Chapter 15 - Ten A.M.

Hi CHAPTER 15 - TEN A.M.

I wake up at 7:30, not 4:29, and for a second I don't know where I am because my body has not slept past five in the morning since I was fourteen years old, and my alarm didn't go off, or I turned it off in my sleep and don't remember doing it, and the light coming through the blinds is different, higher and whiter, winter light on snow.

Roman is still in his bed across the room, on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes to block the light, breathing slow and even, his chest rising and falling under the blanket, and he stayed, all night, he didn't go to the lounge like he usually does, he stayed right there.

My phone is on my nightstand charging, the screen lit up with notifications, and I pick it up with a hand that still feels heavy, and there are twelve missed messages, three from Mama, eight from Dima, one from Maya, and my stomach drops a little at the numbers.

Maya: *you alive? counseling at 10. i'll walk you. don't be late.*

I sit up slow and my head hurts, not sharp like a headache, dull like someone left a weight sitting right behind my eyes all night, and my mouth tastes like metal and old pills, and my ankle is stiff from yesterday and from sleeping weird, and everything feels a little bit detached, like I'm watching myself from a few feet away.

Roman moves in his bed, the sheets rustling, and he looks over at me from under his arm. "Hey."

"Hey," I say, and my voice is rough and low from sleep and from not talking much yesterday.

"You sleep okay?" he asks, his voice still sleepy and gravelly.

I nod because it's easier than telling the truth, which is that I slept for maybe three hours total and the rest I spent listening to him breathe and trying not to think about the white pills scattered on the floor and the way Nurse Patel looked at me with kind eyes. "Yeah. You?"

He sits up and rubs his face hard with both hands, his hair sticking up in every direction. "Like a rock. You snore, by the way."

"I do not," I say, automatic, and he grins a little, just a flash.

"You do. It's cute." He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands and stretches, his back cracking loud. "You have that thing at ten, right?"

"Counseling," I say, and the word feels strange and big in my mouth, clinical.

"You want me to come? I can skip my eleven o'clock. It's just econ." He says it casual, like it's nothing, like he hasn't already missed a morning skate for me.

I think about it for a second, about sitting in a small room with a stranger and talking about Papa and Kirill and the word predatel and the pills while Roman sits in the waiting room with his big shoulders hunched in a plastic chair, and I think about how much I want him there and how much I need to do this part by myself first.

"No," I say, and I look down at my hands. "Maya's coming. She texted."

He nods, doesn't look hurt, just accepts it, and goes to his mini fridge and takes out two yogurts, the strawberry ones he always buys, and tosses one to me underhand. I catch it against my chest, cold through my t-shirt.

"Eat," he says, pointing at me with his own yogurt. "Nurse said you need to eat. Doctor's orders."

I peel the lid back, the foil tearing, and it's cold and sweet on my tongue, and we eat in silence sitting on our beds across from each other, and it's not awkward, it's just quiet, comfortable quiet, the kind that doesn't need to be filled.

At 9:30 there's a knock, three quick raps, then the beep of a key card and the green light flashing, and Maya walks in with two paper coffees steaming in the cold air, her cheeks pink from outside.

"Morning, boys," she says, too cheerful on purpose, her armor on bright. She hands me a coffee, our fingers brushing. "Black. No sugar. Like your soul, remember?"

I take it and the heat burns through the paper into my cold palms and wakes them up. "Thanks."

She looks at Roman, holds out the other coffee. "For you, hockey boy. With enough sugar to kill a horse, the way you like it."

He takes it and grins, real. "You know me so well, Chen."

"Peachy." She turns to me, her smile softening at the edges when she looks at my face. "Ready, partner?"

I stand up and my legs feel weak, shaky like after a hard program, but I nod and pull on my hoodie. "Ready."

We walk across campus together and it's cold, properly cold, the kind that bites at your nose and makes your eyes water, and there's snow piled up along the paths where the plows pushed it, dirty and grey at the edges, and students are everywhere with backpacks and headphones and steam coming out of their mouths when they talk, normal life happening all around us, and it feels strange to be part of it, to be walking to class like nothing happened yesterday.

The counseling center is in a brick building behind the library that I've walked past a hundred times and never noticed, ivy growing up the sides even in winter, and inside it smells like old books and lemon cleaning spray and something warm like tea, and it's quiet in a way the rest of campus isn't.

Maya squeezes my hand once hard at the door, her fingers cold through her gloves. "I'll be right here in the waiting room. Text if you need me to come in and beat someone up for you. I know people."

I almost smile, and it feels strange on my face after yesterday. "Okay."

