### CHAPTER 10 - THE MORNING AFTER
I don't sleep in Maya's roommate's bed even though it smells like vanilla and laundry detergent and is softer than my own, and I lie on my back and stare at the unfamiliar ceiling with the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to it while Maya snores softly in the bed next to mine, a little whistling sound on every exhale, and she gave me tea in a chipped blue mug and she gave me a blanket that was still warm from her dryer and she didn't ask why I was sitting in the hallway at 9 p.m. with my key card clutched in my hand like an idiot, she just said "hockey boys are the worst" and pulled the blanket up to my chin and let me stay.
My phone buzzes at 2:13 a.m. and I know it is 2:13 without looking because my body has always known the time even in a different country, and the screen lights up the dark room.
Roman: you good?
I stare at the two words until they blur, and my chest feels tight and hot for no reason I can name because there is no apology and no explanation, just two words like he is checking a box.
I don't answer.
A minute later it buzzes again.
Roman: door's unlocked. she left.
I turn the phone face down on the mattress so the light stops, and I close my eyes and I count to thirty in Russian and then I count to thirty again, and my heart is still hammering against my ribs, and I don't sleep.
At 5:00 a.m. I get up while the room is still dark and Maya is still asleep with her mouth open, and I fold the blanket into a neat square and I put the mug in the sink and I find a napkin on her desk and I write thank you. -V in small letters, and I leave it on her desk where she will see it, and my hands are cold when I slip out into the empty hallway.
I go back to my room because I have to, and the hallway is empty and quiet, and the door to 417 is closed, and I press my card and it beeps and the light flashes green.
I open it slow.
Roman is in his bed on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes, and he is wearing shorts and no shirt, and the room smells like him, like deodorant and clean sweat, and underneath it smells like her perfume, sweet and cheap and cloying, and my stomach turns over when I breathe it in.
He hears the door and moves his arm and looks at me with sleep-creased eyes. "You're back," he says, and his voice is rough from sleep and low.
I don't answer because my throat feels tight, and I go to my side and I put my bag down and I take my skates out of it with hands that will not stop shaking, and I do not look at him.
"Viktor," he says.
I keep not looking because if I look at him I am afraid of what my face will do.
"Hey. I'm talking to you."
I turn finally and my jaw hurts from clenching. "What."
He sits up and rubs his face hard with both hands. "Listen. About last night—"
"I don't care," I say, fast, too fast, the words tumbling out before I can catch them. "It's your room too."
"It's not—" He stops and sighs, and the sound is frustrated and tired. "She's just a girl from the team. It's not serious."
"I said I don't care," I say, and my voice sounds louder than I meant it to.
He looks at me for a long second, his eyes moving over my face, and then he nods once. "Okay. Cool."
He gets up and goes to the bathroom and the door closes and the shower turns on loud, and I sit on the edge of my bed and my hands are still shaking and I don't know why, so I reach into my bag and I put Lev's little red car in my pocket and I zip it shut tight, and the hard edges press into my palm and that helps.
I go to the Oval at 5:30 because I cannot be in that room with that smell anymore, and it is early and cold and empty, and Maya is already there doing a stretch on the boards with her leg up by her ear.
"You're alive," she says, not even surprised to see me. "I was worried you'd run away to join the circus."
"No circus," I say, and my voice sounds hoarse.
She looks at me, really looks, her eyes narrowing. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"Liar," she says, but she smiles soft, not teasing. "Come on. Race you to the blue line."
We skate and we don't talk, we just move, and the cold air burns my lungs and my blades bite the ice and it helps because the ice doesn't ask questions and the ice doesn't care who you kissed last night or who you wanted to punch, it just lets you go fast.
At 6:45 the hockey team comes in loud, and Roman is at the front with his helmet under his arm, and he sees me first and then he sees Maya next to me, and his jaw tightens for just a second, a little muscle jumping, and then it is gone, and he doesn't say anything, he just leads his team onto the ice at 7:00 when Coach blows the whistle, his eyes straight ahead.
Maya leans in as we step off the ice, her shoulder bumping mine. "He keeps looking at you."
"Who?" I ask, even though I know.
"Roman. Captain Hot and Bothered. He's been staring at you for ten minutes while pretending to listen to Coach."
"He stares at everyone," I say, and I bend down to put my guards on so I don't have to look at her.
"No," she says, certain. "He stares at you."
I don't answer because I don't know what to say to that and because my chest feels strange and tight.
At lunch I sit with Maya and Jamal and Priya at our table by the window, and I am eating a real sandwich with turkey and cheese, not just a banana, and it tastes like something normal, and Roman walks in with his team and they are loud on purpose, laughing too loud, and they take the table right next to ours, close enough that I can hear their chairs scrape, and I don't look over.
"Hey, Orlov," one of his friends calls, the same one who called me twinkle toes on the first day, his voice carrying. "Where's your girlfriend?"
My hands curl into fists under the table and I start to stand up before I even think, and Maya kicks me hard under the table, her shin connecting with mine.
"Don't," she whispers, her eyes sharp. "He's baiting you."
