks like shit. There’s dark bags under her eyes that even her makeup can’t quite hide.
Sasha spins around and grabs a bottle of wine from the counter behind her. “Want a drink? Or something else?”
“Wine is fine.” Iliana takes a seat on the vanity across from the sink, kicking her heels off. After a few minutes of looking in the various closets and drawers in the bathroom, Sasha and Slava eventually come up with three glasses intended for water, and Sasha pours them each an overly generous glass before crawling to sprawl out in the Jacuzzi tub in the center of the room.
“I don’t think you skated that badly,” Sasha says, after the silence between the three of them has lingered for a few seconds too long. “A bronze medal isn’t that bad.”
“I’d say thank you, but I know you didn’t watch yesterday.” If only the press could hear her now, Iliana thinks. They thought she was rude for not smiling when she lost a championship.
“For a girl whose mother has been a coach her entire life, you’ve managed to avoid skating as an adult very well,” Slava adds, because nobody calls a man a bitch for speaking the truth, no matter how harsh.
“I pay attention sometimes.” Sasha shrugs and takes a big swig from her glass. Her lipstick is smeared, Iliana notices. “When there’s something worth paying attention to.” As she says it, her eyes slide to Iliana, to what shows of her bare legs under the hem of Iliana’s black dress.
“The Trophy doesn’t matter anyway, not for you, Ilja.” Slava leans back on the sink counter, resting the back of his head against the mirror.
“It doesn’t?” Iliana raises an eyebrow. “How do you figure that? My father—”
“Your father is a raging asshole who would punish you no matter what. You won every major championship this season. You defended your title as world champion. The only two things you didn’t get were the Olympics and the St. Petersburg Tropy, and you weren’t even allowed to skate at the Olympics. You need to stop giving a fuck about what he thinks.” Slava says it all like it should be obvious to everybody, like there is not even a single molecule of doubt in his body that Iliana is the best woman on the ice right now, like he’s never seen Shayne Hollander or Soo-Jin Kim skate before. “You’ll skate even better next year.”
“How do you know that?” Iliana asks, caught between her self-deprecation and her never-ending hunger to win, to be better, to skate better.
“He’s psychic,” Sasha says, sounding bored.
“Because you’re Iliana Grigoryevna Rozanova. You have crushed every record so far. You will not stop now.” There’s something about the fire in Slava’s deep green eyes that almost makes Iliana believe it, too. Slava is a persuasive bastard when he wants to be. That’s probably why he’s so good at selling expensive shit.
Sasha waves her little plastic bag of coke in the air, dangling it like a prize. “Very good. Now can we finally have some fun?”
“No. It’s bedtime for me.” Slava sets his cup down and ambles over to Iliana, dropping a sloppy kiss on her forehead. “But you girls have fun, okay? See you in Boston, Ilja.” He grabs his jacket off the counter and leaves without another word, whistling as he closes the door behind himself.
“So,” Sasha says, staring at the door listlessly.
“So,” Iliana repeats.
“So how’s Paris, Sasha?” Sasha asks herself, tossing her head back against the tub wall with a sigh. “Oh, it’s great, thanks. I fucking love it there. The clubs are insane. The men are hot. And the girls—well, you’ve seen French girls, haven’t you, Ilja?”
Iliana does not dignify that with a response. It’s hard, now that Iliana’s spent so much time with Hollander, to even imagine what she once saw in Sasha. Was it just that Sasha was there, was open to exploring, when no other girls were? Was it just convenient?
Sasha groans as she stands up in the tub, stepping out and into Iliana’s personal space. “Oh my God, nothing? You won’t do a line, you won’t make a joke, you won’t flirt back... You used to be fun, Ilja.” Sasha presses a palm on the counter by Iliana’s hip, leaning over her and resting her head on Iliana’s shoulder.
Iliana does not move.
“Remember?” Sasha murmurs. “We used to have fun together.”
The only word that Iliana can think of, looking down at Sasha, is pathetic. Sasha is pathetic. Sloppy, high, drunk, wearing a tacky dress, and clearly desperate for Iliana to reciprocate, to offer her something in return.
Sasha turns her head and kisses Iliana, biting at her lip with a sigh.
Iliana pulls back immediately. She can feel the sticky imprint left behind by Sasha’s lipgloss all over her lips. “No,” Iliana says quietly. Firmly.
“Really?” Sasha’s eyes are red-rimmed, and her clumpy black mascara is threatening to smear down her face with tears. “No? You won’t even let me have this one time?”
“We’re not girls anymore, Sasha. Stop.” Iliana pushes off the counter and steps into her heels again.
“Then let’s go somewhere, come on.” Sasha wraps her thin fingers around Iliana’s wrist. Her skin is ice-cold. “Let’s find a party. Danger used to get you going, if memory serves.”
