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Irina Lebedeva was a great figure skater.
She fell into the sport early, her talent and looks scouted by one of the top coaches in the country. They took her from nothing, from no one, to the diamond of Russia’s figure skating team. When she was on the ice, she looked unstoppable, a girl in flight rather than in skates, leagues ahead of a competition that couldn’t keep up.
She retired when she was seventeen years old, with a single Olympic gold and multiple world and European titles under her belt, with continued ankle injuries cited as her reasoning. She married Grigori Rozanov a few months after her retirement, freshly eighteen.
They’d met at one of her competitions, introduced by her father as one of his colleagues, a fellow policeman. It didn’t take long for him to take an interest in her. At first, it was almost nice, the way he’d take care of her, the dinners he’d take her on, the smile he reserved for her.
If only it had stayed like that forever.
The months after they first married were dark for her as she struggled to get pregnant. Despite many nights spent trying, results never came; her monthly cycle appeared reliably and consistently. Grigori was not pleased, turning cold and angry. He never hurt her, not really, but the softness she was once afforded disappeared. Sex became clinical, purposeful, a routine to be fulfilled. He barely touched her otherwise, leaving her alone in their dark apartments when he went to work.
She had never yearned for her skates more than then.
After months of cold, single-minded sex, she became pregnant with their firstborn.
To Grigori, Alexei was her greatest triumph. He was born large, strong and screaming, the perfect picture of his father, with the Rozanov nose and straight dark hair. As he aged, he morphed into Grigori’s shadow, learning his ways in government and family. Grigori did not let him seek her out. By his father's word, his mother was not someone to serve, but someone who served them, the men of the house. He would not seek her care or her arms, would not wish to be tucked into bed at her hands or kissed by her when he was ill.
It's not his fault, she thought. He is only young. He just wants to be good.
She repeated those thoughts when she lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling. She held onto them with desperation when she was alone in the cold apartments, and Alexei shut her out of his room. She wondered, sometimes, what she could be doing wrong. What was so broken about her that her son did not want her company?
Eventually, Grigori began to bed her again. He wanted more than an heir; he wanted security, another son to make him proud. After the years that had passed since the last time, she prayed desperately that it would happen faster. She wasn’t sure if she could live through months of it, not again.
That thought, the thought of not living, of dying, had danced through her mind more often than not as of late. Why wouldn’t it? Her family had left her with Grigori, Alexei didn’t need her, and she spent most of her time alone. The world does not miss the lonely, so why does she cling to it?
God answered her prayers, maybe just to stop this contemplation, and Irina became pregnant only a few weeks after Grigori bed her again for the first time.
This pregnancy was worse; her mind spiralled further into the dark depths than she’d ever found herself before. Irina had always been sad, had always known darkness, but before, there had always been glimpses of light. When she was young, skating had been her light. The rink and the ice, and the feeling of turning in the air, they all worked together to pull her back from the edge. In her first pregnancy, the thought of Alexei, a child in abstract, had been her light instead. Thoughts of her future baby, of holding him, of caring for him, became her anchor.
Knowing how Alexei ended up treating her, that light and hope had become just a little bit smaller.
But the thought of her unborn baby still managed to stay her hand. Her baby deserved a chance, she thought.
So she waited, she held on, and nine months later, Ilya Rozanov lay in her hands with her blonde curls and nose, and she knew that leaving was no longer an option.
Not yet, at least.
─•────
Ilya Lebedev was a great figure skater too, even when Ilya Rozanov wasn’t allowed to be.
“I don’t want to play hockey, Mama,” Ilya complained.
He doesn’t like hockey so much. He doesn’t like other people on his ice, he doesn’t like the different way the skates fit on his feet, or the altered shape of the blade. He doesn’t need a stick to balance, he doesn’t even need a second leg, why does he need to hold one?
“If you go to hockey practice, you can stay and train with Sergei,” Mama said. “But you know Papa won’t let us go if you don’t go to hockey first.”
Ilya grumbled. He knew his Mama was right, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
“But I have a competition in a week!” Ilya groaned. “I can’t be hurt. I want to beat the Japanese boy who won the championship last year.”