Inside, the receptionist is nice, older with kind eyes behind glasses, and she gives me a clipboard with forms, name, date of birth, student ID, reason for visit, and I stare at that last line for a long time with the pen hovering, and I finally write *panic attack* and *adjustment issues* because I don't know how to write *my dad told everyone back home I'm a traitor and I took three expired pills on my dorm floor because I couldn't make the noise stop* in the tiny little box they give you.

The counselor is a woman named Dr. Amara, she's maybe forty with short curly hair and glasses that sit low on her nose and she doesn't smile too big when she shakes my hand, just a small professional nod, and I appreciate that immediately because I don't think I could handle someone being overly cheerful right now.

"Viktor," she says, gesturing to the chair across from hers. "Come in. Have a seat."

Her office is small and warm, two grey chairs facing each other, a big green plant in the corner that looks very alive, a window with the blinds half closed, no couch like in movies, no desk between us, just space.

We sit and she folds her hands in her lap and looks at me, waiting.

"Tell me what brought you here today," she says, her voice even and calm.

I tell her, not everything at first, just the surface, the easy parts I've practiced saying. I left Russia six months ago. I got a scholarship to skate here. My dad is angry about it. I had a panic attack yesterday and ended up in the health center.

She listens, she doesn't write much, just nods every so often, her eyes never leaving my face, and it makes me want to keep talking just to fill the quiet.

"What happened right before the panic attack?" she asks after a while, leaning forward just a little. "What was the trigger?"

I tell her about Kirill's message, about the word predatel, traitor, about the screenshot of the parents' group chat with Papa's long message in Russian saying I stole money and ripped up my federation letter and abandoned my country. I tell her about Dima texting me that more than half the team back home hates me now, the boys I grew up with, the boys I learned to skate with when we were all in tiny skates holding onto the boards.

"How did that feel, hearing that?" she asks, and her voice is soft, no judgment in it.

"Like I can't breathe," I say, honest because I'm too tired to lie, my hands twisting in my lap. "Like I'm back there, in his house, in that kitchen. Like I never left. Like I ran three thousand miles for nothing."

She nods slowly, like that makes perfect sense to her. "That makes sense, Viktor. You experienced a significant trauma, leaving home under very difficult and unsafe circumstances, and now you're hearing that your reputation, your identity back home, is being damaged by someone you trusted, your father. Your body responded the way it learned to respond to threat when you were younger. With panic. With shutdown. It's not a character flaw, it's your nervous system trying to protect you."

I look at my hands because my eyes are burning and I don't want to cry in front of this stranger. "I took pills."

"I know. Nurse Patel told me in her notes. Do you still have them? The rest of the bottle?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "Maya threw them away. At the health center. She flushed them."

"Good." She leans forward a little more, her elbows on her knees. "Viktor, taking more medication than prescribed, especially old medication, especially when you're in distress, is dangerous. If you ever feel that urge again, that need to make the noise stop that way, I want you to call me, or call campus security, or call your friend Maya, or call your roommate Roman. Anyone on your list. Promise me you'll reach out before you reach for pills."

I think about Roman sitting on the floor across from me last night, his hand on my knee, his voice saying I'm not going anywhere. I think about Maya driving us home in silence with her hands tight on the wheel. I think about Dima eight time zones away texting me at 3 a.m. his time.

"Promise," I say, and I mean it, I feel it settle somewhere in my chest.

We talk for fifty minutes, it goes fast and slow at the same time. We talk about Papa, about the drinking, about the night I left with a bag tied shut with a shoelace because I didn't have a suitcase. We talk about skating, about why I skate at 6 a.m. every day like I'm being chased by something, about why I don't sleep, about why I tape my ankle so tight I lose feeling. We talk about why I think I have to earn my place here by hurting myself, by being the best, by never stopping.

"You're allowed to rest, Viktor," she says at the end, when our time is almost up, and she looks right at me over her glasses. "You don't have to earn your place here by hurting yourself. You don't have to earn safety. You already deserve it, just by being here, just by being you."

I want to believe her so badly it hurts, a physical ache behind my ribs.

She books me for next week, same time, same day, writes it on a little card and hands it to me. "And Viktor? One more thing before you go. You're not a traitor for choosing safety. You're not a traitor for choosing yourself over a system that was hurting you. That's called survival. That's called courage."

I walk out of her office with my eyes burning hot and my throat tight, and I have to blink fast so I don't cry in the hallway.

Maya is in the waiting room, curled up in a plastic chair scrolling on her phone with her legs tucked under her, and she looks up the second the door opens, her face immediately scanning mine. "How was it?"

"Weird," I say, my voice rough. "Good weird. Like... therapy weird."

She stands and links her arm through mine, warm and solid, and steers me toward the door. "Come on. I bought you a muffin at the café next door while you were in there. It's got blueberries. That's basically health food. That's basically a salad."

