by Teagan Kade
Somehow, though he’s shouting, his voice is muffled, quiet.
What’s going on?
I bring my fingers to the side of my head, wincing at the pain.
When I draw them away they’re hot and sticky, vibrant red with blood. I see it dripping onto the ice, tiny red blooms of it opening up beside me, and that’s it.
The entire stadium pulls into a pinprick. I can’t breathe, can’t see, letting the deep darkness swallow me whole.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LIAM
For a second I’m not exactly sure what’s happened.
Until I see the blood.
A security guard tries to block me as I rush down the aisle, but I shove him aside, clearing the barrier and making my way across to the ice where Viktoriya is lying there, blood running between the fingers to her head.
An icy pit opens up in my stomach.
Jesus. No. Not when I’ve just found her.
Dimitri is standing beside her shaking his head in shock. “I’m sorry,” he’s repeating, over and over.
I ignore him and get down onto the ice beside Viktoriya as medical stuff swarm.
Her eyes open, but they’re glassy and distant. “I don’t know…” she starts to say. “Where am I?”
If there’s lasting damage here I’m going to fucking murder her asshole partner.
I hold her head, pulling her tight against my chest while I try to assess the wound. “It’s okay, baby. You’re okay.”
She looks at me as if I’m a stranger.
That pit opens up into a cavern—bottomless and dark and infinite.
Two South Korean officials politely try to pull me away from her, muttering apologies. I shake out of their grip. “Get the fuck away from me!” I shout, noticing the shirt I’m wearing is crimson with blood.
I pull back, staring down at it, at the people that continue to gather around, a medic pressing something against Viktoriya’s head.
Another hand grabs me on the shoulder. I turn ready to explode, but it’s Paul. He helps me to my feet. “Come on, buddy,” he says, always the voice of calm in a crisis. “Let them work. Let them help her.”
I’m sweating hard, cold. I think I might be in shock myself. I look around at the stadium, everyone on their feet in silence. “What are you looking at?” I bellow, to no one in particular.
I turn back to Viktoriya, my heart pumping hard.
They’re loading her onto a stretcher, staff clustered tightly around her.
The fucktard who did this to her is still muttering to himself. I go to walk over to him, to rearrange his face, but Paul’s grip tightens on my shoulder. “Let it go, man. Sit down for a while. Think this through.”
I allow myself to be led back to the team gathered by the barrier, shouting “What?” up at the audience until my throat is dry.
But I think I’m angrier at myself. I’ve shown them, the world, I’m vulnerable, that I’m human. There’s no going to back now.
Fuck them. Fuck everyone.
They can say what they want. The only thing that matters is Viktoriya.
FIVE WEEKS LATER
If there’s one thing Paul knows how to do, it’s make an entrance. It’s sub-zero outside, yet he walks into the bar wearing the most disgraceful fucking Hawaiian shirt I’ve ever seen. I’m talking full-blown Five-O fever that makes you want to instantly claw your eyes out.
I stand from the bar and take his hand. “My brother. I don’t know what I’m more pissed about—the fact you decided to wear that thing or the way you’re actually pulling it off.”
It’s true. I can practically hear the cougars who frequent this place ready to pounce.
Paul shakes my hand, smiling. “Motherfucker.”
I signal for two beers and take a seat, Paul doing the same and surveying the room. “I’ve missed this place.”
“The warm beer and aroma of disappointment?”
He laughs. “I’ve never been disappointed by what I’ve brought home from here.”
“Not even the hand grenade I made you cop while I hit on that cute brunette?”
Paul shrugs. “’More cushion for the pushin’, I say. No one wants to fuck a table chair, man.”
I take a swig of my beer. True to my words, it’s warm.
Paul places his bottle down, puffing his chest out. “How’s it going with Viktoriya?”
Even hearing her name’s causing me to clench tight.
The last I saw of her was at the stadium. The Russians had her on the next flight out, claiming she had amnesia and required specialist treatment. It’s been radio silence since, and that’s to say nothing of Dimitri. He vanished at the same time—poof. I don’t think the Russians were keen for him to hang around.
I’ve tried calling everyone from Viktoriya’s friends to the embassy, used every contact I know to try and get word to her, a shred of information on where she is or what she’s doing, but all I’m met with is lipid excuses and runarounds.
“Nothing,” I reply.
Paul looks down, shaking his head and holding his beer between his legs.
“What?” I ask.
He lifts his head. “You’re telling me the great Mad Dog, Olympic Gold Medalist, is giving up?”
“I’m not giving up,” I reply.
“Really?” he laughs, because everything from your droopy fucking posture to those puppy-dog eyes tell me you are. You love this girl, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“So let Uncle Paul help you.”
“What are you going to do? Fly us into Russian airspace and drop flyers?”
My joke’s met with an unexpected expression. “I have a contact,” he says, who might be able to help.
“A contact?” I question.
Paul raises his hands. “Okay, so it’s some Russki chick I banged in Sochi.”
“Funny. I never heard anything about it.”
Paul smiles. “And that’s why they call me ‘The Ghost.’”
“You sure it’s nothing to do with your vampire-like complexion?”