“You will beat Kazuta, my swan,” Mama assured him, rubbing her hands through his hair. “You won’t get hurt, but even if you did, you could still beat him.”
Ilya grumbled. Most of the time, he would believe his mama, but the Kazuta boy really is good; so good that he got Ilya his first international silver instead of gold last year. His turns were crisp and sharp, and he moved across the ice looking more like a ballet dancer than a real skater. Ilya could beat him; he knew he could, but only if he was at his very best.
“Do you have no faith in yourself?” Mama placed her hands on his cheeks, tilting his head and forcing him to look at her. Her expression was calm, assured, but not expectant.
“He can do a triple axel, Mama,” Ilya mumbled. “How can I beat that?”
“By doing one too,” she said simply. “And doing it better.”
─•────
Ilya Rozanov has not touched his figure skates in nearly ten years.
Watching Hollander—or Kazuta?—skating in the privacy of a reserved rink makes him want to change that more than anything. He wonders, irrationally, what it might be like if they skated pairs together. Would they be compatible? Would Hollander trust him to toss him in the air? Would he trust him to catch him?
The article had come to him by way of Twitter. Embarrassingly, Ilya had turned on notifications for Hollander’s name years ago, when they first met. At the time, he told himself it was smart to keep track of his arch-rival like that. Now? Now he thinks he might be a bit masochistic. Hollander, stupid, perfect Hollander, with his stupid, perfect face and body and mouth, haunts him through these games. No matter how terrible an idea it is to even think of Hollander while in Russia, Ilya feels barely capable of stopping himself from pulling him into a corner and kissing him every time they’re in the same room.
It’s irrational. No one has ever done this to him before, so why is it that this Canadian hockey player does?
Reading the article had been a strange sort of self-inflicted torture, managing to dredge up every piece of carefully tucked-away pain that Ilya holds in his soul. The resurgent memories of competing against Kazuta as a child, of losing to him, then finally beating him in that last competition, of his mother—
No. He is not thinking of his mother.
He gazes down at the rink.
Hollander executes a graceful double axel. Ilya almost can’t believe he’s out of practice. His movements are efficient and technically beautiful; if he didn’t know better, he’d think that Hollander was somehow squeezing in figure skating practice amongst his already rigorous NHL schedule.
Sometimes, Ilya misses figure skating like he’s missing a limb. It makes hockey feel like a cheap replacement, like a coping mechanism for an addiction he’ll never truly quit. His hockey skates will feel off, their blades too short, too flat, the ankles not stiff enough. But other times, even thinking about figure skating for too long makes him want to throw up. It’s a complicated relationship.
Hollander laughs as he lands another jump, a lutz, this time. His friend, the figure skater he’d been watching earlier that day, smiles at him and places a hand on his shoulder. Irrationally, something like jealousy burns in his stomach. As Hollander turns to skate back to centre ice, his eyes flick upwards, and he spots Ilya.
Both of them freeze then, the time between them stretching, both caught in a position they wish the other hadn’t seen them in.
This is a complicated relationship too, he thinks.
─•────
When Ilya finished his free skate, he ran into his Mama’s arms.
“You did so well, my swan.” She whispered this into his hair. Her arms were wrapped around him, tight and firm. “So, so, well.”
Ilya smiled into her stomach. He risked a glance across the ice. Kazuta was staring at the screen, waiting for the scores to appear. He was chewing his bottom lip, and his brow was crinkled, anxiety breaking through his typically blank facial expressions. Next to him, his coach sat, whispering to him. Ilya wondered if he knew what was about to happen, what Ilya had just done.
“You were perfect,” His Mama whispered. She ran her hands along his cheeks, her thumbs gliding along the baby fat that clung there still. She pulled him in close and breathed in his hair. “So perfect. My baby.” He could feel her voice rumbling along the crown of his head.
It was nice being in her arms. His Mama had been so quiet lately. Sometimes it felt like she had shrunk, compressed herself inwards, folding herself into a shape that he didn’t recognize. It was reassuring for him to see her like this again.
When Ilya won the gold, his Mama didn’t stop cheering for him, not once. She laughed and screamed, her pride louder than any other noise in the arena. Standing on the podium, he wished, more than anything, that he could live in that moment forever.
