Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s shaping up to be a great evening. The Pikes are over; Shane made a delicious, albeit extremely healthy, meal; Jackie brought that nice white wine Ilya likes; and the Olympics are on.

It’s a great game; the women’s team is absolutely crushing it. It’s the finals, and gold is all but cinched for both Canadian teams.

“What was it like to play in the Olympics?” Ruby, Hayden and Jackie’s oldest, asks him. “You played for Russia.”

“Back when Russia still was allowed to play,” Hayden quips, leaning closer to the TV, his eyes rapidly charting the movements of the players.

“Yes, that’s how old I am,” Ilya laughs, smacking Hayden upside the head a little bit. 

“We’re only thirty!” Jackie yells from the kitchen, getting herself another glass of wine. 

“Late thirties,” Ilya corrects, even though the Pikes are forty. He and Shane are the ones still in their thirties. He lets them feel young. He turns his attention back to Ruby. “It was pretty cool. I liked walking in the opening ceremony the best, seeing all the different countries. I didn’t perform very well; your Dad and Uncle Shane got the silver.”

“Would’ve been gold, if it wasn’t for fucking Scott Hunter.” Hayden mumbles, then jumps to his feet, cheering when the women’s team wins.

As the Canadian women shake hands with the United States and head to receive their gold medals, Ilya can’t help but feel the warm sort of chest pain that creeps up on him whenever he watches a big win in hockey. He misses it, that feeling of having the world spin on an axis of a big game, but he loves his life more now. His family — his friends.

Ruby, now eighteen, has always been his favorite Pike child. She’s loud, opinionated, and a lot like her Dad. Nosy, but well-intentioned. And she’s cool. Much cooler than any of them had been when they were her age. She’s always keeping Ilya up on what the kids are into. And she’s queer. Ilya likes that about her, too. How she can be so open with her family at such a young age. Ruby’s twin, Jade, skipped a grade and is off being some genius at McGill. She’s more like Jackie.

Shane always makes fun of him when he pulls out whatever TikTok lingo Ruby taught him that day, laughing openly with those beautiful smile lines, rolling his eyes, saying, “You sound ridiculous.”

“What? Keeps me young.”

God, Ilya loves him. He reaches out across the couch and grabs Shane’s hand, squeezing it gently. He’s so lucky.

The 2030 French Alps logo flashes across the screen, and a reporter with shiny fake teeth begins recapping the day’s events. Ilya can feel himself tuning out; he only really cares about the Hockey, but it seems the rest of the couch is happy to watch everything. He gives Anya a little pat at his feet. She’s getting older now, sleepy.

“Today was a remarkable day for Team Canada, with the women’s team just claiming the gold medal. Tune in tomorrow for the men’s finals, and we will see if their team can follow suit. Now, let’s head over to the recap for Women’s Figure Skating, where the nineteen-year-old from the United States was able to snatch the gold in a stunning upset from the frontrunner, Russian Individual Neutral Athlete, eighteen-year-old Irina Rosanov.”

And there she is, in a pink rhinestoned costume, gargling water and spitting it out of perfectly painted lips. Hands on hips, taking deep breaths before skating out onto the ice.

Shane’s hand is immediately on the remote, moving to change the channel.

“It’s fine,” Ilya says, “Want to see.”

Jackie enters, looking at the screen. “That young woman looks exactly like you, Ilya.”

“She’s my niece.”

“What?” Hayden asks, raising his eyebrows. Suddenly, all eyes are on him.

“We do not speak. She is my brother’s daughter. I last saw her when she was six, at my father’s funeral. I brought her a Barbie doll.”

Ruby, not quite reading the room right, asks, “And she’s good? At figure skating?” Like he said, nosy.

Ilya smiles. “Apparently, she is best. Runs in family, you see?”

“Ruby, your Uncle Shane is the best at hockey,” Hayden interjects.

Ilya winks at Ruby, making her laugh. He turns his attention back to the TV, where a montage of his niece floating through the air is playing.

“Irina Rosanov,” the announcer continues, “Is thought to be the best women’s figure skater in the world. At age fifteen, she won the gold medal at the 2026 Milan Cortina Games and is the first woman to land two ratified quadruple lutzes in one program in competition. Her coach, Ekaterina Popov, is famous for leading many female Russian figure skaters to gold but has been widely criticized for her harsh tactics. Rosanov is prohibited from competing in Worlds as a Russian Athlete, but can compete today neutrally.”

He tries not to watch her routines, but when they are playing on the screen like this, it is hard to look away. She is the spitting image of his mother, curly blonde hair, lithe frame, piercing blue eyes. She is her namesake. And he doesn’t know her at all. He takes a big gulp of Jackie’s nice wine; it stings like vodka as it goes down.

“Some talk has been made about Rosanov’s familial ties to retired Hockey legend, Ilya Rosanov-Hollander, but no confirmation as to whether the two are in contact.”

A clip from a press conference plays, Irina, after winning gold in 2016. She’s fifteen here. He’s seen this too many times, on Reels, TikTok, once even searched it himself on YouTube when he was feeling particulalry self loathing. Every frame is burned into his brain at this point. Irina’s tiger coach watching her carefully on the sidelines, Irina’s sweat-sparkled face, her perfectly re-applied makeup, her shiny gold medal.