“No. I have a flight tomorrow.” Iliana turns to look at herself in the mirror, wiping Sasha’s lipgloss off her face as best she can.
“Fine, then I’m going to find a party.” There’s something so desperate in Sasha’s face as the tears finally begin to fall. “Do you even care about me? I’ve been all alone, Ilja. You were supposed to love me.”
“Goodbye, Aleksandra Igorevna,” Iliana says, one foot out of the doorway already. She can’t look back. She needs to stick to her resolve, and she knows how this will end if she sees Sasha crying alone in that tomb-like marble bathroom.
Fuck Sasha for trying to kiss her like that. Fuck Sasha for playing the pity card, too. Iliana is not some pathetic teenage girl from Moscow anymore. She won’t be manipulated by tears and threats of self-destruction.
She’s Iliana Grigoryevna fucking Rozanova. She has better things to do now.
June 11, 2010 - Montreal, Quebec
Shayne spent forty-three minutes in the store yesterday trying to find the exact bottle of wine her mom had recommended, and then another twenty minutes trying to decide if she needed to get a gift bag for it.
She decided against it at the time, but now that she’s standing on Hayden’s porch she’s having second thoughts. Shayne should’ve asked her mom. She’s ruminating on how embarrassing this entire situation is when finally, at long last, Hayden answers the door and immediately sweeps Shayne into a big hug.
“Oh, nice,” Hayden says, grabbing the bottle right out of Shayne’s hand as she steers Shayne towards the living room. “I didn’t know you were a wine girl.”
“I’m not. My mom told me to get wine,” Shayne says automatically. She cringes. Too honest, like always.
Hayden just laughs and waves her free hand at the massive sectional sofa in front of the television. “Oh my God, you’re so cute. There’s ginger ale in the fridge if you want. Jackie’s putting Ruby and Jade down for bed.” Hayden busies herself doing something in the kitchen, which is separated from the living room only by a countertop and a row of barstools.
“Ooh, Canada’s favorite gold medalist came to watch with us?” J.J. stage-whispers, lifting her head up from the mountain of throw pillows she’s claimed for herself in the corner of the section. Her right calf is free from any bandages now, but there’s a pale pink scar running at an angle down the side of it, evidence of the slash left behind by her brother’s skate blade.
“Shut up,” Shayne says gruffly. “You would’ve gotten gold if you’d been there.”
“Hollander, why do I have to keep apologizing to you for an accident that happened to my sister?” Benoit asks. “She accepted my apology. Why not you?”
“Shayne’s, like, the captain of Team Canada figure skating. It’s her job to worry about us,” Hayden says, reappearing in front of the sofa with a tray of colorful plastic wine glasses and a can of ginger ale. “This moscato is the bomb, Shayne. Tell your mom I said thanks.”
“I will,” Shayne says, and she deserves the eyeroll that J.J. gives her. She takes the ginger ale from the tray as the others take the wine glasses.
“Ooh, it’s starting.” Hayden grabs the remote and turns the TV volume up. “Aren’t you excited, Shayne?”
“Not really. I’m sure I look stupid.”
J.J. clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Ce sont des conneries. You will look good. Your mother would not let it be played if you did not look good.”
The title card appears on screen, white text on a fuzzy blue background: On the Edge of Greatness: The Shayne Hollander Story.
It is possible Shayne will actually die of secondhand embarrassment about this before the documentary’s even started to air. “I think I need a glass of wine,” she manages to squeak out.
Hayden pushes the last unclaimed glass from the tray into Shayne’s hand. “Knew you would.”
“I can’t believe they keep putting in clips of fucking Iliana Rozanova,” Jackie says. He takes a sip from his wine glass and brushes his fingers through Hayden’s hair, where she’s set her head in his lap and her feet in Shayne’s lap. Shayne’s had one glass of wine too many to even complain about being used as a footrest.
“You must hate her the most out of any of us, Shayne.” Hayden wiggles her socked feet in Shayne’s lap.
“Huh?” Shayne says. She can’t really bear to look away from the TV, where the documentary is slowly zooming into Iliana, wearing her I ♥︎ Shayne Hollander sweater, in the stands at the Olympics while Shayne is skating her free program. Iliana doesn’t look like she’s irritated, jealous, mocking, or any of the other negative emotions it seems like the narrator is trying to imply. Honestly, the more Shayne stares at it, the more it looks like Iliana seems... proud? Proud of Shayne?
“You hate Rozanova,” J.J. says.
“Oh. Yeah.” Shayne nods.
“But she’s a great skater,” Benoit says, like he’s admitting a dirty secret and not that the two-time world champion might deserve her title.
“The best, probably.” The words are out of Shayne’s mouth before she can think about it. But it’s only the truth, really. If Rozanova had competed at the Olympics, the CBC would’ve had no reason to do a documentary about Shayne at all. Shayne's great. It's just that Iliana Rozanova might be a little bit better.