─•────
Sex with Shane Hollander almost scares Ilya, in a way, if only for the way it manages to break him open, and expose the raw, hot emotion that he buries underneath playfulness and insincerity. He thinks that it is maybe this Hollander effect that makes him say—
“I saw you figure skating, at Olympics.”
He does not look at Hollander, letting his focus drift between a cigarette and a strangely impressive tumbler of vodka. The cigarette is not a good one; the taste is tar-like and stale, something he dug up from the bottom of his bag. He’s been trying not to smoke as much lately. He will never tell Hollander this, but he hadn’t smoked for the playoffs this year, hadn’t smoked at all since he got back from Sochi, and he thinks it actually did improve his game.
But despite his temporary hiatus, he was itching for one tonight.
“I know,” Hollander replies. “I saw you in the stands.”
His voice is flat, like it always is. Ilya has always liked Hollander’s tone, how matter-of-fact it is, how blunt. Reporters, when they are fortunate enough to catch him off guard enough to give a non-rehearsed answer, often think he is joking or being sarcastic when he uses this tone of voice. This is almost never the case. No, Hollander is mostly just very earnest.
The almost fond thought makes Ilya take a drag of the cigarette, hoping that the slight buzz from the nicotine will distract him from starting to think like that about his rival.
“Why did you stop?”
“Hockey players make more money,” Hollander replies. “Figure skaters don’t make anything compared to us.”
It comes out like it’s supposed to be a joke. The tone is slightly different, he breathes a little harder at the end, and Ilya swears he can hear the weak smile he is sure is spread on the face he refuses to look at.
It’s not a joke, though; it's a distraction, a redirection away from... something. So Ilya doesn’t let it go. He pushes.
“You love figure skating though.”
How hard will Hollander let him push, he wonders. How much can he get from him?
“I love hockey,” Hollander says. “I mean… You know what people say about me, I’m a hockey robot. I live and breathe for it.”
Ilya hates that nickname. The press loves it; they like to call Hollander the robot, and Ilya the rabid Russian, the yin to the other’s yang. But Ilya knows differently. Hollander is an artist, even when he’s wearing skates without a pick and ten kilograms of gear. He wonders if that artistry comes from mourning the sport he left behind. Ilya’s been wondering that since he saw him smiling in a way he’s never seen him do on an NHL rink all those months ago.
“But you don’t love it like you love figure skating.” Ilya’s claim is bold. It might be wrong, his projection getting the better of him, but he’s committed now, so he continues. “I saw you. You do not smile like that for hockey.”
“It’s just different,” In the corner of his eye, Ilya sees Hollander’s chin drop, his Adam’s apple bob. “Hockey is my job. There’s more pressure there. It was different when I was competing too, probably. I don’t think I smiled like that then, either.”
Ilya needs courage for this next bit. When he started this conversation, he wasn’t sure he’d bring it up.
It feels right, though. It always feels right, at least in the moment, to share these secrets with Hollander. To share his curiosity, his history with Sasha, and his number. None of these vulnerabilities are things he would leave with some random hookup.
But Hollander is different. He gets Ilya on a level that no one else ever will. They share things that no one else will ever share — like hockey, like the pressure of generational talent, like the terrible ways those two things mix with liking men; this is another thing that ties them together.
He takes a long sip from his tumbler, the taste of the vodka spreading from his tongue down the back of his throat. He sets the glass on the side table, lets the sound of the connection ring through the bedroom.
“I used to figure skate,” Ilya whispers. “I loved it like you. I was very good. Obviously. We competed once. I looked it up when I learned you used different name then.”
That’s a lie. Ilya never forgot Kazuta’s name. It’s only a shame that he doesn’t have a memory of Kazuta’s, or Hollander’s, rather, little face. He wonders if he had the freckles, if there were more or fewer of them. He curses his memory for not holding onto those details, but doesn’t blame his mind for it, really. There were other parts of that day that were more important to remember.
He will have many future moments with Hollander, probably; whether they are on ice or in hotel rooms. The same could not be said for his Mama.