“Are you in contact with your Uncle, Ilya Rosanov, at all?”

“Nyet, do not know him.”

“How do you feel about his immigration to Canada? His marriage?”

“I do not know him. How you say…absent? Absent, da. Let’s talk about quad lutz now. Triple axel. How I am best, gold. ”

Shane is looking at him with his worried kitten face. Ilya touches his hand, reassuring him that it’s okay.

“Is it horribly insensitive to say she sounds exactly like you at that age?” Hayden asks, Jackie immediately smacking him on the back, hard.

“No,” Ilya smiles a bit ruefully. “She absolutely does.”

The screen cuts back to today’s events. “After coming in first in the women’s short program, it looked like Irina had a lock on today’s final. Her program is the hardest one technically by a landslide, with a triple axel right out the gate and multiple quad lutzes and salchows.”

Ruby asks Ilya if Irina can do a backflip like that American boy. Ilya shrugs; he does not know. He tells her that Russian figure skaters aren’t allowed to do flashy things like backflips. She pouts, exclaiming that that’s boring. The rest of the group agrees.

“Her costume is pretty.” Ruby muses.

It’s not that he hasn’t come to terms with the fact that his niece probably hates him; he has, and it’s difficult to swallow. But it’s what it is. She came onto the figure skating scene in 2023, when he was thirty-one. Already married to Shane, already thinking about the right time to retire. The twelve-year-old pipsqueak on ice with his mother’s face was already unreachable to him. He knows Russia, the bitter knots that his homeland can twist people into, the hatred. He just hopes that she’s okay; it doesn’t matter what she thinks of him.

The program starts. Loud orchestral music booms, and she’s off, jumping right into her triple axel, landing it perfectly.

“Rosanov kept it traditional today, skating to Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty. It’s very common for Russian athletes to skate to ballet, and there she goes, skating through her second jumping pass perfectly,” the announcer remarks.

Ilya always thought that Irina looked a little stiff in the elegant dancing moments in between her jumping passes. When she was doing a trick, she was lighting, attacking the movements hard, perfect. When she had to look pretty, she always looked uncomfortable. He never understood why figure skaters had to focus so much on beauty; they were athletes, after all. Maybe he was just projecting.

“Here is where things got turned around, see here, as Rosanov goes into her Quad Flip-Triple Toe, she falls. What happened here was that Rosanov landed before completing her rotation, causing her body to twist while the landing leg remained fixed on the ice. Impact at landing can generate up to twelve times a skater's body weight.”

It happened faster than he could blink. One minute, she was in the air, the next she was on the ground, struggling to get up.

“Rosanov landed on her left ankle and was unable to get up, cutting her routine short.”

Irina doesn’t cry. She tries to regain her footing, start again — once, twice, but is unable to get off the ground. She remains stoic as the medics carry her off the ice, insisting to sit in the Kiss and Cry bitterly as her incomplete scores flash across the screen, before being hustled off. Ekaterina Popov looks furious in the corner of the screen, where she always lurks.

“We later found out that Rosanov broke her ankle, unfortunately ending her time at this year’s games.”

As they play the clip in slow motion, Shane remarks, “She was favoring her left ankle heavily before she fell. Do you think…”

“It was likely already hurt,” Ilya confirms.

“Woof.” Hayden huffs.

Woof is right, Ilya thinks.

The commentators quickly move past Irina’s fall; nobody likes Russia anyway, the big news of the night being the nineteen-year-old from the United States. Everyone on screen is so happy for her. She cries. Ilya feels a bit resentful of her, wishes it were his niece up there, complicated feelings be damned.

“Will she get in trouble?” Ruby asks later, as they are standing around the kitchen island, wrapping things up for the night.

Ilya nods. “Her coach is not known for being warm and cuddly. It will be rough, but it’s a good thing. She will not be practicing in a few weeks. February is her eighteenth birthday. She is receiving my gift.”

“You sent her a gift?” Ruby asks.

“Six-figure gift.”

Hayden stills. “Dude, what? Seriously.”

Ilya nods. “I set up trust for her in 2017, when my father died. I was twenty-five, it was a pretty big pay cut at the time for me, but I had to do it.”

“Why?”

Ilya looks into his glass. He has gotten better at talking to his friends, but it’s still difficult for him. Blissfully, Shane steps in, rubbing slow circles on Ilya’s back. “Her dad is a money-sucking leech. Wanted everything from Ilya, said it would be for her, but it wasn’t.”

Ilya picks up the conversation. “This was a good way to stop it. When she gets money, she can only use it on school until she’s twenty-three. Figure skaters do not make a lot of money; it will be good for her. My brother cannot take it.”

Jackie purses her lips. “Does she know?”

Ilya is quiet for a moment. “No, she does not.”

Arthur and Amber are long asleep by now and need to be loaded into the car with lots of coaxing. As the Pikes pack into their minivan to head home for the night, Ruby lingers in the doorway.

“Ilya?” She asks, approaching him tepidly.

“Yeah?” He smiles, although exhausted.

