Chapter Text
July 4, 2010 - Coupe de Montreal - Montreal, Quebec
This is the first face-off of the season for 2010’s Olympic gold medalist, Shayne Hollander, and last season’s World Champion, Iliana Rozanova. Last season ended with career highs for both women, with Iliana Rozanova narrowly keeping her rank as number one in the ISU world standings at 2,625 points and Shayne Hollander at 2,530 points.
Coming into the free skate, Rozanova has a 2 point lead over Hollander, mostly because of the edge call on Hollander’s triple Lutz.
Rozanova glances up at Shayne over the edge of her hand mirror as she puts a fresh coat of pink lipstick on. “Having a good afternoon?” Rozanova asks, casual as ever.
“Sure.” Shayne gives herself a once-over in the dressing room mirror. She looks fine, like she does most of the time. The new dress looks good, like Hayden and her mother had assured her: asymmetrical navy blue velvet wrap skirt and keyhole bodice, with long navy mesh sleeves and an open back. And, of course, as few rhinestones as Shayne could talk her mother and Lisa into using.
Rozanova pops her tongue and sighs. “That’s nice. Maybe you’ll give me real competition, then?”
Shayne whips her head around and stares at Rozanova, who looks entirely unbothered. “Are you seriously talking smack right now?” There’s other skaters in this dressing room. This is why Rozanova has at best a mixed reputation.
“No.” Rozanova doesn’t even look at Shayne. She caps her lipstick and tosses it into her leopard print makeup bag. “Wrong edge is a silly mistake for the world’s second best skater to make. More fun to win against you when you skate better.”
Shayne takes a deep breath in and out before she does something she regrets in front of a room full of witnesses. “Well, good luck,” she eventually says. She doesn’t bother turning back to see what ridiculous face Rozanova’s probably making at her.
October 2, 2010 - Japan Open - Saitama, Japan
Well, we haven’t seen much of Shayne Hollander since she took silver at the Coupe de Montreal in July, but she’s back with a completely new routine for her free skate and a plan to attempt a quadruple jump. If Hollander can land her quad Salchow, she’ll make history as the first ever woman to land a quad jump in a senior competition, and the first woman over the age of 18. When she was asked why she’s choosing to attempt a quad at this particular competition, Hollander simply said, “My grandmother will be attending.”
Let’s see how she does.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Shayne repeated under her breath, looking at the scoreboard desperately. She can barely feel her feet in her skates. Wiebe is hunched by her side, elbows braced on his knees and forehead pressed against his fists, and her mother is rubbing circles on her back.
“You did incredible, honey,” her mom whispers. “No matter what happens.”
Shayne’s hands are shaking. “I did it, right? I did it.”
There’s an announcement in Japanese that Shayne can’t understand, and then in English: “Shayne Hollander has earned 131.68 points in the free skate. Total element score: 67.92. Total program component score: 63.76. She is currently in first place.”
“Oh, shit,” Shayne says under her breath. She feels hysterical. “I did it. I did it.” She did it. She just landed the first ratified quad since 2002, and she did it in front of her grandmother, who is currently giving her a standing ovation beside her father in the stands. She just landed a quad in front of fucking Iliana Rozanova, while they’re on the same team at the Japan Open. Holy shit.
October 7, 2010 - New York City, New York
What has happened to Scottie Hunter?
She made it to the Vancouver Olympics where she ranked fourth, and she took home the bronze medal at the Grand Prix Finals last year, but she’s preparing for her third major skating event of the season and the highest place she’s been able to finish is seventh. She said that she wanted to close out her career on her own terms, but this is almost embarrassing.
Meanwhile, Iliana Rozanova’s new Swan Lake program and Shayne Hollander’s quad Salchow absolutely carried Team North America at the Japan Open. They earned a combined 255.67 points, with a team total of 550.69, absolutely crushing the runner-up Team Japan with a 33.34 point difference. Scottie Hunter was the alternate for Team North America, and let’s just all admit that we’re glad she didn’t get called in.
Scottie tosses her phone in her purse without sparing a glance at it. She shouldn’t be reading fucking blogs right now. Yes, her short program at the Nebelhorn Trophy was a clusterfuck (because she’d had to skate on brand new boots with zero break-in time after her old boots decided to bite the dust during the practice ice). Yes, her free skate at the Coupe de Montreal was also a clusterfuck (because she’d had a migraine for almost five hours straight by the time she got on the ice). Scottie already knows all this. It’s just pure masochism that makes her want to hear it said again and again by people who don’t know shit about what it’s actually like to skate at this high of a level.
