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Twenty-five years ago, Ilya had perhaps wished for the life he was living right now, but he hadn't once believed he would be lucky enough to have his wildest dreams become reality.
Back when he was young and staying in a cottage over the summer and kissing his then-boyfriend Shane and imaging the day he'd be his husband with a family of their own (well, more family of their own; they had Yuna and David) and a life that was entirely theirs and without the need to bury the secret of their relationship between the Irina Foundation, Game Changers and hockey games. He thought life was wonderful then, better yet when Shane became his husband (and he finally got Canadian citizenship) – until a screaming, squiriming bundle upended both their lives after they had retired.
Once they'd thought of two, maybe three, but their lives felt perfectly and utterly complete when their little girl had been placed in their arms – screaming bloody murder and looking comically offended someone had dared to pull her from her warm home in which she had grown for nine months.
A little girl who, somehow, was perfectly both him and Shane – even if that was rather impossible. They had used Shane's genetic material first, but Ilya did not need another to come from him; he loved his husband and their little Yurina Hollander-Rozanova (a perfect combination of her grandmothers' names) just perfectly so. She'd held his heart firmly in her tiny fist from her first breath on earth – although he'd deny having sobbed the second he'd first heard her, thank you very much. He would not deny how his heart had burst when she had first lain upon his chest, though. Ilya saw much of her dad in her; the same dark hair and those same dark brown eyes he'd grown to love more and more, and as time passed on, they began staring at him with wonder and excitement, accompanied by animated chants of "Papa, Papa!" and those same beautiful freckles splashed against her nose and cheeks.
She was as meticulous as her dad, too. And just like Shane, she had always taken forever to get ready for bed. Even as a baby she'd robbed the two of them of their last nerves when she simply refused to sleep until she had been given an additional 2.3ml of formula after not having drunk all stupid day long and certainly not until she had thoroughly soaked both her dad's and her papa's chest in various quantaties of saliva and barf after they had read stories to her. And yet, even in the trenches of sleep deprivation (and the longest dry spell they'd ever gone through), Ilya would not have traded his – their – little girl for anything. As she grew, he began seeing parts of himself in her, too. Parts he'd perhaps loathed, but loved in her so deeply that perhaps he'd love them as parts of himself somehow. She was unflinchingly outspoken and perceptive in a way that drove Shane nuts, especially when she asked one too many questions about Santa Claus and why he'd visit her twice when all her kindergarten friends merely got a single visit per year. Ilya wasn't sure if Shane had ever forgiven him for saying "because he likes you more" – the parent-teacher meeting that had followed was certainly interesting.
Yurina was the best of them. Much better than either, in fact. And she had been so fightingly easy to love, wholly and without compromise, that sometimes – only sometimes – Ilya wondered if his own father had ever once loved him the same, if only for a single second.
Between her dad and papa, it shouldn't have been surprising that their little girl was stepping on ice, but neither had quite expected glittery dresses and competitions over pads and gruelling games. Shane had initially pouted when she'd pointed towards a figure skater on TV, aged four and told them she wanted to spin like that too, but secretly both were mildly grateful they did not have to potentially watch her smash into the boards. Fatherhood had softened them a bit, after all.
Ilya could feel his husband's grip tighten on his hand, but he had to hold back tears himself when he watched their little girl, who quite frankly wasn't so little anymore, glide onto the ice to represent Canada at her first Olympic Games – in her home country, no less.
Where the world saw Yurina Hollander-Rozanova, a girl of just seventeen-years in a billowing blue ombré dress and a bright smile, ready to destroy her competition and make her home proud, Ilya saw his little girl – four years, pigtailed and dressed in her favourite glittery pink sweater with rosy cheeks and a toothy grin, clumsily attempting her first swizzles and falling more times than anyone could count (and causing Shane to go grey early in his anxious state).
It wasn't often that Ilya wished he could freeze time. But looking at their not-so-little little girl, he very much wanted to.
When she took her starting pose, arms wrapped around herself, Ilya did not see the seventeen-year-old who had scored a segment score of 87.52 in her short program two days ago (a personal record), leading the scoreboard going into the free skate. He saw the baby they had brought home from the hospital, swaddled in white with a little bow he'd insisted on – a bow he'd kept in his drawer once she had outgrown it. When had she outgrown it? Sometimes it felt as if she had been wearing it yesterday still. They had been terrified – at a loss of what to do, now that she was there – and in the blink of an eye, she had become an Olympian. Perhaps they hadn't done a shoddy job after all.
There were certainly times he believed he had.