“I hope she’s okay. In Russia. And I’m sorry she is so mean to you.”

He nods, giving Ruby a big hug, kissing her on her forehead. “Me too. But you are a good niece to me, Ruby. You are perfect, yeah?”

He gives her a pat on the back as she disappears out the doorway and into the car. This is enough. It’s how it has to be.

Ilya is good at compartmentalizing. Pushing the scary stuff into his brain for later, for unpacking in therapy. Years of practice taught him how not to let the gloom overtake him.

So he doesn’t think about Irina much in the weeks leading up to her eighteenth birthday. He knows she will receive the money, be happy about it, and then move on with her life. Who cares about where the money’s from when it’s in your pocket? She’s not going to contact him. He did share his phone number with the lawyer, in case she wanted to, but he doesn’t have high hopes.

I do not know him. How you say…absent? Absent, da.

He hates that it’s how she sees him. But it’s true. He had to get away. He also hates that his brother probably calls him a faggot every chance he can in front of her.

He takes a deep breath. In and out. He cannot fix what he cannot control.

When the day comes, it passes uneventfully. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. Shane is a little gentler, not forcing him to drink the disgusting protein smoothie he makes for breakfast. They walk Anya and skate a bit around the rink. They fuck. It’s a perfect day, one of those early spring ones where the weather is just starting to hint at getting warmer. He can’t be that upset when Shane’s there, when everything he sacrificed led him to this.

They are lying in bed, listening to the rain patter against the cottage’s window, when the call comes, loud and insistent.

No caller ID. He doesn’t like to pick up unknown numbers. Shane’s ever fearful of stalkers, but the number has a seven in front of it, Russian. He looks at the clock; It’s only 8, it would be about three am there. It couldn’t be.

“I think I’m gonna take this,” Ilya says, picking up the phone. “It’s probably nothing, but I want to be alone.”

Shane nods, ever understanding, giving him a quick kiss.

“Love you, moya lyubov,” Ilya says, heading out to the living room. He sits on the couch, feeling stupid. It’s nothing. It can’t be. He swipes the call over to accept, pushing it to speaker phone. “Zdravstvuyte?” He speaks into the silence, “Who is this?”

There is a crackle on the other end of the line, some heaving breathing. His heart drops. It’s spam calling, or a crazy fan who hacked their area code, or someone from Russia who hates him and wants him dead. As he goes to hang up the call, a voice comes from the other end of the line in heavily accented English:

“Uncle Ilya?”

Oh. He wasn’t expecting it to feel like this. He can feel the tears pricking up in his eyes, and he blinks them away. He’s gotten better at crying, letting his emotions show, but it’s still difficult. Lately, he’s been feeling like he’s constantly on the precipice of crying; he hates it. “Hi, Irina. It’s three AM over there, isn’t it? You can speak in Russian.”

“No. I uh, would prefer English. In case someone overhears. I am outside, it is early morning. I am under, uh —, overpass. One by my father’s apartment. Smoking tunnel. It is three AM, this is why I call. He won’t know.”

He remembers that place, where he used to go whenever the world got too heavy, when he needed an escape. He called Shane there, the last time he ever was in Russia, twenty-five, and so fucking in love that everything hurt. He told Shane he loved him the first time there. Shane couldn’t understand, but it was real. It was important. I only want you. And always you. I love you so much, and I don’t know what to do with it.

He can’t think of what to say, there are too many questions, and no time to ask them. Do you hate me? Does he hurt you? Are you okay? Are you happy with my present? Is it not enough? Am I now an ATM to you, just like I was to your father? He files that last one away, hating himself for even thinking it. He settles for a “I watched you skate.”

“You saw me make big failure, huh?”

Way to go, Ilya. “No, not big failure. I watched short program too. You were perfect.”

She huffs. “Not perfect enough. I re-broke ankle. Anyway, you know this is not why I call. I call because it was my birthday yesterday, and I got message from lawyer. I call to say, thank you.”

“It was nothing. I set up when you were a kid, after, uh, you’re Dedushka’s funeral.” He explains, “Last time I saw you.”

“I remember, you brought me American Barbie.”

“I did.”

“I still have. I cut all her hair off, though. She is ugly Barbie now. I hope that’s okay.”

He laughs, and he finds that it’s wet. “That’s amazing.”

The line goes still for a long time; he can hear Irina breathing, taking shallow drags from a cigarette. It sounds like she’s crying a little, too. “I call to ask a favor as well.”

Ilya stills. This could mean more money. “Did you tell your father about the trust? He can’t access it, legally. It’s for school and—”

“No! I did not tell him. He is needy. He takes my skating money. But I am recovering from ankle, so no skating right now. I call because I want to go to University, a Canadian University.”

This wasn’t what he was expecting. It’s early March, still enough time to apply for the fall, he presumes. Maybe on a delayed timeline, but Yuna or Shane could figure that out. They are good at things like this. Very bossy. “Oh. Irina, that’s great.”

“I book flight to Ontario, leaving in uh — two hours.” She states bluntly. “I do not tell my father. I know you said money only for school, da? But I figure I can rent an apartment while I figure things out. I hope me coming to Canada isn’t too much of a, how you say, obuza?

