CHAPTER 1 - ORLOV

They call my name over the speakers, "Orlov, Viktor, Saint Petersburg Skate Club," and I'm still sitting on the bench trying to wrap my left boot in black electrical tape with hands that won't stop shaking.

It's the fourth layer this month. The leather split back in November right over my ankle bone, and every time I land a jump it spreads a little wider, like it's trying to open its mouth. The right boot is fine. The left one is only holding together because I'm forcing it to, which honestly feels a little too familiar.

"Orlov. Six minutes."

The rink attendant doesn't even look at me when he says it. He just ticks a box on his clipboard and keeps walking, and the sound of his pen is louder than the buzzing lights above us.

The warm-up room at Yubileyny always smells the same, like old rubber mats and sweat that never really washed out and burnt coffee from the machine in the corner. Around me the other boys are already in their costumes, all crystals and perfect fits that probably cost more than my mom makes in three months at the clinic, and I'm sitting here in plain black, just a thermal shirt that's gone thin at the elbows and practice pants with no sparkle at all. I told Coach I skate better in black because I couldn't afford the costume rental this year, and he pretended to believe me because the truth would have been embarrassing for both of us.

Across from me Kirill Antonov is stretching his hamstrings like someone's taking pictures of him, which knowing Kirill, someone probably is. He's last year's national junior champion and his skates are brand new, so white they almost hurt to look at. He catches me staring at them and gives me that smile where he shows all his teeth.

"Still skating in those antiques, Orlov? Brave."

I drop my eyes back down to my laces. "They work."

"Do they?" He rolls his ankles in these slow perfect circles. "Heard your music cut out at Cup last month. Shame. You were almost clean before that."

The music didn't cut out. Someone kicked the plug out during my step sequence and I saw the cord lying on the floor afterward. I didn't say anything then and I'm not going to say anything now because saying something is how you get people to really look at you, and when people really look at you they start finding other things to talk about, other names to call you.

I learned that lesson a long time ago, back when I was the kid who liked trying on my sister's dresses, back before I learned how to make myself small.

I check my laces again for the third time and I pull them so tight my feet start to go numb, which is good because numb is better than feeling my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest. My hands start shaking again so I press them flat against my thighs and hold them there until they stop. Don't fidget. Don't bounce your leg. Don't give them anything to see. Shoulders back, chin down, mouth shut. Make yourself small until it's your turn to be big. That's the rule I've lived by since I was nine years old and figured out that being invisible hurt less than being seen.

"Orlov. Four minutes. Rinkside."

I stand up and my legs feel weird, like they're made of water and concrete at the same time, heavy and unsteady, and I take my guards off and run my thumb along my blades out of habit. There's a dull spot near the toe pick on the left one because I couldn't afford a sharpening last week, and I tell myself it'll hold because it has to hold, because I don't have another choice.

Kirill brushes past me on his way to the door and hits my shoulder just hard enough that he can pretend it was an accident. "Break a leg. Literally."

I don't answer him. I never answer. Answering is how you get a reputation and I already have enough names following me around Saint Petersburg without any help from me.

Fairy. Faggot. Twinkle toes. They always say it with that little laugh like it's supposed to be funny, like I'm supposed to laugh too, and every time they say it I feel this hot shame crawl up my neck because part of me is terrified they're right, part of me is terrified that's exactly what I am and what I've always been since I was little.

The hallway to the ice is freezing and my breath comes out in clouds in front of my face. Through the double doors I can hear the crowd, not big because Regionals never is, just parents trying to stay awake and coaches pretending to take notes and a couple of Federation scouts trying to look bored.

My music is already with the tech. Tchaikovsky. It's old and everyone uses it and it's free, which is why I picked it. Coach wanted something modern with a beat but I wanted something I could disappear inside, something loud enough to drown out the voice in my head that sounds exactly like my father.

The attendant holds the door open for me. "You're on after Antonov."

I nod because my throat is too dry to make any sound at all.

The cold hits my face first when I step into the arena, then the bright lights, then that clean sharp smell of fresh ice that always makes my chest ache a little. They actually resurfaced before our group so for about thirty seconds before Kirill tears it up the rink looks perfect, like a blank white page, like anything could be written on it, like maybe even me.

I kneel by the boards and take my guards off and set them down in a neat line, left then right. I always do left then right. If I do everything the exact same way every single time, nothing bad can happen. I know that's stupid and doesn't actually work, but I do it anyway because I need something to hold onto.

Kirill is finishing his program and of course it's clean, triple lutz triple toe, because Kirill is always clean. His spins are fast but empty, there's no feeling in them at all, but his jumps are huge so the crowd claps in all the right places and he finishes with both arms in the air like he's already won.

