Chapter Text
The ice always told the truth.
Irina knew it before she knew how to spell her own name. Before she understood the weight of it—her last names, her lineage, the way people’s eyes sharpened the second they heard Hollander & Rozanov.
The ice didn’t care about any of that.
It only cared if you could stay standing.
The rink was colder than usual that morning, or maybe it was just her nerves catching up to her. The boards were lined with familiar faces—coaches, officials, a handful of early spectators who always showed up before the real crowd poured in. The hum of blades carving through ice echoed softly, a rhythm she’d grown up with.
Home.
Irina adjusted the sleeves of her practice jacket and rolled her shoulders back, forcing herself to breathe evenly. Around her, other skaters moved through their warm-ups—jumps half-finished, spins cut short, bodies testing limits without fully committing.
No one wanted to fall before it counted.
She pushed off.
The first glide settled something in her chest. The cold bit through the thin fabric of her tights, the air sharp against her skin, but her body knew this. Her muscles remembered before her mind could interfere. Edge to edge, weight shifting, balance correcting—it came as naturally as breathing.
This was hers.
Not the arenas she grew up in, not the roar of hockey crowds chanting her fathers’ names, not the flashing cameras or whispered expectations.
This ice. This moment.
Her blades cut clean lines across the surface as she picked up speed, testing her edges, letting her body loosen. A turn, a quick step sequence, the beginnings of a spin she didn’t fully finish just enough to feel the pull, the control.
“You’re early.”
The voice came from the barrier, low, huffing and familiar.
Irina didn’t stop, but she glanced over anyway.
Shane leaned casually against the boards, coffee in one hand, like he hadn’t once been the kind of player who made entire arenas hold their breath. He looked almost out of place here—no gear, no roaring crowd, just her dad, watching.
“You’re later than me,” she shot back, breathless but grinning.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Low bar.”
Her gaze flickered past him, automatically searching—
And there.
Ilya stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that way that meant he was paying attention to everything. He didn’t wave. He rarely did.
But when their eyes met, he gave the smallest nod with proudest smile.
Good.
It was enough.
Irina turned her focus back to the ice, pushing harder now. Faster. Her edges deepened, carving sharper arcs as she built into a proper run-through. The music wasn’t playing yet, but she heard it anyway; counting in her head, mapping each movement, each jump.
This wasn’t just practice.
This was the beginning.
Canadian Junior Figure Skating Championships.
Her first real step into something that was entirely her own.
No Hollander. No Rozanov.
Just Irina.
She set up for a jump clean entry, tight control and launched.
For a split second, the world stilled.
Air. Silence. The brief, weightless space where everything could go right or wrong.
Her blade hit the ice with a sharp scrape, slightly off-center. Not a fall, but not perfect either. She rode it out, forcing the landing into something passable, her jaw tightening.
Not good enough.
Again.
She circled back, resetting, ignoring the flicker of frustration. She’d learned that early mistakes didn’t get time. They got corrected.
She pushed off once more and collided.
It wasn’t hard, but it was enough.
A shoulder clipped hers mid-glide, knocking her just off balance. Her blade skidded, the edge slipping for a dangerous second before she caught herself.
“What the—”
She turned sharply.
He stood a few feet away, already steady, like the impact hadn’t touched him at all.
Tall. Lean in that controlled, dangerous way. Dark hair damp with sweat, falling just enough over his forehead to look careless. And his eyes - Green.
Not soft green. Not warm.
Sharp. Assessing.
Like he’d already measured her and decided something.
“You cut across,” he said, voice flat.
Irina blinked.
“I—no, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
There was no heat in it. No raised voice. Just certainty.
Something in her snapped a little.
“Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”
One of his brows lifted, just slightly.
“I was.”
The way he said it—calm, almost bored—irritated her more than if he’d snapped back.
Irina pushed off, closing the distance between them by a few feet, chin tilted up. “Then maybe work on your spatial awareness.”
A beat of silence.
His gaze dropped briefly—to her skates, her stance, the way she held herself—before returning to her face.
“Or,” he said, “you could.”
God.
He wasn’t even trying to be rude. That was the worst part.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I get that a lot.”
Her mouth opened, then closed.
Because what even on the earth is this motherfucker’s problem ?
A voice cut through the tension from across the rink. “Tristan!”
He didn’t look away from her immediately. His eyes lingered for half a second longer, like he was filing something away, before he finally turned.
Irina followed his gaze.
Coach. Clipboard. That whole I run your life for the next few months energy.
“Coming,” he called back.
Then, as if remembering basic manners—or deciding she was worth one more second—he glanced at her again.
“Watch your edges,” he said.
And just like that, he skated off.