“Burden.” Ilya supplies, the word feeling heavy in his mouth.

“Da, burden. You do not need to see me, and if I am too close, I can find American school. I just,” her voice breaks a little, “I just thought that it would be—”

“Irina, it’s not a problem at all. You do not need to rent an apartment; you can stay with me. With my family.” He then remembers who he is speaking to and where she was raised. “Unless you don’t feel comfortable, we can set up an apartment. When does your flight get in?

“Tomorrow night, your time, I do not really know. I have flight number?”

He switches over to the notes app on his phone and dutifully writes down the tracking information. “I’ll be there. I have a very ugly airport car. Sound good?”

She makes an affirmative noise at the end of the line. “I have to go and can’t say much. You know how it is. I just want to say, very happy to stay with your, uh — family. Didn’t want to leave that, you know, hanging. Okay?”

He smiles, “Okay.”

“I see you, Uncle Ilya.” The line clicks, and he feels like all the air has been sucked out of his body. He puts his head in his hands, tries not to weep.

He can hear the hallway light flick on. Shane is standing there, hands in nervous balls. Ilya knows his husband must have been dying to eavesdrop, but Shane would never break his trust like that.

“Was it her? Shane asks. Ilya nods, and Shane is immediately at his side, rubbing careful circles on his back. “How did it go?”

“She’s coming here, I guess? Like, now.” Ilya admits. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay. Do you know why?”

Ilya wipes a tear from his eye. “I can’t imagine it’s anything good.”

Rather than theorizing, Shane sweeps him into a conversation of logistics: what room will she stay in, when Ilya needs to leave to pick her up from the airport, and how he can get his mother involved in the college application process. He even goes as far as to suggest that the rink have slightly softer ice so she can practice skating if her ankle is feeling better. He loves this Shane, methodical, always with a plan.

They do not talk about why she may be calling, or what’s going on in Irina’s home life, or his mother. He is grateful for that. They curl up in bed a few hours later, plans laid out for the day ahead.

“Shane?” Ilya asks, Shane turns over, bleary-eyed. It’s nearing one AM, their time; Irina is probably already on her first connecting flight. “She called me from the place I used to go to smoke when I was a kid; she called it her smoking tunnel. It was like, under a highway overpass. I guess she found it on her own.”

Shane nods, sensing that this is something important.

“When I called you, after my father’s funeral, I called you from there. Late at night, when I was convinced nobody could hear me. That was the most important phone call I had ever made in my life at that time; it still is. She said…she hoped nobody could hear her either.”

“Oh, Ilya. Come here.” Shane opens up his arms, and Ilya curls inside, placing his chin on his husband’s collarbone. He listens to the sound of his husband’s breathing, in and out, in and out, until it soothes him to sleep.

When he sees her for the first time, smoking a cigarette and waiting for him at the terminal, he’s not surprised by how poshlost she is, tacky. Russian figure skaters have that reputation, lots of swag bags, and her gear reflects it. She is in thick gray sweatpants and a little black tee, big designer glasses covering her face, rhinestoned over-ear headphones. Her Gosha Rubchinskiy backpack is unzipped, hanging off her arm. She wears a massive silver chain around her neck. Her suitcase is another monster entirely, covered in what looks like blue and pink Swarovski crystals — totally bedazzled. Her pair of skates is loosely tied to the top.

It’s an impressive haul, but the suitcase looks like it was a carry-on. He would have expected her to bring more.

She lifts her glasses off her face, not having seen him yet. Her eyes dart around, perfectly calm veneer slipping. She bites her lip, worriedly, and looks down at her phone.

He remembers the first time he came to North America, the summer before his rookie season. It was louder than he expected, and he barely spoke the language. He was scared, reaching for a cigarette and a quiet moment whenever he could, just to get away from the pulsing sound. Pushing away from nice Canadian boys and their handshakes with their mothers waiting in the car five feet away. She probably feels the same.

He calls her name and waves, her eyes darting to meet him, designer sunglasses immediately back up. She ashes her cigarette and leaves the stub on the ground, heading over to the car. Litterbug, he thinks, then rolls his eyes. Shane has really made his mark on him, hasn’t he?

She darts through the car park with the speed and agility expected of a professional figure skater; it’s almost impossible to notice the clunky boot she is wearing on her left foot. But it’s there, an unwelcome visitor strapped to his niece’s leg.

When she reaches the car, there is a brief moment of extreme awkwardness, neither of them knowing what to do. There she is, the little girl he left in Russia so many years ago, all grown up. Coming to him for help of some kind, because she needs it.

She looks the car up and down. “You are right,” she says, “It is very ugly. I read in American magazine you like sports cars. This is not sport car.”

He laughs, “No, it’s not. I traded those in for an SUV lifestyle years ago.”

She looks down at her feet, clearly a bit ashamed at her opening remarks. “Thank you for the money, and for picking me up, and for letting me stay.”

This is important. He has to get whatever he says next right, but he can’t think of what “right” is. He’s never been good with words, especially English ones. “Of course,” he says, “Irina, I—”

She steps over to him and gives him a big hug. He embraces her immediately. She smells like menthol and something musky, like men’s cologne or that awful unisex perfume Yuna tried to convince him to be the brand ambassador of a few years ago.