Like that time she had been four months old, screaming and crying relentlessly because she had colic, and neither he nor Shane knew what to do, or how to help her. Or when she had begun to walk and fallen face-first before he could catch her, resulting in a panicked visit to the emergency department because they had worried she might have gotten a concussion. The nurses had been mildly amused; apparently, it wasn't uncommon for first-time parents to be "overcautious", or whatever they had said. He'd held Yurina that night, unwilling to part from her and rocking her to sleep after they'd come home, and guilt had eaten him alive, even though she was entirely and perfectly alright. And yet. And yet.
Parenthood, Ilya had learned, was a long exercise in second-guessing yourself.
Second-guessing he wasn't turning into his father, especially once she had started to compete in earnest. Second-guessing he wasn't expecting perfection of her, or punishing her when she fell – that he allowed Yurina her joy and did not diminish her to what she wasn't able to do (like a decent Double-Salchow), but cheered for everything she could do (like her beautiful cantilevers or her textbook Axel). He did not know how to be a father; that much was painfully obvious. Worse yet, he did not know what a good father was supposed to be, since clearly his father had failed miserably in that regard. Shane had reassured him time and time again that he wasn't Grigori, that Yurina loved what she was doing and that above all, she knew her papa always had her back. "Have you ever been mad she fell?" he had asked one sleepless night. The answer came as easily as breathing. "Of course not."
When the first note stretched across the arena, the crowd finally hushed, anticipation thick in the air as Canada's Golden Girl (a title her grandmother used to its full effect when it came to sponsorships) unfolded from her starting pose and let her blade carry her across the ice in carved lines she had practised a million times. And though Ilya and his husband had seen her skate this program a hundred times, they instinctually leaned forward, hands clasped so tightly it ached. If she had been brilliant as a child, she'd been even more so as an adult. Laser-focused and determined in a way that had scared both of them, unwilling to step off the ice until she herself felt satisfied with the results, which was precisely why she had been practically unbeatable ever since she had stepped into junior competitions. But the anxiety Ilya felt watching her had never once diminished over the years they'd accompanied her to competitions. Which is to say, they had been at every competition (and nearly every training session). Memories of cold and early mornings, of bruised hips and the smell of the atrocious coffee served at rinks clung to him like second skin and the way she used to wave from the boards, tiny hand in an oversized mitten, searching for her dad and papa in the stands. A tradition she still honed now, before competitions, though older and taller, but still their little girl. As she flies into her first jump, a Triple Salchow, his heart lurched in an ever-old reflex, ingrained long before she'd learned to properly tie her own skates.
Clean. Effortless – the crowd erupted, but he barely heard it. He was watching her face, so full of focus and determination, but above all, pure, unadulterated joy.
There's a flow to her moves that appears almost inhuman. He'd never quite figured out where she got her elegance from, though sometimes Ilya swore he could've seen his mother in her. Perhaps he foolishly clung to the idea, but he knew it wasn't foolish to trust his mother would have adored her granddaughter, and that she shone upon her from above. He told Yurina of his mother often, her babulya, so even if she never met her, she knew of her intimately. How often he'd wished for her to still be here ever since he'd become a father, Ilya did not know. Yuna and David were the most incredible family he could have asked for, both for himself and for Yurina, and he did not need more, but he quietly yearned for it just the same. Perhaps his mother would have known how to help when he'd felt quite helpless, watching her struggle, and he hadn't known how to help. It had been his worst fear to see his girl struggle the way he had, the way his other had, only for her to struggle in ways he didn't understand – unwilling or rather unable to eat because "Папа, а что, если цифры на весах вырастут?" He had stood in the kitchen one night long after she had gone to bed, staring at the bowl of pasta she had always loved so much, untouched and cold. He had felt helpless in a way he hadn't since the day they brought her home from the hospital and realised there was no manual, no referee, no one to signal what to do next. Shane had understood better, but Ilya had wished for his mother then, and a plate of her oladushki and for her to simply say 'Аппети́т прихо́дит во вре́мя еды́' and for everything to be fine. Delusional, perhaps. He knew just as well she couldn't fix everything, but grief and helplessness did strange things sometimes.
She moved into her first step sequence, edges deep as her body answered to the music as if it lived in her bloodstream. Every extension deliberate, as she turned the ice into her personal canvas, before she soared into her first combination with a height and speed that was almost reckless in its ambition – Triple Flip, Triple Toe Loop – his heart beating erratically until she landed so softly one could almost pretend she was as weightless. Her arms lifted slightly in the exit; the smallest flicker of triumph she couldn't suppress. And there it was again. That smile threatening at the corners of her mouth. A smile, Ilya would have done anything for. He would have done anything for it when he first glimpsed it; when she was just a baby, holding his finger in her fist, tiny, soft and gurgling as she lay between her two fathers, who stared at her not quite believing she was real. And he would still do anything for it now. Anything for their little girl. His life had been Shane. But seventeen years ago, it had become hers too, and he'd lay down his for his family without a second thought.
