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Sochi 2014
Russia was a reminder of all the things Ilya couldn’t have. Of all the things he’d failed at.
He hated it here, but he had received the “great honor” of being named captain of the Russian Olympic Hockey Team, a group of prima donnas whose skill didn’t match up to their egos. This and their injured goalie ultimately meant they failed to even be in the running for medal placement. It was a dishonor that Russia, and his father, wouldn’t let him live down.
Another failure, another thing he couldn’t have.
It wasn’t the disappointment of the loss, the missed opportunity at a medal, or even the disappointment his country had in him that hurt most. What hurt the most was that his father and brother hadn’t even come to watch him play. They hadn’t even bothered to show up. And now, after it was over, they wouldn’t stop calling or texting him. He’d made them look bad, and now he needed to pay for it.
His family didn’t give a shit about him. He was alone here.
Jane: Hey! U doing ok?
He couldn’t respond to that text here, not anywhere. Instead of continuing to dwell on the stupid text Hollander had sent him, he allowed himself to sneak into the rafters of the stadium to watch the men’s singles figure skating. It was a strange comfort watching the program alone; calming, hidden away enough that no one knew where he was or judged his being there. A place his father and brother would never find him.
He watched as the skater from Germany double-footed the landing on his quad triple toe double loop. A small but costly mistake. Not enough momentum, Ilya thought. The skater had been doing fairly well until then, but the mistake shook his confidence. Now he was rushing the rest of the program, making small errors at every turn. Ilya shook his head. Poor guy. He knew the feeling.
He’d loved figure skating as a kid; his mother had been among the elite female figure skaters until she married his father. “Just another promising young skater who ended her career too soon,” he’d heard over the years. He’d never really believed it. He doubted she’d had much of a choice.
Skating was something she’d shared with him and his brother, taking them out onto the ice. Alexei quickly decided he couldn’t be bothered and soon stopped coming altogether, but Ilya, oh Ilya, had loved it. Still did, in some way, even if it hurt sometimes.
The ice had welcomed him like an old friend. He remembered speeding around the rink as his mother spun and twirled around him. She looked happy there, comfortable. The weight that bent her shoulders in daily life lifted, a smile gently curling the corners of her mouth.
Ilya wanted that feeling too. He tried to emulate her moves, but after a few poor attempts and a failed jump, he landed on his butt. And like an angel, his mother glided over and pulled him up by his hands.
“A little ambitious for your first try,” she said, smiling. “But not bad. How about we start small, little bee?”
Instead of letting go and skating away, she gently, patiently walked him through the motions. Holding his hand, helping him turn through the spin of a simple half loop, her hand coming to rest on his back as he wobbled through the landing.
“You’re a natural,” she said, and they skated again. It was always so easy with her.
His father would have berated him. What are you doing? So weak you cannot even land without the help of your mama? But his father wasn’t here. Alexei wasn’t here. It was just the two of them, and for a few moments, they were happy and carefree. A reprieve for both of them.
It continued for a few years. His mother never mentioned it, and neither did he. No one cared enough to ask, so it was an easy secret to keep.
This was theirs alone. Something no one else needed to be involved in, and he loved it. He loved the jumps and spins, and joking with his mother that they were pairs skating. She would lift him up and swing him around, then release him, sending him flying and giggling down the ice.
“Ilya Rosanov, the first skater in history to complete the deadly, dangerous, and all-but-impossible slingshot move! A 6.0 from every judge! In the spirit of competition we’ll let everyone else compete, but really, they should just go home!” his mother said in her best commentator voice.
Ilya remembered smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. Skating back to her. Wrapping his arms around her middle and laughing. Never wanting the moment to end.
Skating with his mother hadn’t lasted as long as he’d hoped, but it lasted long enough for him to start thinking about skating professionally. Maybe one day he could compete in men’s singles. His mother could be his coach. They could leave his father and Alexei at home while they traveled and competed. Maybe even go to the Olympics and medal one day. It would be for her. It would make her proud.
At six, he’d created an entire life for them. A child’s dream.
His father had put a stop to all of it abruptly.