Right. Okay. She did not commute 40 minutes from Astoria just to read posts about how shitty of a skater she is. She came specifically to the least-crowded Sephora around to buy makeup, even though she hates it, because that’s what figure skaters do and that’s what she’s supposed to like doing. Showing up bare-faced to a competition would be as embarrassing as forgetting to have blades installed on your skates.
“Hi, welcome in. Let me know if I can help you with anything.”
Fuck me, Scottie thinks, as she comes face to face with one of the most beautiful women she’s ever seen. She’s seen lots of beautiful women. That’s another standard in figure skating, like wearing makeup; skaters should be pretty. But this girl? This girl is... also beautiful.
Scottie’s not a poet. She’s barely a figure skater. At least she knows now that she can cross ‘author’ off of her potential post-retirement career idea list.
“Hi,” Scottie says, feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet.
Kip, the girl’s nametag reads. She’s gorgeous. She’s lean and muscular, like she works out a lot, and she’s got beautiful brown hair and brown eyes, and Scottie is definitely staring at her like a freak.
“I need a blush,” Scottie says, trying to find a way to salvage this situation without scaring off Kip. “What... What’s a good blush, Kip?”
“Oh.” Kip smiles and giggles, like Scottie has somehow been charming. “Um, well, do you have a color or formula in mind?”
“Pink, probably.” Scottie is fucking this up so bad. Pink blush? When in her life has she ever worn pink blush? She has an ancient mauve blush in a Clinique compact her mother gave her back in like 2006 that she’s been using ever since. Scottie came in here to get her normal waterproof eyeliner, and now she’s lying to the prettiest woman she’s ever seen about needing fucking blush.
“Okay. Do you like a brighter pink? Or are you thinking more natural?” Kip starts moving towards a display fixture in the corner of the store, and Scottie follows obediently. “The NARS blushes are my favorite right now, but they do have deeply stupid shade names.”
“Ah.” Scottie looks down at the shelf Kip is pointing to, where a row of tester blushes are lined up in black square packaging. Aroused. Orgasm. Deep Throat. Jesus, Kip wasn’t kidding about the stupid names.
“This one’s the most classic pink,” Kip says, pointing one beautifully-manicured fingernail at a pinkish shade in the center of the display.
“You mean ‘Orgasm’?” Scottie asks, arching an eyebrow.
Kip laughs again. “Yeah, that’s it. I warned you about the names. But if you’re looking for a pink blush, this is what I’d get.” She plucks a blush from the fixture and holds it out for Scottie to take, which she does with an embarrassing level of awkwardness.
Scottie should be normal about this, and she should just go over to the checkout counter and pay for her unnecessary pink blush, and leave this Sephora and never come back. But Kip is still smiling at her, and Scottie’s always been a sucker.
“Um,” Kip says, reaching up to run a hand through her dark hair. Does she look flirty and nervous too, or is that just Scottie’s wishful thinking? “Do you need help finding anything else?”
“I need eyeliner,” Scottie answers immediately. At least now she’s being honest. “Just, like, a normal black eyeliner, but I need it to be waterproof.”
“Okay.” Kip’s smile is brighter than the sun (and maybe Scottie could be a poet, after all). “I love the tattoo eyeliner by KVD. It’s so good. I’ve even worked a double here and fell asleep with my makeup on when I got home, and my eyeliner still looked good when I woke up.”
“Wow, so you’re kind of wild, Kip,” Scottie says, teasing. Teasing? What is she doing? Is she actually flirting right now? With a Sephora salesgirl?
“I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time somebody’s told me that.”
“Yeah, actually. That sounds pretty good. Can you show me where that is?”
“Girl.” Mario is staring at Kip in that annoying I know something you don’t way from his position at the cash wrap. “Like, girl.”
Kip rolls her eyes and starts pulling out her brushes for her 10:30 makeup consultation. “What?”
“Girl,” Mario repeats.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kip says briskly, trying to sound super casual. Mario’s always trying to make things into a bigger deal than they need to be. So what if someone attractive—who clearly didn’t know or care that much about makeup—maybe, possibly hit on her at work? Honestly, Kip thinks, it’s just nice that it was actually a hot woman who hit on her instead of the creepy manager of the Foot Locker across the street, who keeps coming in to buy expensive cologne just to have a reason to talk to Kip.