When she pulls away, he notices that her nails aren’t painted; bitten down to the quick. In all the videos he’s seen, her nails are always painted.

Popping the trunk, he throws her suitcase inside. It’s lighter than expected; there can't be much more than a few changes of clothes and some toiletries in there.

“Quick getaway,” Irina supplies, in Russian, a bit bashfully. “He is probably just waking up from a drunken stupor and seeing that I am not there.” She sounds much smaller in her native tongue, the cocky girl from interviews that he knows so well completely disappearing. “And the bag is ugly, I know. It is my competition bag, the only one I have.”

“That’s okay,” He replies. Where to start first, his alcoholic brother, or the embarrassment over her possessions? He decides to play it casual. “We can get you new clothes. My mother-in-law loves to swipe her credit card.”

She laughs a little.“Whatever is easiest.”

As they get in the car, Ilya continues,“I have a Canadian niece, Ruby. She is going to U of T in the fall. She is not my biological niece; she’s a close friend’s daughter.” He supplies quickly. “She could maybe take you shopping? She is, uh, cool.”

“Okay,” Irina replies, “Cool.”

He winces a little, thinking of Ruby and Irina interacting. Why did he say that? Ruby, with her pink-dyed hair and torn-up thrifted clothes, and her smiley piercing she did herself with a safety pin, would never get along with his niece, who is currently sporting large LV sunglasses and a fucking stack of Cartier bracelets on her wrist. This is more up Yuna’s alley. He can’t imagine two girls more different.

He tells her she can play whatever music she wants, and she grabs the AUX cord greedily, probably excited for some relief from the interaction. Charli XCX blasts, saying something about wanting to ‘dance, dance, dance.’ This is a song Ruby has inflicted upon them many times; maybe all 18-year-olds have some universal attraction to dance music. He likes it more than Shane; it reminds me of the Russian club music he used to listen to when he was younger. He wonders if Irina feels the same way.

She kind of answers the question for him. “I like Russian music, but I like Western music more. When I landed, I re-downloaded Spotify.”

“You can’t get Spotify at home anymore?” He asks. He can’t remember the last time he referred to Russia as ‘home.’

“Yes, 2022. I have lots of movies I must watch, too. They took many movies away.” She frowns a little, “I like Hollywood movies. I like scary. I will watch lots.” She blushes, as if she’s almost said too much, then looks down at her fingernails, picking at her cuticles.

He pulls out of the car park and adjusts the GPS to the cottage’s address. He can do two hours and forty-five minutes, talking and yet saying nothing to this strange alien girl beside him who likes scary movies and music and knows nothing of him at all.

In the past three hours, Shane has probably rearranged the living room a hundred times. He restocked the fridge, made sure the kitchen looked clean, and fluffed the pillows on the guest room bed at least twice.

He was driving himself crazy, but this was crazy, Right?

Ilya never talked about his niece, never. Shane knew that she was a dark spot in his mind, something that really upset him, but there was no fixing it, nothing to do. Ilya was not allowed to reach out to his brother — Shane, Galina, Svetlana, and even Ilya; on most days, universally agreed to that rule. Alexei could ruin him, bring back a depression so strong that none of them, especially Ilya, could weather. Reaching out to Irina brought Alexei back into Ilya’s life, asking for money, calling him slurs, and constantly making him feel like shit.

That was not going to happen again. Never.

So, Irina was off the table. He sometimes caught Ilya watching interview clips of her, but whenever Shane would try to interrogate him, he would always swiftly change the subject. Shane knew better not to press. There were some things that just took his husband time.

He had watched a few of Irina’s clips himself. He knew nothing of ice skating; the scoring system was far too subjective for his tastes, but it was clear that she was a whiz on the ice, better than everyone else. In interviews, she was cold, a little rude, always clipping the questions short, bragging. Her constant crowing reminded him a little of the act Ilya used to put up when he was younger, but it didn’t seem like an act for Irina. She was just…Russian.

Shane had done some digging into Irina’s coach herself and the controversies surrounding her. She was less of a coach than a child abuser, he thought, but he knew the culture surrounding women’s sports in Russia was toxic. It made his heart hurt a little that someone in his husband’s immediate family had been a workhorse her entire life. When he was a kid, he put hockey first, and let his family put it first for him. But that was because he loved it. If he had told his mom and dad that he wanted to stop at any time, he’s sure they would’ve obliged. Irina definitely did not have that same advantage.

And here she was. Eighteen now, coming to his house, seemingly quitting skating, and telling Ilya breathlessly over the phone that she was supportive of him, of his family.

She knew who Shane was. And she was okay with it. That definitely threw a wrench in Shane’s perception of her.

Neither of them had any idea of the girl who was going to walk through the front door. His mind raced towards two worst-case scenarios:

One, she was rude, made Ilya feel like shit, and was only using him to get money for Alexei. But no, that couldn’t be right. She had upfront confirmed that she wasn’t homophobic, had cried over the phone according to Ilya, and had basically escaped Russia overnight to get away from her family.