It was his fault. At dinner one night, when his father asked what he’d done that day, Ilya excitedly said he’d landed a single axel all on his own. He’d been so proud. His mother froze, her eyes dropping instantly. She was bracing for impact, though at the time Ilya didn’t understand why.
“Who is teaching you?” his father demanded.
Ilya knew he’d fucked up. Tears filled his eyes, but he couldn’t speak. He wanted desperately to lie, to say a friend had taught him, but he was frozen.
His father’s glare turned on his mother. “What are you doing teaching my son these things? You want to turn him into a faggot?”
Alexei sniggered quietly across the table. He’d always loved their father’s meanness, especially when it wasn’t directed at him. His mother closed her eyes and took a shaky breath.
“No. No, I wasn’t. We were just—”
His father slammed his fist into the table. The bang sent china and glasses clanking together like a thunder strike. “Never again. Never. No son of mine will—”
“It was for hockey!” Ilya shouted, panicked. “She was teaching me how to skate for hockey! It was a joke!”
He’d never cared about hockey, but it was an ice sport. A respectable one. Something acceptable for the son of a policeman. He had to try.
It was a small thing, but his mother’s eyes locked with his, grateful.
“Then you will see a hockey coach immediately,” Grigori said, glaring at her. He sensed the lie but left it unaddressed. “Your mother will no longer be ‘training’ you. What does a failed figure skater know about it anyway?”
And that was it.
At six, he learned that he couldn’t really be himself in front of his father. That the only joy he was allowed to experience on the ice had to be related to hockey. Anything else was unacceptable.
He did end up enjoying hockey, really. But even now, when he watched figure skating, he remembered those stolen moments with his mother and wondered how things might’ve been different. They’d both been so happy.
And now, in Sochi, after a devastating elimination and the constant berating calls from his father and brother, he just wanted his mom. This was the closest he could get to her. Hidden in the highest deck of the rink, alone, watching other people do what he couldn’t.
The U.S. skater was finishing his program. Ilya hadn’t even realized it had started. The final double axel was solid, a little sloppy on the leg work after, but otherwise well executed. Still not enough for a medal.
“Hey.”
Ilya almost startled, but kept his body under control. He recognized the voice. Shane.
Please not Shane. Anyone but him.
Another thing Ilya wanted and couldn’t have. Another failure.
He liked Shane more than he should. Of course Shane appeared now, as if he’d sensed Ilya needed someone. Needed him. And Ilya wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Shane, bury his face into his neck, smell that boring aftershave Ilya was fairly sure Shane’s mother bought for him.
But he couldn’t.
“Not here.”
Ilya couldn’t do this right now. He was too close to losing it already.
Shane shook his head, as if that were obvious. “No, I’m not—”
Then his expression changed. Maybe it finally clicked that this couldn’t happen at all in Russia. Shane looked uncomfortable but determined.
“I saw you up here and wanted to see how you were doing.”
Ilya clenched his jaw. “Fine. Go sit down.”
It was the wrong move.
Encouraged, Shane smiled. “We—”
Ilya cut him off.
“We are not anything. Go sit down.”
Shane stepped closer, undeterred. Concerned, of all things. “Are you okay?”
He asked like he cared. Like he wanted to help.
“Please go.”
If there was one thing Ilya loved and hated about Shane, it was his inability to take a hint.
“You didn’t answer any of my texts.”
“No,” Ilya said. “I didn’t answer your boring texts. Now will you go?”
Hurt flashed across Shane’s face before it hardened into anger.
Good.
With one final, exasperated “Fuck,” Shane turned and left.
Finally.
Ilya watched him go. He was glad Shane was gone. Glad. Really.
This had gone too far. That kiss in the stairwell had been too soft, too reverent, brimming with too much emotion. This wasn’t good for either of them. He’d done the right thing.
He needed to end this whole… this.
Cold turkey, as the Americans said.
He’d already quit smoking. He could quit Shane too.
No problem.
As he descended the stairs from the upper balcony, the lighter rattled loudly in the pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket.
Mocking him.