“Dude, was that Scottie Hunter?” Salem stage-whispers. She’s got a box of new Stila palettes she’s supposed to be stocking in her arms. “Like, Team USA Figure Skating team leader, Scottie Hunter?”
“I don’t know.” This consultation is a trial for bridal makeup, and full glam was requested, which means full coverage. Kip tries to think about what products she’ll need to grab. NARS concealer, of course, but what foundation? The Armani Beauty? Make Up For Ever? “Go back to work,” Kip grumbles, and with a dramatic sigh Salem turns back to the empty endcap.
October 10, 2010 - New York City, New York
Up now is Scottie Hunter of New York City, New York. She’s had a rough start to this season, but she’s third coming into the free skate and she had an amazingly clean short program—which neither Shayne Hollander nor Iliana Rozanova can say, with that unclear edge call on Hollander’s quad attempt and Rozanova singling a double loop.
“So this is what we’re watching?” Kylee stares at the TV with a look of exaggerated disgust.
“We barely get to see you because you’re always working, and now we’ve gotta watch a bunch of barely-dressed women throw themselves around the ice doing interpretive dance,” Shauna whines. “I didn’t even know this bar paid for whatever special ESPN channel this is.”
“Shut up, Shauna,” Kip says. Her eyes are still glued to the TV screen, where Scottie Hunter is gliding backwards to classical music.
“So turn it off?” Kylee picks the remote off of the bar.
“No, no, no, keep it on, please,” Kip rushes to say, hoping to God that she doesn’t sound as desperate as thinks she does.
“Thank you, Kylee,” Mario says, and immediately Kip and Shauna echo their own thanks.
“You’re quite welcome.” Kylee bows melodramatically and heads off to actually do her job at the other end of the bar.
“Twice. She said your name twice.” Mario smacks Kip on the shoulder. “Like, she used your actual name twice.”
“Mario, that is setting the bar so low it’s basically in Hell.”
Kip can’t really bear to take her eyes off of Scottie. She moves around like it’s the most natural thing to have razor blades strapped to her feet, throwing herself what’s got to be several feet off the ice and into the air.
She’s coming up to her big combo, triple loop, double toe loop, double loop. If Hunter’s going to struggle anywhere in this program it’ll be right here. And...
Kip sucks in a breath and holds it.
Wow. What a return to form for Scottie Hunter! Wonderful form on that last loop, too.
“It didn’t even sound stupid when she said it. It almost sounded hot—well, okay, not hot, but it sounded normal.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“Fuck both of you,” Kip says. “Kip is short for Katherine Philomena. It’s a family name. It’s not that weird.”
“Like, technically shouldn’t you just be K.P.? What’s the point in your parents giving you two first names if they were just going to call you Kip all the time? Did they just hate you as a fetus or something, and want to make filling out paperwork a nightmare for you forever?” Shauna muses, just to be an asshole. She’s lucky that Kip loves her. “Just please don’t tell me you used it on your grad school applications.”
“Oh my God, why are we even talking about my dumb name?”
“She said it!” Mario and Shauna say simultaneously.
Kip buries her face into her folded arms and groans. She should’ve stayed home and tried to find a way to watch this skating thing online. At least her mother wouldn’t be teasing her like this.
Now this is the skating you’d expect to see from someone who’s been on the ice as long as Scottie Hunter has. Simple, clean forms and well-executed choreography.
“She is kinda hot,” Shauna says, and Kip finally peeks her head up. “I mean, those thighs have got to be killer from doing this, right? And she knows your name?”
“Yeah,” Kip sighs. “I mean, she’s probably not gay, but—”
“Shut the fuck up, she literally blushed,” Mario interrupts, at the same time that Shauna says, “Then make her gay, bitch.”
October 15, 2010 - New York City, New York
“She won silver,” Kip says, scrolling through the ISU profile page on her phone like she understands what any of it means. “Which, considering she was skating against Iliana Rozanova and Shayne Hollander, is insane. She beat Iliana Rozanova. Iliana Rozanova’s taken first place at basically everything she’s done for basically the past two years straight. Like, Rozanova fell during her free skate, but—”
Mario flicks Kip in her upper arm and rolls his eyes. “Look, there’s an eleven o’clock false lash application. Are you going to take it or can I?”