We walk back across campus slower than we came, and my phone buzzes in my pocket, and it's Dima, and my chest tightens automatically before I even read it.

Dima: *Vitya. I heard what happened. Maya texted me last night when you were at the health center. Are you okay? Are you safe?*

I stop walking in the middle of the path and students flow around us, and I type back with cold fingers: *yeah. i'm okay. saw counselor today. first time.*

Three dots immediately. Dima: *good. i'm proud of you, you know that? so fucking proud. also i told kirill to go fuck himself in the group chat. he blocked me. win for us.*

I laugh out loud, a real sharp bark of a laugh that surprises me, and it echoes a little in the cold air, and Maya looks at me sideways, curious. "What?"

"Dima told Kirill to fuck himself," I say, still grinning, feeling lighter than I have in days. "In the team chat."

She grins wide, delighted. "I like Dima. I like him a lot. We need to get him here for a visit. He can teach me Russian swear words."

Back at the room, Roman is gone, his bed is made perfectly, hospital corners, and there's a note on my desk in messy handwriting I recognize now, slanted and fast.

*Went to class. Left you Gatorade in fridge. Blue. Drink it. All of it. - R*

I open the mini fridge and there it is, a cold blue Gatorade, my favorite, the one I always buy from the vending machine after practice, and I didn't know he knew, I didn't know he noticed.

I drink it standing right there in front of the open fridge, and it's cold and sweet and artificial and perfect, and it tastes like someone paying attention.

At 3:00 p.m., I go to the Oval, not to skate, just to watch, just to be around the ice without having to perform, and I sit up high in the bleachers where it's quiet, and Maya is on the ice with Jamal, racing laps and laughing when she loses, and Priya is in the corner practicing spins in her bright pink practice dress, her arms over her head.

Coach Dubois sees me in the bleachers during a water break and skates over, stops below me, looks up, her hands on her hips. "You're not on the ice, Orlov."

"Rest day," I say, and I shrug a little.

She raises one eyebrow, that look she gives us when she knows we're lying. "Doctor's orders?"

"Something like that," I say, and I look down at my hands.

She nods once, sharp, and I think she's going to yell, but she just says, "Good. You skate better when you're not dead on your feet. You skate better when you're alive. Remember that." Then she skates away, whistle blowing.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and it's Roman.

Roman: *how was counseling?*

Me: *good.*

Roman: *good good or therapy good?*

I smile down at my phone, small and private. Me: *therapy good.*

Roman: *cool. you at the rink?*

Me: *yeah. just watching.*

Roman: *stay there. i'm coming. don't leave.*

Twenty minutes later, he walks in through the hockey doors, still in his jeans and his U of T hoodie, his hockey bag slung over his shoulder, his hair still damp from his shower after class, and he climbs all the way up to where I'm sitting, breathing a little hard, and he sits next to me, close enough our shoulders touch, and he doesn't say anything at first, just watches Maya fall on a turn and laugh so loud it echoes.

"You didn't have to come," I say after a while, quiet, watching the ice.

"I know," he says, his eyes on the rink, not on me. "Wanted to."

We sit in silence and it's comfortable, easy, the kind of quiet I've never really had with another person before, and the cold air smells like ice and rubber mats.

"Hey," he says after a while, his voice casual but his ears are red at the tips, I can see it even in the cold. "My mom's coming to the game this weekend from Ottawa. She always makes too much food, like enough for the whole team. Lasagna, garlic bread, the whole thing. You want to come over after? You, Maya and them too. She'd like you. She keeps asking about my mysterious Russian roommate."

I look at him, really look at his profile, at his jaw, at the way he's trying so hard to look casual, and something warm moves in my chest. "Yeah," I say, and my voice comes out softer than I mean it to. "I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

He smiles, small and real, not his cocky smirk, just a real smile that reaches his eyes. "Cool."

Down on the ice, Maya skates over to the boards below us, stops in a spray of snow, looks up, hands on her hips. "Are you two going to sit up there being cute and moody or are you going to come skate with me?"

Roman laughs, loud, his breath making a cloud. "I'm not getting on figure skates, Chen. Not happening."

"Scared?" she yells up, grinning wicked.

"Terrified," he yells back, holding his hands up. "I value my ankles."

I stand up, my legs a little stiff from sitting, my ankle aching in that familiar dull way, but it's okay, it's manageable. "I'm coming," I call down to her.

I walk down the bleachers, each step echoing, and I step onto the rubber mats, left guard off, right guard off, the familiar motions grounding me, and I push out onto the ice, and the cold hits my face, and my blades bite and glide.

For the first time in a week, for the first time since Kirill's message, for the first time since I left home, I skate and I don't feel like I'm running away from something, I don't feel like I'm being chased, I just feel like I'm moving forward, and that's enough.