That brings him to option two: that, like his husband, Irina was being abused, verbally or otherwise. The worst-case scenario, one that he knew haunted Ilya daily. He left, and a young girl took his place as a human punching bag.

He braces his hands on the kitchen island and takes a deep breath. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen, and Shane and Ilya were going to do their best to make it okay.

It seems like forever before he hears Ilya’s key turn in the lock. He enters, kicks his shoes off, and drags in what looks to be a completely bedazzled, garish, carry-on suitcase. Irina follows him in. She’s taller than she looks on TV, and when he sees the two of them standing side by side, he’s shocked at how alike they look. A curl has slipped out of her ponytail, sitting centered on her forehead. She has a mole on her cheek that he has never noticed before in the videos. She has a lot of thick jewelry on. This is a taste that Ilya no longer has (thank God), but reminds Shane of him all the same.

Also — Ilya is holding a giant box of donuts. “We got Tim Horton’s,” Ilya sheepishly admits. “Irina already ate five.”

“I have not had carbohydrate in years,” She says, stumbling over the word. She takes a long look at him. “You must be the famous Hollander.”

He nods, feeling a little stupid. “I am.”

“Do you really know famous Rose Landry?”

“I do?”

“I saw her in scary movie where she played figure skater and got murdered with own ice skate,” Irina makes a slitting motion over her throat. “Horribly inaccurate, but very amusing. She is pretty.”

Okay, he wasn’t expecting that.

Ilya gives him a look, his eyes saying that the day has been full of surprises already. In the silence, Irina looks a bit chatised, knowing she probably said the wrong thing.

“It is, uh — nice to meet you.” She says, looking down at her ankle boot.

Then she’s off again, dropping her backpack on the floor and racing around the cottage. She looks out the windows, at the flatscreen, gives Anya a quick pat on the head, then moves over to the kitchen and opens the freezer.

“UNCLE ILYA, YOU HAVE ICE MACHINE?” She calls out.

Iyla laughs.

Shane can’t help but be reminded of the first few times Ilya met his parents, the way he clumsily moved from brash statements of excitement to extreme politeness. He didn’t know what to do with himself amongst all the pressure, the domesticity. Oh God, is everything this kid does going to remind him of Ilya? He’s still lovesick over his husband, after all these years, and in a very complicated situation right now. His brain is betraying him, making him sappy and reminiscing rather than attacking the problem at hand. “I hope you’re still hungry for dinner, Irina. Why don’t you both set the table while I drop off your stuff in the guest room?” He says, trying to make himself useful.

Shane grabs the surprisingly light suitcase and Irina’s backpack and carries them to the guest room at the other end of the cottage, the one farthest from the master suite. It’s the second biggest room; they figured that she might want some space. He made it look nice in here for her, he thinks.

As he places the bags on the floor, the backpack slips, its contents spilling all over the floor. He hadn’t noticed that it was partially unzipped.

He doesn’t want to snoop, he really doesn’t, but the bag’s contents are strange to say the least. There’s a laptop, normal, a small journal, normal, a crumpled-up piece of paper, normal — if you are messy, a gold medal from the 2026 Olympics, normal, he guesses — if you are Irina Rosanov, a pack of menthols, extremely bad for you — but normal if you are a Rosanov, a Barbie doll with a boys haircut, really weird, and a large lime green strap on with a black harness, strange for an eighteen-year-old girl.

He supposes he had something like it, but purple, when he was her age, he thinks, then thinks, ew.

He flushes and begins putting the objects neatly back into the backpack, then remembers how they were initially placed, and takes them back out to chuck them in sloppily. Curiosity gets the better of him, and he fishes out the piece of paper and straightens it out. It’s a piece of hotel stationery, from a four-star hotel in Italy near a rink he once skated at when he was a rookie. On it, it reads:

Ira,

Room 1128. See you?

Yours,

“Dan”

There is a pink splotch of lipstick next to the name in quotations, counterintuitive to the male pronoun.

He crumples the paper back up and throws it into the bag. He can’t help but have the feeling that he knows too much now, way too much.

As he shuts the door to the guest room, he takes a look at the backpack, seeing it for what it truly is — everything that may matter to Irina, as she is never going back to her home.

Dinner is extremely awkward. Shane made pasta, real pasta, not protein or chickpea, much to Ilya’s gratitude, but he didn’t make enough. Irina scarfs down more than expected, her head practically buried in the plate, not making eye contact with either Ilya or Shane.

When she is done, Shane clears his throat. “I, uh, know it may be difficult, but I thought, well, we thought,” he reaches for Ilya’s hand, “That we might want to have a conversation on your first night here. Uh — getting it over with.”

Irina’s eyes flick to their joined hands somewhat curiously. Shane probably would have thought this was concerning earlier, but after the Backpack Incident™ (as he’s been dubbing it in his head now), he just feels kind of sad.

“Discussion,” she says, flatly, “Like how.”

“Nothing bad!” Ilya jumps in, “Just, we wanted to know why you decided to come here. You don’t need to tell us everything, but we want to help. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Irina donned a large gray sweatshirt before coming to the table, and she pulls the strings of the hood to envelop her face tightly. “You want me to, how you say, spill guts out?”