Irina stood there for a moment, staring after him, something hot and sharp twisting in her chest.
Annoyance.
Definitely annoyance.
And something else she refused to name.
“Who was that?” Shane’s voice came from the boards again, lighter now, curious.
Irina tore her gaze away, pushing off with more force than necessary.
“No idea,” she muttered.
But as she circled the rink again, her eyes betrayed her—flicking, just once, toward the far side where he’d gone.
Theodore Tristan.
She didn’t know his name yet.
But she had a feeling she was going to.
And somehow that felt like the beginning of a problem.
By the time Irina’s name was called, the arena had changed.
It wasn’t quiet anymore. It was louder. Brighter. Alive.
The crowd filled in waves, the hum of anticipation settling into something electric. Light reflected off the ice, sharp and blinding.
Irina stood at the entrance, skates perfectly laced, fingers curled into her sleeves.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
“You’ve got this.”
“Obviously,” she said, but she smiled.
Ilya leaned against the barrier, looking far too calm. “Confidence. I like it.”
“Overconfidence,” Shane cut in, stepping closer, eyes flicking over her with practiced ease. “Try not to fall.”
Irina rolled her eyes. “Wow. Inspiring.”
Ilya nudged him lightly. “You’re going to scare her.”
“She should be a little scared,” Shane said. “I was.”
“I’m not scared.”
Ilya’s mouth curved, just slightly. “Good.”
And then, like it was nothing—
Shane leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Irina groaned. “Oh my God. Right now?”
“We’re supportive parents,” Shane said.
“You’re embarrassing.”
“You love it.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I really don’t.”
Noel snorted from behind them.
Irina turned. Her brother—fourteen, already built like a future hockey disaster—shifted his gear on his shoulder.
“They’ve been like this forever,” he said.
“Traitor.”
“Accurate observer.”
Shane grinned. “My favorite child.”
“I’m right here.”
“Temporary favorite.”
Ilya didn’t comment—but his fingers brushed Shane’s wrist, brief and instinctive, like grounding himself there.
Irina noticed.
She always noticed.
And for a second—it steadied her.
Because whatever this was—
she came from something real.
“Rozanova, Irina!”
Her name echoed.
Irina exhaled—and stepped onto the ice.
The ice felt different under competition lights.
Sharper. Harder.
Unforgiving.
The music began.
Her body moved before doubt could catch up.
Clean steps. Controlled edges. Every movement precise.
She built speed.
Set up.
Jump.
Perfect.
The landing was clean, effortless. Applause rippled—but she didn’t let it in.
Not yet.
Spin.
Faster.
Tighter.
Her world narrowed—
Until—
she saw him.
At the edge of the rink.
Watching.
Theodore Tristan.
Something in her chest stuttered.
Just once.
And that was enough.
Her timing slipped—barely.
A near miss.
Not a fall.
But close.
The ice reminded her.
Focus.
She pushed through, sharper now, stronger.
She finished.
Not perfect.
But strong.
The music cut.
Applause followed.
Irina breathed in.
Good.
Not enough.
“You lost your edge for a second,” Ilya said quietly.
Irina pulled off her gloves. “Hi to you too.”
“I’m saying it because I know you noticed.”
She hesitated. Then—“I didn’t fall.”
“No,” he said, softer. “You didn’t.”
A pause.
“Still good,” he added.
Shane shot him a look, half-warning, half amused. “Maybe start with ‘hi’ next time.”
Irina huffed out a laugh despite herself.
Noel bumped her shoulder. “Better than I could do.”
“You can barely stand on figure skates.”
“I don’t need to. I play real sports.”
“Oh my God.”
“You walked into that one.”
She rolled her eyes—but it helped.
And then—
“Not bad. For the first time.”
Irina froze to the voice.
She turned slowly.
Theodore stood there.
Closer.
His expression unreadable—but his eyes still sharp.
“You were watching,” she said.
“I was. You should always watch your competition.”
“You hesitated.”
Her jaw tightened. “Original.”
Something flickered—almost amusement.
“You still landed it,” he said.
Irina blinked.
That wasn’t what she expected.
“Thanks.”
Silence stretched.
Too aware. Too quiet.
“I skate later,” he said.
“I figured.”
His gaze held hers—
just a second too long.
“Watch your edges,” he said softly.
And this time it didn’t sound like criticism.
It sounded like he’d been watching her.
Irina swallowed. “I always do.”
He nodded once.
Then walked away.
Again.
But this time—
she didn’t look away.
And somewhere, deep and quiet—
something shifted.
Not nerves.
Not annoyance.
Something worse.
Something that felt dangerously close to falling—
and for the first time—
she wasn’t sure she wanted to stop.