I finish skating at 6:55 a.m. and my ankle is numb in that good dead way that means it stopped screaming an hour ago, and my shirt is stuck to my back with sweat, and Maya is laughing next to me, out of breath, because we finally landed the side by side footwork clean for the first time without me being half a beat behind.
"See?" she says, bumping my shoulder hard with hers, and her cheek is pink from cold. "Partners."
I smile and it is small but it is real and it stretches my face. "Partners."
Coach blows the whistle at 7:00 and the hockey team floods the ice in a wave of noise, and Roman is at the front with his helmet under his arm, and he looks at me across the white, and I look at him, and he nods once, short, and I nod back, and that is it, that is all we do now, and my chest does something strange and tight anyway.
I walk back to the room at 7:30 and the hallway smells like burnt coffee and laundry detergent, normal and safe and warm, and I am pulling on jeans one leg at a time because my ankle doesn't bend right in the mornings, and I have English at 9:00, when my phone buzzes on the desk, loud against the wood.
It is not Dima and it is not Mama, it is a message request, and the name at the top makes my blood go cold.
Kirill Antonov.
My stomach drops straight to the floor so fast I feel dizzy, and my hands go cold and clammy, and I open it before I can stop myself because my body remembers to obey him even after two years.
Kirill: *saw the video. you and the chinese girl. cute. very canadian of you.*
Kirill: *predatel.*
Traitor.
Kirill: *everyone knows. you ran. you tore up your invitation and ran to america like a coward. your dad told the federation everything. you abandoned your country for money.*
My hands are shaking so bad the phone slips in my grip and I catch it against my thigh, and I type back with thumbs that will not stay still: *what are you talking about*
Three dots bounce. Then: *ask your boyfriend Dima. he knows. everyone knows. half the team hates you now. the other half is just embarrassed for you.*
He sends a screenshot, and it is a group chat, Saint Petersburg Skate Club parents, and my dad's name is at the top in Cyrillic, and there is a long message in Russian, and I cannot read it all because my eyes will not focus, but my eyes catch pieces, words I know too well.
*…my son Viktor… disrespect… tore up his national camp invitation… ran away to Canada… scholarship… abandoned his country… not my son anymore…*
The words swim and blur on the bright screen, and I read it three times, four times, and my ears start ringing.
It is not true. I didn't tear up the invitation. Papa did, with his hands shaking, in the kitchen. I didn't run for money. I ran because I had to, because I couldn't breathe there anymore. I didn't abandon my country. My country abandoned me first.
I close the app and my fingers are numb and I open my messages and my hands are shaking so bad I hit the wrong chat twice before I find Dima.
Me: *Dima. now. pick up.*
Dima: *i'm at work. what's wrong*
Me: *Kirill messaged me. He said Papa told everyone I tore up my invitation and ran. He said everyone hates me.*
Three dots for a long time, long enough that my heart starts hammering against my ribs, then they disappear, then they come back.
Dima: *Vitya…*
Me: *is it true*
Dima: *i didn't want to tell you*
That is yes. That is always yes with Dima.
Me: *tell me*
Dima: *your dad went to the rink last week. after you left. he was drunk. he told coach, he told the parents, he told everyone who would listen that you stole money from him and bought a ticket to canada and that you ripped up the federation letter in his face and said you hated russia. he said you're a traitor.*
I read it twice and my chest gets tight, too tight, like someone is sitting on it.
Me: *i didn't*
Dima: *i know. we know. me, coach, maya's old coach. we know he's lying. but parents talk. kids talk. kirill is telling everyone you think you're too good for us now.*
Me: *half the team hates me*
Dima: *more than half. i'm sorry. i didn't want you to know. you just got there. you're safe.*
Safe. I am not safe. I am here and they are there and they hate me and it is Papa's voice in every room I am not in anymore, and my heart starts beating too fast and too hard and I can hear it in my ears, thudding, and my hands go numb and tingly and my vision goes spotty at the edges, black creeping in.
No. Not now. Not here.
I try to breathe, in and out, in and out, the way the doctor taught me when I was fifteen, but it doesn't work, the air won't go in, my chest is too tight, my throat is closing up.
Panic attack. I haven't had one in three years, not since I was fifteen and Kirill locked me in the equipment room and called me names through the door for an hour while I banged on the metal until my hands bled.
I drop my phone and it hits the floor hard and the screen cracks, and I drop to my knees next to my bag and I tear it open, clothes everywhere, skates clattering, the little Korovka candy, Lev's red car rolling away, and my hands find the small zip pocket inside, the one I haven't opened since I packed in Saint Petersburg in the dark.
My old medicine. From the doctor when I was fifteen. For anxiety. For panic. Mama made me bring it, she tucked it in herself and said "just in case," and I told her I wouldn't need it in Canada because I would be free.
The bottle is white and the label is in Russian and it expired two years ago and I don't care.
I open it and my hands shake so bad the pills spill everywhere, small white circles bouncing across the floor, and I pick one up with fingers that feel like they belong to someone else and I put it in my mouth and swallow dry, and it sticks in my throat and burns.
It doesn't work. My heart is still hammering and I still can't breathe and the room is spinning, and Papa's voice is too loud in my head, traitor, traitor, predatel.
I take another one. Then another. Three. That's too many. I know that's too many because the doctor said one, maximum two, and I can hear his voice saying it in Russian.
I don't care. I want it to stop. I want the noise to stop. I want Papa's voice out of my head.
I swallow them, all three, dry, and they burn going down my throat like chalk.
I sit on the floor with my back against the bed and my bag scattered around me and pills on the floor like tiny moons, and my phone with its cracked screen glowing next to my knee, and I wait.
My heart slows, not a lot, just enough that I can hear something other than the thudding, and my breathing comes back shallow and thin, and the spots in my vision fade to grey, and it works, finally, everything goes quiet, not calm quiet, numb quiet, like someone turned the volume down on the whole world and wrapped cotton around my brain.
I close my eyes and I lean my head back against the mattress and my arms feel heavy, too heavy to lift.
I hear the door, the beep, the green light flashing, and I don't move because I can't move, the pills are heavy in my stomach like stones.
Roman walks in and he is in his practice gear, sweating, his hair wet and stuck to his forehead, and he sees me on the floor, and he sees my bag scattered everywhere, and he sees the white bottle loose in my hand, and he sees the pills scattered white across the dark carpet.
He stops dead in the doorway and drops his bag and it hits the floor hard with a thud that I feel through the floorboards.
"Viktor?" he says, and his voice is different, not annoyed, not teasing, scared, cracked open in the middle. "What did you take?"