The door chimes, and Kip instinctually turns towards it with a smile. “Hi, welcome in,” she says, moving on autopilot.
It’s Scottie Hunter.
It’s Scottie Hunter.
“Oh, sure, Mario, you can do the lash application,” Mario grumbles sarcastically.
“Can I help you with anything new today?” Kip says, just sort of standing in the middle of the main aisle like an idiot.
Scottie smiles. Does she look nervous, or is Kip imagining things? “Yeah, actually.”
“You’re Scottie Hunter, right? The figure skater?”
Scottie cringes a little, reaching up to scratch at the back of her neck. She’s dressed cute today, Kip notices, in black leggings and an oversized dark green fleece sweatshirt. “Yeah.”
Is Scottie embarrassed about this? Oh God, what if Kip just made her uncomfortable? Maybe she hates being recognized in public. It’s not like figure skaters are usually huge celebrity athletes, like hockey or football players.
“This is awesome,” Kip says, because apparently freaking out in front of a hot woman basically removes every social skill she’s ever learned. “Like, you did incredible last week. You beat Iliana Rozanova.” Oh God, she’s babbling now. Maybe the ground will open up and swallow her up whole.
But suddenly Scottie smiles, which is just gorgeous, and she laughs. “I didn’t take you for that big of a fan.”
“No, I’m not usually. But it’s really cool. I mean, I took skating lessons when I was in third grade, but nothing like that. I probably couldn’t even do a lap on the ice anymore.”
“Doing a lap is the easy part,” Scottie says, like Kip is not actively making a fool of herself on company time. “It’s stopping that always gets beginners.” She clears her throat and glances around the store. “I was hoping you could help me find a new lipstick. Something that’ll last through a whole day of competition.”
“Oh.” Kip has to be grinning like an idiot right now. “Sure, absolutely. You know, if you wanted, I could book you in right now for a makeup consultation. We could go over, like, lip prep, and techniques to improve weartime with any product.” This is not, strictly speaking, Sephora store policy, but it’s not like Mario will particularly care, as long as Kip tells him about it later.
“That sounds good. Let’s do that then, Kip.”
Oh, Kip is so totally fucked. She’s got the crush to end all crushes on Scottie Hunter, who maybe probably definitely isn’t even into other women. This is going to just ruin her life.
November 13, 2010 - Skate America - Portland, Oregon
“Hey,” Iliana says, zipping her makeup bag closed as she spots Scottie Hunter entering the green room.
“Hey,” Hunter mumbles back. She looks like she needs something stronger than the Gatorade sloshing around her ugly Nalgene water bottle. She all but collapses into a folding chair across from Iliana’s own chair.
“You beat me.” Iliana folds her arms over her chest. You fell. You fumbled a simple jump, and then you fell! Like a child! Unforgivable, at your age, at your rank, with your training. Of course her father, who can’t remember that her mother has been dead for over six years now, remembered every single second of her failure at Finlandia. “That will not happen again.”
Hunter snorts. “Whatever.”
“Not because I am a better skater, which I am, but because I think you are skating lazy most of the time. Maybe beating me should have been your big finale. Is it your age?” Iliana smirks at Hunter. She’s almost as easy to piss off as Hollander, though she’s nowhere near as cute when she’s angry.
“Go fuck yourself, Rozanova.”
“Mm, no. It’s more fun if you’re there.” Iliana blows her a kiss with a wink. Hunter is pretty, in that nice American way of suntanned skin and green eyes, and maybe if Iliana were not so fixated on Shayne Hollander, she could have some fun with Scottie Hunter. Maybe Iliana’s just into any brunette with the initials S.H.
She should text that to Hollander. It would make her so upset.
October 25, 2010 - New York City, New York
Kip picks the baby corn out of her fried rice to eat it first, as usual. “And I know the whole needing makeup thing is dumb or whatever, but she just keeps saying my name and it’s making me crazy.”
Elliot snatches a carrot out of her takeout box while Kip’s distracted by a mouthful of baby corn. “So are you coming to my work fundraiser or not? Because I am not looking for a date,” he says, glancing around the mostly-empty Kingfisher.
“Yes,” Kip sighs. “I already told you, and it’s in, like, three months. Could you please just listen to me?”
“I am listening. I’m just waiting for you to say something actually intelligent, like I know you can. What does Mario say?”