“I don’t remember skating against you.” Ilya almost smiles at the annoyance he can hear in Hollander’s voice. If Ilya knows him well, he is annoyed at himself for not remembering.
“My father did not want my skating associated with him. He always wanted me to be hockey player, so I used different name then too.” Another thing, tying them together. Will they ever end? “Still Ilya, but Lebedev, not Rozanov.”
“Like Irina Lebedeva?”
Ilya should not be shocked that Hollander knows his mother’s name. If he treated figure skating anything like he treated hockey, he probably has memorized every skater of note of the past hundred years. It should not surprise Ilya that his mother happens to be among the names in Hollander’s head, not when she was so special.
And she was so special. He remembers looking at any tapes he could get his hands on, of his mother, young and radiant and beautiful, out skating all of the competition and doing it with a smile on her face that he had never seen on her face in real life.
He’s not sure if he manages to school his expression fully when he replies, “Yes. Exactly like her.”
“Did you name yourself after her?”
Ilya remembers his mother’s face when he told her that he wanted to use her last name at competitions. He remembers the way her eyes had glistened, the way she kissed his crown and told him that she was so proud of you, my swan. He remembers her holding onto her cross, the same one he now wears around his neck, and muttering a prayer that he never really learned.
Ilya can’t bring himself to speak, only managing a hum in response.
“I remember you now,” Hollander says. He sounds a little happy now, a little proud of himself. “You beat me in the Juniors Championship in ‘03.” Ilya doesn’t stop the smile that quirks up on his face when he realizes that Hollander doesn’t remember beating him in ‘02. Of course, it would’ve been just another first place, wouldn’t it?
“You were good. We were kind of like rivals then, too,” Hollander continues. It’s a funny thought, that. Maybe they were destined to be rivals, no matter the sport. Wherever one of them went, the other would eventually follow, just to provide some real competition.
“When did you stop? Why did you stop, if you loved it so much?”
There’s no good answer to give here. Not to Hollander, not to this lucky, perfect Japanese-Canadian boy. Ilya does not need to poison him with the tragedy of his life. Hollander does not deserve that.
“That was my last competition,” Ilya says plainly, sticking to the facts. “And I stop because…” He waves his hand vaguely. “I don’t know. I stopped having love.” He feels himself leaning backwards, feels his head hit the headboard, his body moving without him really thinking about it.
He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. Hollander needs to leave. Ilya will not be good company anymore, and it’s not fair to subject him to it.
“I, uh, I need to go to sleep.” Ilya takes a hit of the cigarette. It feels like a miracle that it’s still lit, a small blessing in whatever horrid storm of emotions he’s stirred up for himself, completely of his own volition.
“Oh. Um. Yeah. Me too. I should… uh.” Hollander’s voice feels distant, further away than it should be, given that he’s right next to him. Ilya wants to smack himself in the head, wants to force himself back to reality, and wants to scream at himself to get it together.
He detaches himself from that rage, makes himself let go of that emotion, and drifts through the next couple of seconds instead, not empty, but not really there, either.
“Um. Bye, then. I’m off.” Hollander’s voice brings him back into the moment.
It takes everything in him to look Hollander in the eye
“Bye, Kazuta-Hollander.”
Hollander’s cheeks go pleasantly pink at his words, sending a rush of warmth through him. Momentarily, it drowns out the coldness that seems to have seeped into his mind. He latches onto it greedily, drinking it in, sucking it for all its worth.
It only gets better when Hollander replies by saying, “Bye, Lebedev-Rozanov.”
When Hollander leaves, Ilya holds onto his words like they’re the last lifeboat he has.
─•────
Irina Rozanova (née Lebedeva), Famed Russian Figure Skater, Dies at 40 of Health Complications
Irina Rozanova was a Russian Figure Skater and Olympic Gold medalist. Despite a short career compared to other athletes in the sport, she is regarded as one of the best figure skaters of all time, given her dominance during active competition. Throughout her career, she earned three golds and one silver in her four World Championship appearances. Rozanova was widely recognized as the leader of a new era of figure skating as the first female skater to perform a four-triple program at the Olympic Games.
She leaves behind her husband, General Grigori Rozanov and her two sons, Alexei (20) and Ilya (12).
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Translated from Russian.