### CHAPTER 9 - FRIENDS
I don't make friends because I never learned how, and in Saint Petersburg friends were dangerous because they asked questions you couldn't answer without lying and they noticed when you came to school with a bruise blooming yellow-purple on your cheekbone and you said you fell on the ice, and friends told other friends in whispers by the lockers, and other friends told Kirill, and Kirill would wait for you after practice with his smile already on, so I learned to keep my head down and my mouth shut and my laces tied tight, and I had Dima, and Dima was enough because Dima had to be enough.
Here it is different because here nobody knows my name from the Russian junior circuit and nobody knows what Papa called me when the vodka was in him or what Kirill called me right before he put his shoulder into my ribs or why my whole body goes still and cold when someone raises their voice in the hallway, and here I could maybe try, and the thought of trying makes my stomach feel strange and light and a little bit sick.
It starts at 6 a.m. on Thursday when I am on the ice doing edges the way I do every morning because it is the only thing that makes my head quiet, left outside edge and right inside edge and hold and switch, and my blades make that clean thin hiss that echoes off the empty stands while the cold air burns the inside of my nose when I breathe in, and Coach Dubois is late and the Oval is empty except for me.
The doors bang open at 6:15 and the sound cracks through the quiet, and it is not hockey players and it is not Roman, it is a girl who is small, maybe five two, with dark hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head and little pieces falling out around her face, and she wears black leggings with holes worn through both knees and a U of T Figure Skating jacket that is two sizes too big with the sleeves rolled up to her wrists so her hands stick out, and she has her white skates slung over one shoulder by the laces and a paper coffee cup steaming in her other hand, and I can smell it from the boards, dark and bitter.
She stops dead when she sees me in the middle of her ice. "Oh. Sorry. I thought I had the ice."
I skate to the boards and stop while my breath comes out in a big white cloud between us. "You do. Six to seven. I'm Orlov. Viktor."
She smiles, and it is not polite, it is big and real and it crinkles the corners of her eyes. "Maya. Maya Chen. Pairs. Well, used to be pairs. My partner quit to go to law school. Now I'm just... me."
She says it like it is a joke, like it does not hurt, but I hear the little wobble she tries to hide at the end, and something in my chest recognizes it because I know what it sounds like to pretend.
"Coach said I could use the early ice until they find me a new partner," she says, taking a sip of her coffee. "You mind sharing?"
I have never shared ice in my life because ice is territory and ice is the one place where nobody can touch you or tell you to move and ice is survival, but I look at her standing there with her too-big jacket and I hear myself say, "Sure," and my voice sounds rough to my own ears.
She steps right onto the ice with no guards, just steps on like she owns the place, and maybe she does, and we skate in silence for ten minutes while I stay on my end doing brackets until my bad ankle starts to throb deep inside the joint and she stays on her end doing jumps, triples, toe loop and salchow and loop, clean and light and effortless, landing so soft I barely hear the touchdown, just a little kiss of steel on ice.
Then she skates over and stops next to me, spraying a fine mist of ice onto my shin guards. "You're the Russian kid, right? The one who beat Kirill Antonov at Regionals?"
My stomach drops straight to the floor so fast I feel dizzy and the cold air suddenly feels too thin to breathe. "How do you know Kirill?"
"Everyone knows Kirill," she says, and rolls her eyes so hard her whole face moves. "He's an asshole on Instagram." She sips her coffee again and looks at me over the rim. "You're good. Your edges are insane. Coach Dubois won't shut up about you in our group chat."
I do not know what to do with that because thank you feels too big and too heavy and too dangerous in my mouth, like if I say it out loud she will take it back, so I just nod once and stare down at my blades because my face feels hot despite the cold.
"You want to run footwork together?" she asks. "I need someone to chase. My old partner was slow as hell and he had two left feet."
I have never had someone ask me to skate with them, not like this, not like an equal, because coaches tell me what to do and partners are assigned by federations and nobody asks Viktor Orlov if he wants to, so I feel something strange and warm move in my chest when I say, "Okay."
We skate side by side, not touching, just matching, and her speed is good and strong and pushy while my edges are deeper and quieter, and we push each other without saying anything, and for twenty minutes I forget about the constant ache in my ankle and I forget about Roman sleeping in our room and I forget about Papa's voice on the phone last week, and all I hear is our blades hitting the ice in rhythm and our breathing getting loud and fast, and my lungs burn in a good way that makes me feel alive.
At 7:00 the hockey team doors bang open and Roman is at the front in his practice jersey with his hair still wet from his morning shower and sticking up in the back, and he sees me first, then his eyes slide to Maya beside me, then back to me, and something flickers across his face, fast, there and gone, like a light switching on and off, and then his face goes blank again, and he does not say anything, he just leads his team onto the ice like we are not even there, his skates loud on the rubber mats.