“He says she’s flirting with me too.” That wasn’t all of what Mario said, of course. He’d told her that if Scottie Hunter was a straight man, this would be the most pathetic and transparent attempt at flirting since the Foot Locker manager. Scottie was only getting away with it, of course, because she’s a hot lesbian. And at this point, Scottie was in Sephora basically twice a month on Thursdays, asking if Kip had any recommendations for new makeup, even though Scottie never seems to be wearing makeup when she comes into the store.
“He’s much smarter than you. And probably smarter than your ice skating idiot.”
“She’s not an idiot,” Kip says, a little too quickly. Elliot has the kindness not to laugh at her.
“Sure. So when are you two moving in?”
“We’re not moving in. She doesn’t even know my last name.”
“And when has that ever stopped two lesbians signing a lease and from adopting a cat together?”
“Fuck off. Did they give you any fortune cookies at least?”
November 29, 2010 - New York City, New York
It’s been refreshing to see Scottie Hunter find her second wind after that rocky start to this season. Am I the only person on earth who thinks she might actually have a chance at winning a championship this season? She’s not likely to break Hollander or Rozanova’s streak at the Grand Prix Finals, but I’d love to see her walk away with a bronze at least.
This is a terrible idea and Scottie already regrets it. Sure, let’s just book a full makeup appointment on a random Tuesday, Scottie thinks, even though the only place she has to go today is to her usual private ice time. All this, just for a chance to see a woman she has a crush on. This is honestly starting to border on stalking.
But, Scottie thinks, Kip could’ve refused the appointment or handed it off to someone else if she was uncomfortable. That’s got to count for something.
“Hi,” Kip says. She looks as great as ever, wearing what Scottie’s come to understand is a classic winged-out smokey eye in deep brown and taupe shades and warm nude blush with a matching nude lip gloss. “Are you ready?”
“Sure.” Scottie knows she’s probably blushing as Kip leads her towards the section of vanities where all the makeup appointments happen. “Uh, sorry,” Scottie says as soon as she takes a seat in one of the black chairs. “Sorry I keep... stalking you.”
Kip laughs, which makes her look even more beautiful. “This is not stalking. This is me doing my job so well I have a repeat client.”
Right. Right, because Scottie is just a client that Kip sells makeup to, even though there’s a little rainbow flag pin on Kip’s uniform jacket, which Scottie just sort of assumes is her way of saying she’s gay. “Yeah. Sure.”
“What are you hoping for today? Do you have any ideas in mind, or maybe a reference picture?”
“Um, whatever you recommend. I don’t know.” Scottie watches as Kip opens a few different drawers on the vanity in front of her, pulling out sponges and brushes and all other sorts of things.
“I’ve noticed you like a more natural look, sort of a lower coverage, nude tone thing. Something really neutral but still polished and pretty.” Kip fetches a tube of foundation. “The Laura Mercier Silk Crème blends really nicely and has a satin-matte finish that looks more like normal skin than a heavier foundation would. And also, I would probably let you stalk me.”
Scottie stares slack-jawed at Kip as Kip steps towards her with a foundation-covered sponge in hand. “You would?”
“Yeah. I mean, if I’m going to be murdered by a serial killer, at least I get to be killed by a hot woman. That’s pushing the horror genre forward a bit, I think.”
“I think I’m too lazy to be a serial killer. I took a quiz once.” Scottie tries her best not to grin, so that Kip can more easily pat on the foundation.
“Really? Scottie Hunter, who demoted Iliana Rozanova to a bronze medal for the first time in like three years, is lazy? Who just took silver at the Cup of Russia?” Kip teases.
“I didn’t know you watched skating that much.”
Kip’s biting her lip like she’s embarrassed. It’s impossibly cute. God, Scottie’s in deep. “It’s a new hobby.”
“Hm.” Scottie falls silent for a few minutes, to let Kip finish applying the foundation and dab on some concealer under her eyes.
“I just know that Iliana Rozanova’s supposed to be, like, the best in the world, and you beat her by nine points, which is a lot. I mean, Shayne Hollander’s supposed to be the other best skater and the like, four times she’s beat Rozanova as seniors, it hasn’t been by that many points. So... Hard to believe you’re lazy,” Kip says, setting the sponge down and pulling out a puff and a jar of face powder. “This is just the Laura Mercier setting powder. It’s the best selling powder we have, and it’s got more of that satin-matte finish that works best for a natural look.”
