Love on ice

I packed my life into two suitcases and a single carry-on. The first thing I folded was my mother’s scarf-thin, cashmere, the color of Saint Petersburg winters. The second were my medals every single one, I hesitated on taking my latest medal which was silver but I took it anyway it’s proof I was robbed of the gold medal and I intend on getting it back. The third was my first pair of skates, white leather with frayed laces, the blades dull from years of training. A gift from my mother, for my fifth birthday. She got it for me after realizing that probably my life was on the ice rink and I needed a pair of skates that were mine and not rentals. "For my future champion," she’d said, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. Now, they were all i had left of that life. My father moved through our Moscow apartment like a man already gone, his voice tight as he argued with the movers in clipped Russian. "Da, nyet, da" Yes, no, yes. The sound of tape ripping over boxes. The thud of hockey gear. my brother’s, Nikolai Valeryevich Volkov being shoved into duffels. My stepmother, Lillian, stood by the window, her American mouth pursed around unfamiliar syllables as she practiced the address of our new home in Minnesota. "Edina. Linden Hills. Twin Cities." I leaned down to touched the scar above my ankle, still tender. The doctors had said 30%. Thirty percent chance of full recovery. Thirty percent chance you’ll ever jump again. I zipped the suitcase shut. I’ll show you Anastasiya Valeryevna Volkova only does 100% The drive to the airport was quiet, dad drove the rental car and Lillian sat in front studying only God knows what, Nikolai had his headphones on which I am sure will be there in his ears for the rest of the trip. Since the injury he has tried not to ruffle my feathers but I kind of miss my pesky older brother. My father once said that Nikolai had grabbed onto my dad's old hockey stick when he was baby and ever since a hockey stick is not far from his reach. Our parents must have seen the spark in us early, Nikolai gripping his first hockey stick like it was made for him, me twirling on the pond like I’d been born with blades on my feet. They didn’t push us; they just gave us the tools and let us fall in love with the ice on our own. While other kids tried ballet or soccer, we always knew where we belonged gliding, flying, chasing that perfect moment of weightless grace." We'll miss everyone back home though truthfully, 'everyone' was never a crowd. Five hours of daily training, seven days a week, doesn't leave room for birthday parties or sleepovers. But the friends we did make? They were the kind who'd lace your skates when your hands were shaking, or sneak hot chocolate into the rink at midnight. The kind worth crossing oceans for. The plane was too cold. I pressed my forehead to the window, watching Russia shrink beneath me the ice rinks, the birch forests, the life I had built. Nikolai slept beside me , his headphones blaring some thumping American rap. My father flipped through paperwork, his jaw set. Lillian handed me a pill and a water bottle. "For the swelling," she said in careful Russian. I swallowed it dry. I couldn't help but scrolled through my phone, hovering over the delete account button on i********:. There was a post about the tournament which I had downloaded on my phone I stared at the play button and it stared back at me: I clicked on the play button and the slow motion clip of my final spin at Nationals, the one that had shattered my ankle and my future in the same rotation. The caption read "Не сдавайся." Don’t give up . I didn’t. Not when I saw the video Anton’s hands tangled in her hair, Irina’s sequined claws digging into his shoulders as they kissed against the lockers twenty minutes before my performance. Not even when she took the ice before me and performed my routine, note for note, spin for spin, like some grotesque parody in rhinestones. The crowd’s murmurs buzzed in my ears as I stepped onto the ice after her. She wanted me broken? Fine. I performed the same routine. Then because the universe demanded sacrifice I added the move I’d only landed once in practice: the quadruple spin. The second my blade hit the ice on landing, white hot pain shot through my ankle. But I smiled. Finished the program. Took my silver medal with steady hands while Irina’s gold gleamed under the lights. Then, as the cameras zoomed in on her smug grin, my body remembered what my pride wouldn’t admit: I was shattered. I collapsed on the podium. National television caught it all the gasp of the crowd, Anton rushing toward her instead of me, the way my fingers clawed at the ice like it might swallow me whole. Not even when the doctors said thirty percent. Gold had been mine. Until it wasn’t. The plane jolted as it touched down, wheels screeching against foreign tarmac. I pressed my forehead to the window Minnesota. Gray sky, flat land, endless parking lots glowing under industrial lights. No onion domes. No birch forests. Just the hum of baggage carts and the too-loud laughter of Americans. Nikolai yawned beside me, cracking his neck like he was already home. He’d had two years to adjust, I reminded myself. Two years of exchange programs and hockey scouts and this family the Wilders who apparently treated him like a son. The aisle flooded with passengers. I stood too fast, my bad ankle buckling, and caught myself on the seat. Thirty percent chance, the doctor had said. I stepped onto the jetway alone, the recycled air smelling of coffee and exhaustion. Somewhere below, my skates rattled on a conveyor belt, waiting. Minnesota smelled like wet grass and gasoline. The airport was crowded, loud with English. I balanced on my crutches as our luggage lurched onto the carousel. A pamphlet fluttered into my hand. "Welcome to Minnesota: Land of 10,000 Lakes & Hockey Dreams! "with a grinning boy in a Wild jersey on the front. I flipped through. Pages of hockey camps, NHL prospects, minimum figure skating. Nikolai had left for Minnesota two winters ago just another gangly seventeen year old on a student exchange, though he’d returned with American slang, broader shoulders, and a hockey scholarship that made our father’s eyes gleam. The Wilders, his host family, had apparently treated him like a golden child. Fed him steak dinners, let him skate on their private rink, introduced him to scouts who drooled over his "NHL ready aggression ." And why wouldn’t they? He was everything Americans loved, loud, confident, easy to smile. Everything I wasn’t. He’d flown back to Moscow for my Nationals performance, then stayed through my surgeries, my screaming meltdowns at physical therapy, the nights I’d sobbed into his jersey about stolen routines and shattered ankles. Now, as our cab lurched through Minneapolis traffic, he drummed his fingers against the window like the city was an old friend. "Got a scrimmage in two days to lock in my spot with the Gophers," he announced, grinning at his reflection in the glass. "Good for you," I muttered, pressing my forehead to the cool window. The streets blurred too bright fast-food signs, pickup trucks with hockey stickers, sidewalks cracked by winters harsher than anyone here would ever admit. And I meant it. I did. But the words tasted like gasoline because while he’d been learning to say "heck yeah, bro!" I’d been learning to walk again. Father leaned over his shoulder at the passenger seat in front with the driver . "We’ll find you ice time." He said. I didn’t answer. The new house, it was blue. Two stories. A porch swing. I hated it immediately. Lillian bustled inside, directing movers in bright English. Nikolai sprinted upstairs to claim the biggest bedroom. My father carried my bags to the threshold, hesitating. "Anya," he started. "I’m tired," i lied. If anything, I was sick to death of bed rest, my muscles twitching with pent-up energy, my lungs starving for that familiar burn of cold air. I needed to move. Needed to carve my fury into fresh ice with blades that fit me like a second skeleton, not some rental junk that scraped my ankles raw. Somewhere in this godforsaken Minnesota sprawl, there had to be a rink that wouldn’t shatter under the weight of everything I needed to prove. My room was beige. Empty. The only thing i unpacked was mother’s scarf, which i draped over the bare mattress like a ghost. Outside, the neighborhood kids shrieked, playing street hockey. A stick slapped pavement. A ball thudded against a garage door. Somewhere, in this stupid town, there was a rink. And i would find it.