Maya leans in close as we step off the ice, her shoulder bumping mine, and I can smell her coffee and her shampoo, something sweet like vanilla. "That's Roman Callahan," she whispers, even though he is already far away. "Captain next year. NHL prospect. Also, huge player."
Player, she means with girls, and I feel something tight and strange in my stomach when she says it. "Yeah," I say. "I know."
"You know him know him?" she asks, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.
"He's my roommate," I say, and my voice comes out flat because I do not know how else to say it.
Her mouth drops open. "Shut up. You live with Roman Callahan? The hottest guy on campus?"
I shrug, and my hoodie pulls tight across my shoulders. "He's okay."
She laughs, loud and bright, and it echoes in the hallway and makes my ears ring a little. "Oh my god. You're funny. We're going to be friends."
Friends. She says it like it is already decided, like it is a fact that has always been true, and I feel heat crawl up my neck because nobody has ever decided that about me before.
"Okay," I say again, because I do not know what else to say.
We get coffee after, or well, she gets coffee and I get tea because it is a dollar cheaper and the paper cup burns my cold fingers in a good way that wakes them up, and we sit in the dining hall by the big windows while she talks for an hour straight without stopping, about her ex-partner and law school and her parents in Vancouver who call every Sunday and tell her to quit skating and become a doctor, and about the time she fell on a lift and broke her wrist and her partner kept skating for ten whole seconds before he noticed she was not in the air anymore, and I listen because I am not good at talking and my English feels slow in my mouth, but she does not seem to mind, she just keeps talking and stirring her coffee and looking at me like she expects me to still be there when she is done, and that feels new.
"You need friends," she says, pointing her little wooden stirrer at me like a weapon. "You look like you've never had one."
"I have one," I say. "Dima. In Russia."
"One long-distance friend doesn't count," she says. "You need in-person friends. I volunteer as tribute."
"Why?" I ask, because nobody has ever volunteered for me before and I need to understand the trick.
"Because you're good at skating and you don't talk too much and you let me win at footwork drills," she says, grinning wide.
"I didn't let you win," I say, and I feel the corner of my mouth twitch up before I can stop it.
She points at me again, delighted. "See? Funny."
At lunch she introduces me to two more people at a table in the corner, Jamal, a speed skater from Toronto who is on a full ride and has a laugh so deep it actually shakes the table when he uses it, and Priya, an ice dancer from London, Ontario, who wears gold glitter on her eyelids even at twelve p.m. and calls everyone darling like she means it, and they scoot over and make room for me without asking, and they ask me questions where are you from and how long have you skated and do you like Canada, and I answer in short sentences while my hands stay wrapped around my hot tea cup because it gives me something to hold, and they do not push when I go quiet, they just include me, passing me fries and including me in the joke, and it feels strange, not bad strange, just new, like wearing someone else's coat that is too big but warm, and it fits but it is not mine yet.
At 3:00 my phone buzzes in my pocket and it is Maya: *dinner at 6? us four? my treat. you need to eat more than a banana.* I stare at the words for a long time while my thumb hovers over the keyboard because I have never been invited to dinner before, not like this, not by friends, and I finally type back *ok* and my heart beats a little faster when I press send.
I go back to the room at 5:30 to change because my hoodie has a hole in the sleeve and it smells like old sweat and I want to look okay, not like the scholarship kid who only owns three shirts, and Roman is there on his bed with his shirt off and his headphones on, and the bass is thumping so loud I can hear it from the door, and he looks up when I come in and pulls one headphone off.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey," I say back.
He takes his headphones off all the way. "You're out late."
"I had friends," I say, and the word feels weird and new and good in my mouth, like trying a new food I am not sure I am allowed to like.
He raises one eyebrow. "Friends, huh? Who?"
"Maya. Jamal. Priya."
He nods slowly. "Maya Chen? Pairs girl?"
"Used to be pairs," I say.
"Right." He looks at me for a second longer than normal, his eyes moving over my face like he is trying to read something there. "You like them?"
I shrug, but I can feel heat in my cheeks that I hope he cannot see. "They're nice."
"Good." He puts his headphones back on, then he takes them off again like he changed his mind. "Hey, Viktor."
"Yeah?"
"You need the room tonight? I can go to the lounge. I have a... friend coming over."
Friend. He says it the exact same way Maya said player, with that same little smirk at the corner of his mouth, and something tight and sour twists low in my stomach.
"No," I say fast, too fast, and my voice sounds sharp even to me. "It's your room too."
He smiles, small and easy. "Thanks, man."