I hate that part of me still wants to clap for him. I hate that I notice the way his costume stretches across his shoulders when he breathes. I hate that I notice at all and then I hate myself for hating it, because that's the whole problem with me, isn't it, that I notice boys the way I'm not supposed to, the way that got me caught when I was fourteen and kissing my boyfriend behind the school and got my whole family thrown out of our town.

He skates off the ice and looks right at me as he passes. "Ice is fast. Try not to fall on your face, pretty boy."

Pretty boy. He says it like it's an insult, like it's a diagnosis, like it's the worst thing he can think to call me, and it lands low in my stomach and stays there hot and heavy because it's too close to the truth I've spent years trying to bury.

I step onto the ice before I can think about it too much because thinking is how you freeze and freezing is how you fall. The cold bites straight through my thin pants and it's good because I need to wake up. I push off for one slow lap to feel the edge and Kirill was right, it's fast ice, the good kind that will hold you if you trust it and break your wrist if you don't.

I glide to center ice and take my opening pose, left arm low, right hand open, head down. Simple. Nothing flashy. Nothing that gives anyone a reason to stare at me too long and start getting ideas.

The announcer's voice crackles over the speakers. "Representing Saint Petersburg Skate Club, Viktor Orlov."

There's polite scattered applause from people who don't know who I am and don't care.

The music starts with a single soft piano note and my body moves before my brain can catch up, and that's the whole trick to surviving this, you let your muscle memory take over and you lock your mind away somewhere safe for three minutes and forty seconds.

Crossovers to build speed, three turn, mohawk, spread eagle across the short axis, and my arms do what they want to do and for once I let them because there's no hoodie to hide in and no one yelling at me to stop moving like that. Just ice and music and the sound of my own blades.

First jump, triple salchow, the one I've been falling on since September, and I set it and pull in tight and feel three rotations whip past and then I land it, it's a little two footed but it's clean enough and my whole body wants to smile but I don't let it.

Breathe. Don't smile. Don't you dare smile because smiling is showing off and showing off is how you get noticed.

I flow straight into my footwork and this is where I'm good, this is where I'm actually better than Kirill and better than anyone in this building if I'm being honest with myself, which I'm never allowed to be out loud. My edges dig deep enough to leave scars in the ice and my turns are so fast the world blurs at the edges and my back arches and my arms finish every line, and for maybe sixteen counts I am exactly what I am and I don't apologize for any of it.

I love this. God help me I love it so much it feels like my ribs are going to crack open from the pressure of it, and the second I think that my father's voice is right there in my head like always, exactly on time, saying stop showing off, you want them looking at you, you want that kind of attention, and I have to shove his voice down so hard my jaw aches.

I throw myself into my combination spin, sit change foot camel layback, and the world narrows down to a white circle and the roar in my ears is either the crowd or just my own blood pounding.

Last jump pass, triple toe double toe, and my toe pick catches that dull spot on my blade and my bad ankle wobbles inside the taped boot and for half a second I'm absolutely certain I'm going down right here in front of everyone, in front of the scouts, in front of all the boys who call me fairy in the locker room, and my whole life flashes in front of my eyes and it's just embarrassment and tape and fear.

My hand slams down on the ice. It's ugly and it's loud but I stay up. I stay on my feet.

Final pose as the music cuts out and my chest is heaving and my sweat is already freezing on the back of my neck and my legs are shaking so hard I can feel it in my teeth.

One beat of silence and then people clap, real clapping this time, not polite, and it's louder than what Kirill got and that feels dangerous and wonderful at the same time.

I bow fast and get off the ice before they can change their minds about me, before they can look too long and see too much. I grab the boards so hard my knuckles turn white and my left foot is completely numb inside that broken boot and I did it, I stayed up, I didn't fall apart.

Coach is waiting at the gate with a towel and this look on his face I can't read. "Good," he says, and his voice is gruff. "Salchow was clean. Toe was messy. Footwork was..." He shakes his head like he can't find the word. "Footwork was something else, Vitya."

Vitya. Not Viktor. Not Orlov. He only calls me Vitya when I've done something right, and hearing it does something weird to my chest, something tight and warm at the same time.

"Thank you," I manage, and my voice sounds wrecked even to me.

He squeezes my shoulder once, hard. "Go sit. Scores in ten."

I get my guards back on, left then right, and I make it to the kiss and cry and sit on my hands so no one sees them shaking. Kirill is two seats down staring at the monitor and he won't look at me, which is how I know I skated well, and my heart is still hammering against my ribs so hard it hurts.

Please. Please let it be enough. Please let this be the thing that gets me out.

My phone buzzes in my bag and it's probably Dima, but I don't check it because if I look now I'll jinx it.

The scoreboard flickers and my name just hangs there for a second, Orlov, Viktor, waiting, and in the second row the woman in the Federation jacket leans over and whispers something to the judge next to her and then she looks up right at me through the glass.

She's holding a blue folder with the gold crest on it.

She smiles, just a little.

Then the scores flash.

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