Shane shakes his head, “No, you don’t have to, we just want to make sure we are all on the… on the same page.”

Irina nods. “That is fine, I will explain. Coach and Papa always tell me that feelings are for the weak.” She sombers up, looking at Shane. “I know you think that is a bad statement, that it is wrong. But it is the way it has been for me. So I will tell you easily. But let me say it all at once, okay?”

Ilya nods, “Okay.”

She continues, “Mama is gone, heart murmur, how you say, untreated. Coach is not nice, starve me, slap me when I don’t win, you know. I broke my ankle before the Olympics and skated on it. Now I am loser and fucked up. Will not skate competitively again, I think, too much damage. Papa is always mad, always asking for money. Only let's me keep stupid jewelry gifts. Uncle Ilya, I know Dedushka used to hurt both you and Papa, but Papa doesn’t hit me.” She motions to her heart. “He just hurts me here.”

Shane looks over at Ilya, who is clearly struggling to keep it together. Irina looks down at her red-sauce-covered plate.

She says the next part quickly. “And I am big fat lesbian, so I must go far away. I figure I get a degree, apply for good job, get citizenship.”

Ilya’s eyes shoot up, clearly shocked. Shane wishes he could say the same.

“Any questions?”

Needless to say, there are lots of questions.

As Shane washes up, Ilya and Irina sit by the dock, feet dangling, talking softly in Russian. He lets them have their moment.

There is a framed photo in the living room of Irina, Ilya’s mother. It’s a little crumpled, but it’s one of the two Ilya brought when he first came to Boston. He kept them in his wallet.

Shane can’t help but think that she is the perfect mixture of the two people sitting outside. He really hopes that Irina will be happy here.

They had been talking about kids for a while, finally thinking of starting the adoption process this fall. Irina’s timing is good, Shane muses. He knows that Ilya is ready, has been ready for a long time, but Shane’s anxiety has always gotten the better of him. He figures if he can handle a troubled Olympic gold medalist bounding into his home, he can manage what comes next.

He loves Ilya, knows he comes from a dark place, and wants to give him the world. Sometimes that pressure can be overwhelming.

That night, as Shane and Ilya are washing up and getting ready for bed, Irina long having retreated to her room to do who knows what, Shane fesses up:

“I found a note from a girl in her backpack and a strap-on.”

Ilya stops, a coy grin dancing across his features. “You are a snoop!”

Shane holds his hands up in the air. “Her bag was unzipped! It just happened.”

“You are snoop.”

Shane tells him about the boy’s name in quotation marks, the hotel room number, and the lipstick kiss. “Do you think it was another skater?”

Ilya contemplates, brushing his teeth. “Maybe we are not so original after all, huh?”

“I guess not.”

“No more snooping,” Ilya decides. “It’s bad for both of us. Plus, I do not like thinking of her in that way.”

Shane nods, understanding. He’s probably going to have a heart attack the first time his child talks about having sex. Scratch that, he’s probably going to have a heart attack the first time one of Hayden and Jackie’s kids talks about having sex.

Ilya pauses, drumming his fingers on the counter. “Do you ever miss it?” He asks.

“Miss what?”

“Spending time with her, I uh, remember how I used to be. How I used to speak. That is somewhat gone now. Makes me feel, I don’t know, weird. Is that stupid?” He trails off, speaking thicker than usual in his accent. “Uh, how you say…da? You know.” He laughs a little at himself, pushing his fingers through his damp hair, fresh from the shower.

“No, it’s not stupid.” Shane thinks for a little bit, then says: “I liked you then, and I like you now. Equal amounts. But it must feel, I don’t know, do you feel a little farther from home?”

“No. My home is here. But Irina is here now, and I think it will be good. Good for her, and for me too.” Ilya splashes some water on his face, then turns and wraps Shane in an embrace. “Uh, how you say, kiss me?”

Shane pushes him away, rolling his eyes. “What you actually used to say was, ‘gimmekiss,’ one word, full stop.”

Ilya beams. “Oh, alright then. Gimmekiss.”

Shane obliges.

When it’s finally warm enough to go swimming, the Pikes come over for a barbecue.

It’s tradition at this point, Hayden and Shane make way too many burgers, Jackie and Ruby lounge by the poolside, Ilya plays the world’s smallest game of Sharks and Minnows with Arthur and Amber, and they watch the sun dip under the lake, shades of purple and orange and pink.

Adding Irina to the situation was nerve-racking. For Shane, at least. Nobody else seemed to care. The Pikes were excited to meet the prodigy who was so distant one day, living in their home the next.

At first, he's afraid that watching Ruby and Irina interact will be like introducing a small kitten to a big, snarling dog. However, Shane isn’t sure which one will be the kitten and who will be the dog. Irina is quick on her feet, mean, but quickly retreats into a shell-shocked state from shame. Ruby is confident, but so Western. Shane figures she will have no idea how to communicate with someone like Irina; he certainly doesn’t. 

When he voices his concern to Ilya, Ilya rolls his eyes. “Two gay girls, both like horrible music, what could go wrong? They will hit it off.”

Ilya, apparently, is right.