He pushes me playfully. “You want my help or not?”
“Of course, you dick.”
He leans closer. “I spoke to someone at the state office as well. I think you might want to hear what they have to say.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
VIKTORIYA
It’s cold, as always, cold but beautiful here in my childhood village.
It’s a simpler life in the country, a slower life.
I stand watching the village children play games on the ice with sticks and balls. Wispy, frost-laden clouds run overhead reflected in the silvery surface below.
There’s no internet here, no way to contact the outside world, which is no doubt why the government officials were so keen to send me out into the wilderness. ‘To be with family,’ they said. ‘To recuperate.’ My ‘family,’ of course, being an aunt of an aunt two generations removed, though she is a wonderful cook, and kind. It has been a nice change of pace, if nothing else.
The initial amnesia I felt after the incident at the Games was short-lived. When my memory returned I was already on a flight back to Moscow, stern-faced men in suits waiting to discuss my ‘options,’ as they detailed it. Naturally, I asked about Dimitri, but I received no answer in return. I only hope he’s not rotting away in a cell somewhere, a national disgrace. He’s my partner, and yes, while he may have strayed in years gone by, he doesn’t deserve a horrible fate, not after such an illustrious career. Most likely he’s been shooed away to another remote town, forced to keep silent.
That was the expectation. I would return here for rest, would be well-compensated and brought back to Moscow in good time… provided I didn’t speak to the media. The Russian Ice Hockey Team losing to the Americans was one thing, what happened on the ice to me quite another, but combined, more than enough to leave the Russian Olympic Team red-faced.
But more than anything, my mind returns to Liam—to his hands and his lips, his cheeky manneris
ms and hitched smile. I long for his touch and company, but I know it’s a relationship that would never be allowed, could never flourish as it should. Letting him go is the only option I have, but I can’t. Every time I try to deny my feelings for him they come back stronger, more affirmed.
I hear the off-beat brap of a four-wheel drive making its way down the slope leading into the village. The children drop what they’re doing and rush past me shouting and cheering. A visitor, any visitor, to the village is a rarity, an occasion of the utmost excitement.
I turn around, losing sight of the vehicle. It’s probably another city official come to check up on me, ensure I haven’t gone running off into the woods.
I pass a local woman sweeping. I gesture to the village square. “Do you know who it is?” I ask.
She lifts her shoulders, lips downturned. “Trouble,” she replies.
An odd sense of déjà vu overcomes me as I follow the children to the square, curiosity getting the better of me.
The vehicle, a black Jeep, parks and shuts off its lights, the driver’s side door popping open and a hooded figure emerging, soon swarmed by children.
I catch a glimpse of the face below.
No. It couldn’t be.
I quicken my pace.
The figure—definitely a man—pats the children’s heads and hands out what look to be candy bars.
I stop a few feet away when the man draws his hood back, caught in shock. “Liam?”
And there is the smile, that face I’ve been dreaming of, except it must be that, because there is no way this can be real.
He moves through the children towards me. It’s not until he places his lips against mine I realize this is no dream.
I lift a shaking hand to his face. “But… how?”
“You remember me?” he asks, confused.
“Of course,” I reply, smiling to myself, the tears I promised myself I would never cry already forming. “You’re hard to forget.”
He kisses me again as the children dance and sing around us. The whole village is gathering.
I draw closer to him, allow myself to be pulled into his warm embrace. “How is this possible?”
His lips are above my ear. He speaks over the top of my head. “A private jet, friends in high places, and a few bottles of frighteningly expensive vodka.”
I hold myself away so I can look him in the eyes. “You’re serious?”
“I wouldn’t say my presence here is entirely legal, I’m probably going to end up in a gulag, but I had to see you, Viktoriya.” He brings his lips to my ear. “And I want you to come with me.”
“Come with you?” I blurt.
“Ssshh,” he says, laughing, a finger against my lips.
He keeps his voice low. “The US Government will offer you permanent residency.” He taps his breast. “I have it all here—a future, you and me.”
I piece it together. “If I skate for the US?”
“Yes. Will you do it? I kind of need an answer.”
I look around at the village. Can I really leave my home, this country that has given me so much? But when I turn back to Liam, my decision is made.
“There’s more,” he says, getting down on one knee and taking a small box from his trouser pocket.
Even the children are silent.
He opens to the box to reveal a gleaming ring, the diamond at its center the same sparkling silver as the lake. “Provided we make it out of here alive,” he says, “will you marry me, Viktoriya Kuznetsov? That is, will you do me the pleasure of being my wife?”
I throw myself against him, knocking us both over into the snow. “Yes!” I shout, repeating it in Russian so the whole village can hear.
There’s applause and cheering, the children resuming their dancing as Liam helps me back to my feet, kissing me again and this time running a hand dangerously low down my side.
He nods over my shoulder.
I look to see one of the village men at the back of the crowd with a satellite phone to his ear, speaking in rapid Russian.
Liam takes hold of my shoulder. “If we’re doing this, we have to do it now.”
I lift his hand from my shoulder, squeezing it. “Let’s go. I’m all yours.”
