### CHAPTER 8 - RULES
I wake up at 4:29 a.m., one minute before my alarm, and the first thing I hear is Roman breathing.
He is on his stomach with one arm hanging off the side of the bed and his face turned toward the wall, and his breath is slow and even and deep, the kind of sleep I never get. The room smells like his deodorant, something sharp and clean, and underneath it the faint sour of sweat from his practice gear yesterday.
I don't move for a full minute. I lie there in the dark and listen to him, and I watch the faint rise of his shoulder, and I wait until I am sure he is really under. My chest feels tight the whole time because I do not want him to see me get up and limp to the bathroom like an old man.
My ankle is worse this morning. When I pull the blanket back I can see it in the blue light from the window, the purple from yesterday turned almost black around the bone, swollen so tight the skin shines. In the bathroom, I turn the tap on all the way so the water will cover any sound, and I sit on the cold tile and peel the old tape off slowly. It sticks and pulls and it stings enough to make my eyes water, and I bite down on my lip so I don't make a noise.
I rewrap it tighter than yesterday, winding it until my toes start to tingle. I pull on two pairs of socks and my thermal pants and my black hoodie, and the fabric is soft and worn and smells like home. I slip Lev's little red car into my pocket and I feel the sharp edges press into my palm through the fabric, and I zip it shut.
When I come out of the bathroom Roman hasn't moved at all. His breathing hasn't changed.
I pick up my skate bag and the duct tape I used on the strap finally gave up in the night. The strap hangs by a few threads. I tie it into a hard knot with my cold fingers and I pull it tight until my knuckles go white. It will hold. It has to hold.
I leave the room at 4:55. The door lock beeps and the little light flashes red behind me, loud in the quiet hallway.
The hallway is empty and the elevator is empty, and outside it is still dark and minus fifteen and the snow is up to my shins. The cold hits my face like a slap and burns my nose and my cheeks. My boots crunch through the fresh snow and I am the only person leaving footprints all the way to the Athletic Centre, and my breath comes out in big white clouds that disappear right away.
The Oval is empty at 5:10. Coach Dubois isn't here yet. The overhead lights hum and the ice is fresh and white and clean, with no marks on it at all. I am alone.
I like being alone. My shoulders drop an inch when I am alone.
I step onto the ice without my guards and the cold bites straight through my socks. I do one slow lap to warm the ankle. It screams first, a sharp hot pain up my calf, and then it goes dull and numb. Good. Numb is better than screaming.
I work. I do edges and turns and brackets and rockers and counters, the same step sequence over and over until my thighs start to shake and my lungs start to burn and sweat runs down my back under the hoodie even though the air is freezing. There is no music. There is only the sound of my own blades scraping and hissing against the ice, echoing off the empty stands.
At 5:45 the doors at the far end bang open so loud it makes me flinch.
I do not have to look to know that sound. Hockey sticks clattering against the metal doorway. Boys laughing too loud and then Roman.
He is early, He is never early. He is early today because I am here, and my stomach drops when I realize it.
He steps right onto my ice in his black running shoes. He is not wearing skates. He is not supposed to be on the ice in runners, ever, and he knows that, and he does it anyway. I can see the dark marks his shoes leave on the white.
"Morning, princess," he says, and his voice is loud enough to echo off the glass.
The word hits the back of my neck and makes heat crawl up my skin. I do not answer. I keep skating. I force myself to count my edges. Left outside edge, right inside edge, three turns.
He slides along the boards next to me in his shoes, squeaking on purpose like an idiot, and his friends laugh behind him from the bleachers. I can hear the rubber squeal and their laughter bouncing around.
"Coach isn't here," he calls out. "You don't have to show off."
I am not showing off. I am working. There is a difference. He would not know the difference, and my jaw clenches so hard it hurts.
I drop into a sit spin in the middle of the ice, low and fast, and my bad ankle protests the whole way down with a deep throb. I stay down for eight rotations while the world blurs, and then I stand up. I am a little wobbly and my ankle screams, but I do not fall.
One of his friends whistles, low and surprised, not mean.