Roman says something low to his friend, too low for me to hear, and the friend shuts his mouth instantly, and Roman doesn't look at me, not once, he just stares down at his tray.
Priya leans over, delighted, her glitter catching the light. "Drama," she whispers. "I love drama."
I stand up so fast my chair squeaks. "I have class."
I leave my tray half-eaten and I leave my friends and I go to the library and I sit in a corner on the third floor where no one ever goes, and I open my laptop and I don't do any work, I just sit and stare at the blank screen and listen to the hum of the heaters.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Roman: can we talk?
I don't answer and my thumb hovers over the screen while my heart beats too fast.
A minute later it buzzes again.
Roman: please.
I turn the phone all the way off and I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see stars.
At 5:00 p.m. I go back to the room because I have to, my stuff is there and I have nowhere else to go, and Roman is there, and he is not playing his game, he is just sitting on his bed with his elbows on his knees, waiting, and he stands up the second I come in.
"Viktor—"
"I don't want to talk," I say, and my voice shakes.
"Too bad," he says, and he steps closer. "We're talking."
I step back without thinking and my back hits the closed door with a thud. "I didn't know you'd be back last night," he says fast, his hands up like I am a spooked animal. "I thought you were at dinner with your friends. I wouldn't have—"
"You wouldn't have what?" I ask, and my voice comes out louder than I want it to, cracking in the middle. "Brought a girl to our room? Kissed her in our bed?"
"It's my bed," he says, defensive.
"It's our room," I say back, and I am breathing too hard.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, making it stick up. "Okay. Yeah. You're right. I'm sorry. I should have texted. I should have asked."
I stare at him because Roman Callahan is apologizing to me and my brain cannot make that fit with the boy who called me princess on the first day.
"Why do you care?" I ask, quiet now. "Why do you care if I'm mad? You don't like me. You called me princess. You called me twinkle toes. You let your team laugh at me."
"I don't—" He stops and starts again, and his voice is rough. "I don't not like you."
"That's not an answer."
He sighs and sits down heavily on his bed and puts his head in his hands, and he looks tired in a way I have never seen him look. "I don't know, okay? You showed up and you're good and you don't take shit from anyone and you live in my room and you look at me like I'm an asshole and maybe I am but I don't know how to—" He stops and looks up at me, his eyes blue and honest. "I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"This." He gestures between us with his hand. "Living with someone who hates me."
I don't hate him, and that is the whole problem because I don't know what I feel, but it is not hate, it has never been hate, and the realization makes my chest feel tight. "I don't hate you," I say, and the words feel strange and true in my mouth.
He looks surprised, then relieved, then something else softer moves across his face. "Good. Because I don't hate you either."
We stand there in the quiet room and it is too quiet, I can hear the clock ticking and both of us breathing.
"Can we start over?" he asks.
I think about Saint Petersburg and about Papa and about Kirill and about every time someone offered to start over and then used it against me later when I let my guard down, and I know I should say no, but I look at his face and I hear myself say, "Okay," anyway.
He smiles, real, not the smirk he wears for his team. "Okay."
He stands up and holds out his hand, big and calloused, a hockey player's hand with scars across the knuckles. "Roman Callahan. Left wing. Terrible roommate."
I look at his hand for a second, and then I take it, and my hand disappears inside his. "Viktor Orlov. Figure skater. Also terrible roommate."
His hand is warm and dry and he holds on a second too long before he lets go, and my palm tingles where he touched it.
"Friends?" he asks.
I think about Maya saying we're going to be friends like it was already decided, and I think about Dima texting me enemies to lovers with laughing emojis, and I think about the blonde girl in his bed last night, and I need a wall that is safer than that. "Roommates," I say.
He nods, and something flickers in his eyes but he covers it fast. "Roommates."
He goes back to his bed and I go to mine and we don't talk for a while, and it's not awkward, it's just quiet in a way that feels okay.
At 9:00 he gets up and grabs his pillow. "I'm going to the lounge. Give you space."
"You don't have to," I say, sitting up.
"I want to," he says, and he looks at me at the door. "You were here first tonight."
He leaves and the door closes and it beeps and the light flashes red, and I sit on my bed and I take out my phone and I turn it back on.
Three texts from Mama and two from Dima and one from Maya.
Maya: you alive? you left lunch fast.
I type back with thumbs that still feel shaky: yeah. sorry. roommate stuff.
Maya: the hot hockey player?
I type: yeah.
Maya: did you kill him?
I smile, small and real, and it surprises me. I type: no.
Maya: good. murder is messy. come to the Oval tomorrow at 6. I need a partner for footwork.
I type: ok.
I put the phone down and I lie back and I stare at the ceiling and listen to the building settle.
The door opens at 11:00 and Roman comes in quiet, trying not to wake me, and he sees me awake in the dark.
"Hey," he whispers.
"Hey," I whisper back.
He gets into bed and doesn't turn on the light. "Night, Viktor."
"Night, Roman."
I close my eyes and I listen to him breathe across the room, slow and even, in and out, and I fall asleep before I can even count to thirty.