Ilya felt something hot sting behind his eyes, clinging to Shane's hand. His husband responded with a tight squeeze.
His heart could have burst with pride as her blades etched tight serpentine lines across the ice, arms unfolding like wings. It reminded him of simpler times. Of chasing her across the ice rink at their cottage – "Papa, papa! Come catch me!" "Папа тебя поймает, моя дорогая!" – and of watching her fall and get up, stubborn but knowing he'd be there to catch her if she fell.
Midway through her program, she vaults into a Triple Axel. For a moment, she looks suspended. Ilya wondered if she, too, thought of her first hops across the ice, or if those memories were far too distant for her to remember. To him, it might as well have been yesterday. The difficulty of the Axel is almost hidden by how natural she makes it look, and Ilya cannot help but be amazed, even as she lands with a satisfying scrape of blade and flows straight into her choreographic sequence – spiral held high, free leg extended in a perfect line, back arched toward the ceiling lights. There was no doubt left that she would bring home the gold. The athlete in him was thrilled – an Olympic Gold Medalist in their family! He and Shane had never gotten one (not that he minded; they had enough Stanley Cups), but Ilya was pretty sure if Yurina set her mind to it, she'd win multiple. As a father, he was close to bursting with pride, such was the intensity of love and joy that swelled within him as Yurina did what she had always dreamt of doing. Happy. At peace.
As she pulls into centre ice, rotation accelerating as she leans back, her spine arches in a clean layback position. Her free leg lifts gradually, smoothly, until she catches the blade overhead, drawing it into a full Biellmann. The spin tightened. Faster, faster, skirt flaring . When she finally releases and drops into a low sit variation before rising into her final upright position, the control is absolute. The music swells one final time – a roaring crescendo – heart bursting and tears now falling freely as he knows. Knows with certainty she just won gold, but above all, he is so proud. The final note crashes through the arena, and she strikes her ending pose, chest heaving, eyes wide – and then her smile breaks across her entire face, bright and disbelieving.
She hops up and down in triumphant joy, unable to contain it.
She knows as well.
Ilya jumps right with her, cheering so loud he hopes she hears him and knows she is oh so loved. Shane stands next to him, equally as loud, and Ilya is pretty sure he can hear Yuna and David cheer right along with them. Bouquets arc through the air, plushies tumbling onto the ice in bright soft piles. She laughs breathlessly as she gathers a few, bowing gracefully to the crowd, glittering amongst the ice, looking as happy as she did the day she won her first competition. Ilya wished they could be at the boards to greet her. To hug her the way they did when she first competed, instead of having to wait until they were allowed to come down. To wrap her up tight and tell her how proud they were before the cameras and reporters and officials could claim her attention. Instead, they had to watch as she joined her proud coach and choreographer in the Kiss and Cry, awaiting what was sure to be a high score. Yurina sits between them, clutching a small mountain of flowers and a stuffed mascot, cheeks flushed pink from exertion and joy. Her hands shake slightly as she pushes damp hair back from her face, awaiting her score.
Ilya isn't sure he sees anything, but her face between his tears, but then her score is announced, and his breath leaves him in a broken sound that is half laugh, half sob. His hands fly to his face, but it does nothing to stop the tears now pouring freely down his cheeks. Beside him, Shane is shouting something – words lost to the thunder of the crowd – but when Ilya turns toward him, their eyes meet, and neither of them needs to say it out loud.
Seventeen years of early mornings.
Seventeen years of cold rinks and bruised hips and impossible dreams.
Somehow, he'd wish he could freeze time, for he'd do it all again for this moment and this inexplicable joy–
She'd done it.
Yurina Hollander-Rozanova. Canada's Golden Girl. Olympic Gold Medalist.
"She did it," Shane says again when they break apart, voice thick.
Ilya nodded, tears flowing down his face. "Yes," he chokes out, "Hollander, she -"
"I know," Shane nodded, his own tears falling freely. "I know."
On the screen above the rink, Yurina's hands have flown to her mouth – eyes wide, stunned, disbelieving as the realisation crashes over her.
Gold.
Her coach is already hugging her, tears flowing down his face too. She presses the stuffed mascot back into her arms and begins to laugh through tears, shaking her head like she can't quite process what just happened. And somewhere between the roar of the crowd and the blur of lights and tears, Ilya thinks not of the medals or the history or the headlines that will come tomorrow, but of a little girl of four years, pigtailed and dressed in her favourite glittery pink sweater with rosy cheeks and a toothy grin.