Roman's face changes for just a second. I see it, His smirk drops and his eyes go wide. Then it is back, the smirk locked in place. "Nice," he says. "You practice that in the mirror?"
Something hot flares in my chest. I skate straight to the boards right in front of him and I stop hard, and I spray a sheet of fine ice shavings right across the toes of his expensive shoes.
He jumps back. "Hey!"
"Get off my ice," I say, and my voice comes out quiet. I do not yell. I never yell. Yelling gives people something they can use against you later.
He blinks at me, surprised. "Your ice?"
"Six to seven," I say, and I can hear my own accent getting thicker. "Figure skating. You have it at seven. Read the schedule."
His friends are all watching now, leaning forward on the bleachers, waiting to see what will happen. This is pack behavior. I learned it when I was thirteen in locker rooms in Saint Petersburg, the way the air goes still right before.
Roman leans on the boards, close, too close. I can smell his toothpaste, sharp mint, and I can see the water droplets still in his hair from his shower.
"Make me," he says, soft, just for me, so his friends can't hear.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. Not from fear. From something else, something hot and fast and angry that I have never let myself feel before.
I do not move And I do not blink. I look right at him. "You want to fight me on the ice in your shoes, Callahan? Go ahead."
He stares at me for a long second, and then he laughs, one short surprised sound. "You got balls, Orlov. I'll give you that."
He pushes off the boards and turns to his team, loud again for them. "Fine. We'll wait. Let the princess have his ice."
Princess. Again. The word lands like a slap and my hands curl into fists inside my gloves.
I go back to center ice. I do not look at him or listen to the laughter. I just skate, and I focus on the sound of my blades until that is all I can hear.
At exactly 6:00 Coach Dubois walks in. Her skates click on the rubber floor. She sees Roman and his whole team sitting on the bleachers in their street shoes. She sees me alone on the ice. She puts it together in two seconds.
"Callahan," she says, not loud. She does not have to be loud. "Off my ice."
Roman stands up and puts his hands up, all innocent. "We're just watching, Coach."
"Watch from the hallway."
He does not argue; he just stares at me, and he leaves with his team following him out, and the heavy doors bang shut behind them. The sound echoes and then it is quiet again, and my shoulders drop.
Coach looks at me, her eyes sharp. "You okay?"
I nod. It is a lie and my throat feels tight when I do it.
"Good," she says. "Again. From the top."
I skate until 7:00, until my legs give out completely, until I have to grab the boards with both hands to stay standing and my lungs are on fire. Coach nods once. "Better. Tomorrow, same time."
I get off the ice and my hands are shaking so badly I can barely get my guards on, left then right, the plastic clicking loudly in my ears.
Roman is waiting in the hallway alone. His team is gone. He is leaning against the concrete wall with his arms crossed over his chest.
"You good?" he asks.
I walk right past him and I do not answer. I can feel his eyes on my back.
He falls into step beside me, his runners squeaking on the floor. "Hey. I'm talking to you."
"Don't," I say.
"Don't what?"
"Talk to me."
He laughs, and the sound bounces off the hallway walls. "We live together, princess. Kinda hard not to."
I stop and turn to face him, and my ankle throbs with the sudden movement. "Stop calling me that."
"Why? Does it bother you?" He steps closer, on purpose, pushing, testing me. I can see the little flecks of gold in his blue eyes up close. "Princess. Twinkle toes. Fairy."
Fairy. He says it exactly like Papa says it when he is drunk. Exactly like Kirill said it right before he slammed me into the boards at fourteen. Like every boy in every locker room since I was nine years old. The word hits something old and deep in my chest and my ears start ringing.
My hand curls into a fist before I even think about it and I swing.
I do not know how to punch. I have never punched anyone in my life. My fist hits his shoulder, not his face, and it is weak and pathetic and my knuckles ache instantly. It is the most I have ever fought back.
He does not move. He does not flinch. He just looks down at me, surprised at first, his eyebrows up, and then something else crosses his face. Not anger. Something softer I do not have a name for. He watches me for a second too long, like he is waiting to see what I will do next.