“I’m not really lazy,” says Scottie, in a way that’s probably too personal and intimate for a woman actively being paid to put makeup on her. “I forgot why I liked skating for a while. My parents were both coaches so I’ve been skating since I could walk, and ever since then, it’s been all I’ve done—shit. Sorry. You’re—you don’t have to listen to me. Sorry.”
“No,” Kip says, so quickly she almost interrupts Scottie. “It’s okay. I don’t mind listening. So, skating became... a job? Not something fun?”
“I mean, it is my job. It’s how I pay my bills. I do stuff for the NYC Skating League, I do some sponsorships and endorsement deals, I compete. It’s not a huge paycheck—however much you imagine it costs to skate competitively, I promise you it’s more, even at this level—but yeah. It’s my job. And I don’t know what I’d even do if I retired.”
“Look up at the ceiling, please. I’m just going to set your undereye concealer.” Scottie obeys and tries not to flinch at having something so close to her eyeballs. “Like, how much does it cost? Six thousand dollars a season?” asks Kip.
Scottie snorts. “Guess how much I spend on just skates.”
“Like, five hundred dollars?”
“The boots are nine hundred and the blades are eight hundred. I go through a pair of boots a year, more or less, just because of how much I skate, but blades I can get two years out of right now. Skating dresses are just about two thousand bucks, and I usually need three new costumes a year, so that’s, what, seven thousand-something dollars on just skates, blades, and costumes? Not including tights, makeup, hair stuff, and skate sharpening. And paying for coaches, choreographers, music cutting, ice time...” Scottie trails off for dramatic effect.
“God.” Kip shakes her head and steps back, rifling through the products spread on the vanity. “So what changed? You said you forgot why you even like skating.”
Scottie’s heart pounds in her chest. This is stupid. She’s being ridiculous. “I met someone.”
“Oh?” Is... Is Kip blushing? It’s a little hard to tell, under all her makeup, but Scottie’s pretty sure she’s blushing. “Um, I was thinking we’ll just do an all-over wash of color for the eye makeup. We’ll use Buck from the Naked palette by Urban Decay. Just close your eyes for me. I’ll start with some eye primer, also by Urban Decay, which will help smooth out the eyeshadow application and give it a little more weartime.”
Scottie closes her eyes and lets Kip start patting products onto her eyes. She manages to stay quiet for a grand total of three minutes, which is a new record with Kip. “Would you want to come see me skate?”
Kip lifts the brush she’d been using off of Scottie’s eyelid, and Scottie squints at her. “I have ice time today. The Grand Prix Finals are next week and I’ve got to practice my short program. If you wanted, uh, you could come watch. You should bring a friend, or... whatever. It’s casual.” Right. Fuck, Scottie knows she’s awful at this. She’s twenty-three years old, never even made it past first base, and she can’t even get the words do you want to go on a date out of her mouth.
Kip smiles so hard that it momentarily erases Scottie’s ability to feel anxious about anything. “Oh my God. Yes. Sure. I get off work at 3:15, is that okay?”
“Cool.” Scottie says, trying to sound casual. “Yeah, cool. Um, give me your phone number after this and I can text you the information.” Smooth, Scottie thinks sarcastically, really fucking smooth.
“Yeah? Okay, let’s get your makeup finished and then let’s do that.”
“This is a weird first date,” Elliot murmurs, leaning back against the wall behind the bench.
“Shut up,” Kip hisses. “Be nice.” She can’t pry her eyes away from the rink, where Scottie is effortlessly gliding on her left foot, both hands stretched behind her back to hold the blade of her other skate. It looks terrifying. Even if Kip had that kind of flexibility, she just knows she’d somehow slice her hand open.
“So why am I here again? Just to be a third-wheel?”
“No, you’re here because she was kind of obviously freaking out about this and said I should bring a friend.” Scottie lets go of her skate blade and jumps so that she’s skating on her right foot, arms moving gracefully up and out as she switches to skating forwards on both feet. It just looks effortless, Kip keeps thinking, and Scottie makes it all look so... natural, and graceful.
Scottie swings her right foot, arms coming into her chest, and somehow jumps what’s got to be at least two feet into the air above the ice, turning so fast that she looks like a blur, and her arms come back out as she lands on her right foot.
“Wow,” Kip says, feeling a little stupid. She’s looked up different jumps and spins before, but she still can’t really tell them apart that well. It looks impressive as hell, at least. Scottie comes to a stop at the center of the ice, striking a pose with her arms held up above her head like a ballet dancer for a few seconds, and then she turns to face Kip and Elliot with a wave.