Man. Not princess. Not twinkle toes. Man. The word lands somewhere warm and strange in my chest and stays there.
I change my shirt and put on the least holey hoodie I own, the dark blue one, and I leave at 5:55, and my heart is beating a little faster than normal for no reason I can name.
Dinner is loud and the dining hall is full and clatters with trays and voices, and Jamal tells a story about falling during trials and sliding on his stomach all the way into the boards, and he acts it out with his arms and we all laugh so hard my stomach hurts, and Priya tells us about her ex who cheated on her with a hockey player from Western, and Maya tells us about the time she tried to cut her own bangs before Nationals and ended up looking like a boy band member from 2003, and she shows us the photo and she really does, and I laugh, actually laugh out loud from my belly, and the sound surprises me so much I stop for a second because it feels strange coming out of my throat, like a muscle I have not used in years.
At 8:00 Priya walks me back to my building because it is dark and cold, and the snow crunches under our boots while our breath makes clouds, and she loops her arm through mine like we have done this a hundred times. "You're quiet," she says. "But I like you. You're like a cat. You watch everything."
"I'm not a cat," I say.
"Sure, darling," she says, and leans in and kisses my cheek, light and quick and friendly, her lip gloss cold against my skin. "See you tomorrow at six."
I go upstairs and the hallway is quiet and smells like microwave popcorn, and I put my key card to the door and it beeps and the light flashes green.
I open the door.
Roman is on his bed and he is not alone, and a girl is on top of him straddling his hips, and she has long blonde hair and a U of T hockey jacket tied around her waist, and her hands are in his hair and his hands are on her hips with his fingers digging into her skin, and they are kissing hard and deep, and I can hear the wet sound of it and smell her sweet perfume mixed with his deodorant.
The door beeps shut behind me and they both look up at the same time, and Roman's eyes meet mine across the room, and he does not move, he does not push her off, he just looks at me with his mouth wet and his chest rising and falling fast, and my heart starts hammering so loud I am sure they can hear it over the music.
The girl turns her head and smiles at me, lazy and unbothered. "Oh. Hey. You must be the roommate."
I stand frozen in the doorway with my key card still clutched in my hand and my heart hammering against my ribs and my chest suddenly tight like someone wrapped a belt around it and pulled, and my throat closes up, and I do not know why I am not moving and I do not know why my stomach drops like I missed a landing and I do not know why I want to throw something across the room and break it.
"Viktor," Roman says, my name rough in his throat, not princess. "This is—"
"I'm going," I say, fast, too fast, the words tripping over each other and tumbling out. "Sorry. I'll go."
I back out of the room and pull the door shut hard and it beeps and the light flashes red, and I stand in the hallway with my back pressed against the cold cinderblock wall while my hands shake so badly I have to shove them into my pockets and my ankle throbs and my throat hurts like I swallowed ice, and I do not understand why because it is his room too and he told me he had a friend coming.
I pull out my phone and my fingers do not work right, they keep missing the letters and shaking. Me: *how was dinner with friends???* Dima: *good.* Then I delete it and my thumb hovers and then I type *Roman has a girl in our room.* Three little dots appear and then: *oh.* Then: *you okay?* I stare at the word okay on the bright screen until my eyes blur because am I okay, my chest is tight and my face feels hot and I feel stupid and angry for no reason, and I type *yeah. fine* and I put the phone away and I slide down the wall until I am sitting on the cold floor in the hallway with my head in my hands and I breathe through my nose.
Across the hall the lounge door opens and it is not my room, it is Maya walking out with a big bag of popcorn in her arms, and she sees me on the floor and stops. "Viktor?" She comes over and sits down right next to me on the dirty floor, her shoulder pressing into mine warm and solid, and she does not ask why I am there. "You okay?"
I nod because it is a lie and she probably knows it.
"Roommate trouble?" she asks softly.
I nod again and I stare at my shoes because I cannot look at her.
She bumps my shoulder with hers, gentle. "Hockey boys are the worst. Trust me. My ex-partner left me for law school, but before that he left me for a hockey player from McGill. They're all the same."
I laugh and it comes out wet and broken in the middle, and I hate the sound.
"Come on," she says, standing up and holding out her hand to me, and her fingers are warm when I take them. "My roommate's gone for the weekend for a wedding. You can crash on her bed. I have tea. And I won't make out with anyone in front of you. Promise."
I look at my door down the hall with the red light on, quiet behind it, and I stand up, and my legs feel shaky. "Okay," I say, and I take her hand because it is offered and because I do not want to be alone in this hallway anymore.
"Okay," she says, and squeezes once.
We walk down the hall together, away from my room, away from Roman, and I do not look back because if I look back I am afraid of what my face will do.