EPILOGUE
FOUR YEARS LATER
LIAM
“And you said you’d be dead before you wore a costume like that.”
I look down at the teal bodysuit I’m wearing complete with thousands of sequins. I’m a human fucking disco ball.
“Skating for the United States of America,” booms the announcer’s voice, “Liam and Viktoriya McCallum.”
Viktoriya squeezes my hand. “Are you ready?”
I look out over the Beijing Olympic ice rink. It’s a full house out there. “Always,” I smile, the two of us skating out onto the ice.
Who knew you could become a world-class figure skater in the space of four years? That is why the crowds are here, to witness either my glory or downfall. When Viktoriya first floated the idea to me, I thought she was crazy, but once I gave it a chance, I could see why she loved figure skating so much—the freedom, the expression of movement. It came back to me fast. No one thought this was possible… except Viktoriya.
We skate to Photography by Ed Sheeran tonight, the same song we made love to almost four years to the day. I thought I would be nervous, but we skate effortlessly, completely one. I position myself for the first jump. We leap together and land solidly, the stadium erupting with applause.
Viktoriya’s smile can’t get any wider as we move through the middle of the routine.
I turn and increase my speed. What I’m about to attempt will make or break us, a move that has never been landed in competition history before.
“You can do it,” whispers Viktoriya, positioning herself.
Fucking own it.
I plant my skate hard and push for maximum rotation, the five spins, the quintuple Lutz, blurring by before I’ve landed, safe and sound, back on the ice.
If the applause was rapturous before, it’s damn near deafening now, but we still have the ending to come.
I take Viktoriya around the waist, nuzzling into her neck and whispering, “I love you,” as we come into the final spiral, ending together on the ice, and I can’t help but kiss her as the cheering continues.
*
It’s snowing in New York. Helena and Viktoriya are sitting on the sofa with a flute of champagne each. It’s the first chance we’ve had to celebrate since we’ve been back.
Max, our three-year-old, is holding my gold medal. “Is it weal?” he asks.
I take the medal and bite down on it. “Seems so, bud.”
I hand it back, Max biting it himself, a quizzical expression filling his pudgy little face.
It has been absolutely non-stop since the Games with press engagements, meetings with sponsors, and senators—everyone keen to get in on America’s new darling couple. I’ve even had a few of the hockey boys on the phone, Paul the first to congratulate me… on how good my ass looked in those tights.
The boys took gold again easily in hockey this year given Russia was banned from the Winter Games. Bogdan and half of the Russian team were caught doping, whisked away to who knows where by the Russian government in the fallout—not that either myself or Viktoriya care. We’ve got a little person on our plate, and we couldn’t be happier.
Conceiving proved difficult at first… not for want of trying, of course. The IVF helped, Max born on Christmas day, our own special miracle. We bought this apartment the following week.
Viktoriya was able to get a special visa for Helena following a strong performance at the World Championships, permanent residency for them both. Even her accent has started to wane a bit.
As for our sex life… Every time I see Viktoriya I want to take her to bed. Her baby bump came and went almost as quickly; I was kind of disappointed. I’ve never seen a woman so attractive as Viktoriya in motherhood, the ‘glow’ everyone talks about and the general air
of giddiness that surrounds her. Everything is new and terrifying, exciting and anxiety-inducing in equal measure. It’s incredible.
I love being a dad, too—a shelf full of daycare craft surprises Max has made me I treasure more than anything. It’s tough at times, with the travel and training, but we’ve made it work, Helena also doubling up on her role of occasional babysitter. She raises her glass. “To the best skating pair since Torvill and Dean.”
Viktoriya raises her glass, watching me from across the room. “To us.”
*
It’s cold on the roof of our apartment building, but the sky’s clear. Unlike Pyeongchang, there are few stars in the sky, the light from the city drowning them out.
I watch Max on the baby monitor sleeping soundly two floors below.
Viktoriya’s hands snake around my waist. “I can’t believe you still have that thing.”
I slide the monitor back into my pocket. “I guess I don’t want him to grow up.”
Viktoriya laughs at my ear. “That’s what kids do, you know.”
I spin around and reach for her ass, drawing her against my hardness, and I’m always hard for her, now more than ever.
She’s perfection.
“Kids? Plural?” I suggest.
She rolls her eyes. “You just want more sex.”
I slide a hand down the front of her pants and find her wet. “Making babies is what we were designed to do.”
I kiss her hard, sliding a finger into the warm grip of her pussy, the butt of my palm against her clit.
She breaks away to my shoulder, panting against my jacket. “We’re out here in the open, you know.”
I look around. We’re in shadow, few buildings taller than the one we stand on, and shielded by a wall to our left, but the thrill remains. “Just like Pyeongchang,” I muse, adding a second finger and enjoying the way she bears down against my hand.
Her own hand runs down the front of my jeans, all the way to my balls.
“And just like South Korea,” she says, “I expect you to make me scream.”
I draw my hand away and push her hard against the wall.
Before me is a miracle, the woman I never thought I would meet. I am whole when I’m with her. I am nothing without. She is my everything.