“She’s waving at you.” Elliot jabs a mittened finger into Kip’s side. “Wave back, for fuck’s sake.”
Kip waves back, and hopes she doesn’t look nearly as dumb as she feels. Scottie smiles, and even behind the plexiglass barricade it’s enough to make Kip blush.
“I mean, I do get it.” Elliot tilts his head and stares at Scottie like he’s staring at a zebra in a zoo enclosure. “You managed to find a jock who isn’t somewhere on the butch spectrum.”
“Oh my God, Elliot, shut up.” Kip buries her face in her palms.
“No, no, I get it. You like a woman who could crush your skull between her thighs. No shame in that.”
“I am actually going to fucking kill you.”
December 11, 2010 - Grand Prix Finals - Beijing, China
Shayne Hollander is normally the poster child for figure skating as a sport. She’s got corporate sponsorships from places like McDonald’s and Disney. She is not, generally speaking, one to shit-talk openly. Scottie can’t actually think of there being any documented evidence against Shayne Hollander not being the ultimate Polite Canadian stereotype—at least none that don’t involve Iliana Rozanova, and frankly, Rozanova just has a special talent for bringing out the worst in people.
That’s why Scottie wonders if she’s hallucinating when Hollander says, “Glad you finally decided to show up this season, Hunter,” as they’re getting ready for their exhibition skates.
“Are you serious right now?” Scottie asks, staring at Hollander in disbelief.
“What?” Hollander’s got a fucking smirk on her face, like they’re just hockey players chirping at one another over a face-off, and not friendly acquaintances at a Grand Prix event.
The same fucking smirk Iliana Rozanova always gives people.
Scottie laughs. Oh, that’s good, she thinks. That’s fucking rich. Shayne Hollander and Iliana Rozanova. “You’re starting to sound like her,” she says, trying to keep her voice casual as she ties her boot laces.
“Huh?” Hollander has the audacity to look genuinely confused, like she doesn’t know exactly what Scottie means.
“You heard me, Hollander.”
The next thing Scottie knows, Hollander is standing right in front of her, so pissed off that her face is bright red. “What do you mean, I sound like her?”
Scottie just smiles up at Shayne. Oh, it’s so obvious now that Scottie thinks about it. Mean, bitchy Iliana Rozanova and kind, sweet Shayne Hollander. How much of that rivalry thing between them was an act, and how much was real? And nobody would ever suspect a thing, would they, because Shayne Hollander’s got a squeaky-clean reputation, and there’s always rumors that Iliana Rozanova is a party girl, a bitch, a real piece of work.
“You know exactly what I mean.” Scottie probably should not be doing this right now, but she stands up anyway, squaring her shoulders. She’s older than Hollander and should be modeling what good sportsmanship looks like. Not taunting Hollander over this. Not when Scottie knows perfectly fucking well why Hollander would be touchy about this—and Scottie doesn’t have half the sponsorship deals that Miss Team Canada gets that depend on her image as a ‘good role model’ for little girls all over the world. Especially considering that Hollander’s apparently fucking Iliana Rozanova, the Harding to Hollander’s Kerrigan in ISU marketing.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Hollander’s voice cracks. There’s tears in her eyes.
“Don’t pick a fucking fight you aren’t brave enough to finish,” Scottie says, feeling almost euphoric with adrenaline. “Thought she would’ve taught you that.”
Suddenly, there’s a stinging sensation across Scottie’s cheek.
Holy fuck, Scottie thinks, staring in disbelief at Hollander. Shayne fucking Hollander, the Ice Princess of Canada and every little girl’s favorite figure skater, just fucking slapped her. “What the fuck?” Scottie snaps.
People are swarming them now, and Hollander’s overbearing momager is herding her away from Scottie, hissing, “Back the hell up, Shayne, right now. Whatever she did isn’t worth getting in any more trouble over.”
That’s rich, Scottie thinks, considering it was Hollander who fucking started this fight. But Scottie knows how this looks—washed-up Scottie Hunter, who should’ve retired last year, getting in a fight with the golden child of figure skating, Shayne Hollander, who can do no wrong—and Hollander’s momager has a point. This isn’t worth it.
Besides, Shayne Hollander probably just got herself disqualified, at least for these finals. That just promoted Scottie to silver medalist.