Love on ice

Chapter 4: Baby steps

Anastasiya's POV

The alarm screamed at 6:00 AM, jerking me from sleep. My eyes flew open to a room still shadowed in predawn gloom.

6:00 AM.

Disgust coiled in my stomach. For years, my body had been a precision instrument, waking at 4:45 AM without fail. Now it betrayed me, clinging to sleep like some common teenager.

I sat up too fast. White-hot pain lanced through my right ankle, the scar tissue pulling tight. The room smelled wrong lavender from Lillian's detergent mixed with the faint cedarwood of Nikolai's stolen candle. Outside my window, the Minnesota sky showed only the barest hint of light along the horizon.

Thirty percent chance.

The doctor's words echoed in my skull as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Thirty percent chance of full recovery. Thirty percent chance I'd ever land a triple axel again.

I exhaled through my nose, fingers digging into the mattress.

Fine.

The bathroom tiles were cold beneath my feet. I set the timer on my phone for exactly two minutes and scrubbed my teeth until my gums burned.

The shower came next, water temperature checked with the thermometer I'd brought from Moscow. 37°C. Not a degree more or less.

I didn't look at the scar.

Dressing was a mechanical process: black leggings, compression sleeve, the oversized hoodie I'd stolen from Nikolai years ago. The mirror caught me by surprise when I turned a gaunt stranger with dark circles stared back.

The girl who'd grinned from magazine covers was gone, replaced by this sharp-edged creature.

Dew soaked through my sneakers as I stepped into the backyard. The air smelled alien wet grass and distant car exhaust instead of birch forests and frozen ponds.

My body remembered the routines even if my ankle protested. Arms tight to my chest, I pivoted on my good foot, imagining the scrape of blades on ice. Concrete became my rink as I traced familiar edges and turns, the movements smaller, safer.

No jumps. No pressure on the injury. I wasn't reckless enough to destroy what little chance I had left.

By the time the kitchen light flicked on, sweat plastered my hair to my neck.

The sudden silence when I entered the kitchen was louder than any accusation.

Lillian froze, coffee dripping from the carafe onto the counter. Nikolai's spoon hovered halfway to his mouth. Even my father lowered his newspaper, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.

"What?" I grabbed a glass, filling it too full. Water sloshed over my fingers.

"You're... awake," Nikolai said, as if witnessing some astronomical event.

"Your powers of observation continue to astound."

Lillian reco

vered first, sliding a plate of blini across the island. "You're just in time."

The first bite nearly undid me, crisp edges giving way to soft centers, just enough honey to remind me of home. My throat tightened.

"...Good," I managed.

The silence stretched. My father's newspaper rustled as he folded it carefully. "Did you just"

"Compliment Lillian's cooking?" I stabbed another blin. "My ankle is shattered, not my eyes.

I should appreciate someone who's doing their best." The words tasted strange. I met his gaze head-on. "And I will do my best to get back on the ice."

Nikolai's spoon clattered into his bowl.

Upstairs, I scrubbed away the morning's sweat, changed into fresh clothes, and arranged my study materials with military precision across the desk. Three months of hospital beds and self-pity had left me behind in my studies, and that was unacceptable.

A soft knock interrupted my organizing. Lillian entered without waiting for permission, setting down a plate of pryaniki dusted with cardamom my favorite.

"Thank you," I said without looking up.

She hesitated, her perfume something floral and distinctly American filling the space between us. "You're... different today."

"I'm awake today."

A pause. Then, so quiet I almost missed it: "It's nice."

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the ghost of honey on my tongue.

My stomach growled angrily as I stacked my notebooks. The clock read 12:30 I'd skipped lunch again.

The phone buzzed, vibrating against the wood. Katya's name flashed on the screen, her contact photo a blurry shot of us mid-laugh at last year's Grand Prix.

I answered in Russian. "Привет, зайка."

"Ты жива!*" Katya's voice was a burst of warmth through the static. "How's America? Full of hamburgers and cowboys?"

I snorted. "Only cowboys here play hockey."

"Ugh. Worse." A pause. "How's the ankle?"

"Still attached."

Katya laughed, then dropped her voice. "Listen.

Irina posted another 'training video.' Same routine. *Your* routine. The comments are calling her out"

"I don't care." The lie burned my throat.

"Liar. But fine. Anton slipped during practice last week. Broke his nose."

My lips twitched. "How tragic."

"The team made a get-well card. I drew d***s on it."

A laugh burst from me, sharp and unexpected. "I miss you."

"Miss you more. Come home soon. Whole.

The line went dead. I stared at my reflection in the dark phone screen.

Whole.

Instagram beckoned. My fingers moved without conscious thought, typing Irina's handle. Her latest post showed her mid-spin, gold medal gleaming, captioned: "New season, new goals.

😘"

I closed the app so hard the screen cracked.

The calculus book fell open to where I'd left off.

Equations blurred before my eyes.

Thirty percent chance.

Outside, a car backfired. Somewhere in the house, Nikolai laughed. Life continued around me while I sat frozen, caught between who I was and who I might never be again.

My pencil snapped between my fingers.

I'd beaten worse odds.