"Okay," he says, quietly, his voice low. "Okay. I won't call you that."
I am breathing hard and my ankle is screaming and my hand hurts where I hit him. "Promise?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds in the empty hallway.
He nods once. "Promise. No more princess."
I believe him. I do not know why, but my chest loosens when he says it and I believe him.
"Orlov," he says. "Viktor. Right?"
I nod.
"Roman," he says, like I do not already know, like his name is not on every poster in this whole building.
"I know," I say.
He smiles then. A real one this time, not the smirk. Small and quick and gone almost before I see it, but I see it. "See you in the room."
He walks away, and I stand there and watch him go until he turns the corner, and my heart is still beating too fast.
I go to class. English and then math. I sit in the back and I do not hear a single word either professor says because all I can hear is the sound of my fist hitting his shoulder.
At lunch, I sit alone at a table by the window. I eat a banana that tastes like nothing. I check my phone and my hands are still a little shaky.
Mama: *Papa is angry. He is drinking. Don't call home. I will text you. Are you eating?*
My stomach drops when I read it. I type back fast: *Yes. I'm eating. I'm safe.*
Dima: *UPDATE ON ROOMMATE SITUATION??? DID YOU KILL HIM YET???*
I sent him a photo of the empty Oval, the ice shining under the lights.
Dima: *THAT'S NOT WHAT I ASKED.*
At 5:00 p.m. I go back to the room. Roman is there, on his bed with his shirt off, playing his video game. The light from the TV flickers across his chest. He looks up when I come in.
"Hey," he says.
I nod and go to my side of the room. I sit on my bed and take my shoes off and start to rewrap my ankle because the tape has gotten loose and sweaty.
He watches me and does not say anything at first. The only sound is his game, guns firing. Then he pauses it. "You need ice for that?"
I look up, surprised. "What?"
"Your ankle," he says, nodding at it. "It's swollen. You need ice."
I just stare at him. He is offering help. Roman Callahan. The same guy who called me princess this morning. My brain cannot make those two people fit together.
"I have ice," I say.
He gets up anyway and goes to his mini fridge and pulls out a bag of frozen peas and tosses it underhand to me. I catch it and the cold bites my palm instantly.
"Use this," he says. "Better than the ice packs at the rink."
"Thanks," I say, and my voice sounds rough.
He shrugs and goes back to his game and unpauses it. "Whatever. Don't want you dying on my floor. Paperwork."
I put the peas on my ankle. It hurts first, a sharp cold burn, and then it goes numb. Good.
We sit in silence for a long time. He plays his game and I ice my ankle, and the room is quiet except for the shooting sounds and our breathing. It feels strange, but not bad strange. Just strange.
At 9:00 he gets up and stretches, and I can hear his back pop. "I'm going to shower."
I nod.
He stops at the bathroom door and turns back. "Hey, Viktor."
I look up, and my name in his mouth makes something jump in my stomach.
"You skate good," he says, fast, like he does not want to say it out loud and he is forcing the words out. "This morning. You're... you're good."
I do not know what to say to that. Thank you feels too small and fuck you feels too big, so I just nod once and look down at my hands.
He goes into the bathroom and the shower turns on and I can hear the water hitting the tile.
I sit on my bed with frozen peas on my ankle and my heart beating too fast and too loud in my own ears.
At 10:00 the lights are out. He is in his bed and I am in mine and the room is dark and quiet except for the hum of his mini fridge.
"Roman," I say into the dark, quiet, barely a whisper.
"Yeah?" he answers right away, like he was not asleep either.
"Thank you. For the peas."
He is quiet for a second. I can hear him shift on his mattress. Then he says, "Yeah. No problem."
Another second passes, and I can hear my own breathing.
"Night, Viktor," he says.
Not a princess. Viktor. He says it clearly.
"Night," I say back, and my chest feels warm for no reason.
I close my eyes and I listen to him breathe across the room, slow and even, in and out, and for the first time since I got to Canada I fall asleep before I can even count to thirty.