At first, it was a little awkward, Ruby a little starstruck at the sight of a girl who had been on TV (hadn’t she gotten used to her family by now?), but Irina immediately complimented her smiley piercing, her pink hair, and they were off.

The two teens sit at the table, sharing wired earbuds and listening to music together. Ruby animatedly flips through playlists, asking Irina if she has heard this one or that one. If Irina hasn’t heard it, Ruby plays the song very stoically, as if it is extremely important, and the girls listen.

If Irina likes the song, she adds it to her playlist. This goes on for hours. Shane can’t believe they are spending so much time on something so boring. He tells them as much.

“You can’t just not like music, Uncle Shane.” Ruby quips, rolling her eyes. “Everyone likes music.”

“I like music. I just don’t actively listen to it, it just, plays in the background.” He shrugs.

“That’s so weird,” Ruby exclaims. “Right, Irina? Isn’t that so weird?”

Irina looks at Shane, biting her lip, clearly concerned about back-talking an adult she doesn’t know very well. “Da,” she says. “So weird.”

Over burgers, the two girls start talking about a French film Shane’s never heard of. He’s shocked Irina has seen so many movies; she apparently is a professional at pirating.

Irina loves to talk about movies, Shane’s noticed. It’s her main way of communication. Talk less about her life, talk more about something else. He’s been having trouble connecting with her because of this. He isn’t very pop-culture savvy. Ilya has a pass because they have a shared language. He can break through her veneer.

Luckily, Irina has also been getting along with his mother; she’s been helping Irina with university, getting her into U of T for the fall, helping her get on a student visa. Applications had closed, but this was obviously a special case. Every institution was willing to bend over backwards for Irina Rosanov. Best of all, Irina shares his mothers taste in very expensive things.

He’s glad the two most important people in his life have taken a liking to the girl, but he just can’t connect with her. It annoys him how deeply he is struggling with the very simple thing that is human interaction.

He takes a bite of his burger and tunes the teens out. They are talking about having a movie night over here someday to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Why? That’s even more ancient than him), which is good. He knows Ruby has been struggling at school, trying to make friends with more girls like her — find community.

He thinks it’s why she’s always over here. The rest of the Pikes are extremely supportive, Hayden is his best friend, after all. But there are not many gay people in Ruby’s life. She’s called him her ‘Guncle’ more than once. He pretends he hates it, but it secretly makes him feel a little warm inside. He’s glad he can give someone something he never had.

At the end of the night, Ruby’s number is in Irina’s phone, and they have a whole host of plans lined up. He wonders what that’s like, to instantly make a friend.

He supposes, in some sort of weird way, that Ilya and himself were instant friends too. Numbers shared, secrets pressed up against their chests, laughing when the joke wasn’t funny. Hurting, too. A lot of hurting.

Ruby starts coming over a lot more than usual after that. She got a car last year for her birthday, and the girls go to the mall, to the movies, and swim in the pool. Ilya makes a credit card for Irina with non-trust money, but she never overspends unless it’s a gift. She does come back from the mall with a whole new Ruby-approved wardrobe, but that was a need. She barely brought any clothes over from Russia.

Gone is the boot and the tight fitting athetic gear, Irina now wears baggy T-shirts of bands Shane’s never heard of, of raspy-voiced indie singers with horrible haircuts. Her jeans are a size too big. She has another piercing in her ear and a nose ring now. All of these things, he assumes, were Ruby’s idea.

Unlike Ruby, though, Irina never wears skirts or dresses, staples of Ruby’s wardrobe. When it’s hot out, she pulls on a pair of cut-offs and a button-down shirt. Sometimes she steals Ilya’s things, old jerseys or the garishly patterned designer silk shirts he used to wear out to the club that Shane thought he donated long ago. Ilya’s sentimental like that; he doesn’t like to let things go. When the girls go swimming, Irina wears men’s trucks.

It’s interesting, so different from the image that appears when he googles her, sometimes late at night in bed. The heavily plastered-on makeup (she didn’t even pack a tube of lipstick with her), the sparkling dresses, the high heels when not on the ice.

And her demeanor has changed, too, Shane thinks. Gone is the brazen stoicism; now Irina carries an easy sort of relaxation in her stride. Her shoulders loosen, less close to her ears.

He’s even caught her smiling once or twice. Laughing generously. Even though he doesn’t know her very well, seeing her open up makes him happy. It’s good for Ruby too.

Still, he worries. Irina still is… well, Irina. And she had that note in her bag, from her “Dan.” So when Ruby looks at Ilya’s niece with big moon eyes, as if she holds the world on a string, yeah, he fucking worries.

Maybe nothing is happening between the two girls, he can’t tell, not yet.

He doesn’t want his Ruby, the little girl he held on his shoulders at the aquarium when he was barely 20 years old, to get hurt. Not like this. Not by her.

On dates, Ilya decidedly tries to steer the conversation away from Irina. He can tell Shane’s a bit stressed out about her. Instead, they talk about the Centaur’s season, a planned vacation abroad, and some stupid puzzle David’s been working on for the past month.

So domestic, so boring. Ilya loves it. He’s greedy for this life, this perfect one that he has, with his family.

They do touch on Irina a little bit; she’s been skating again, spending her mornings in the rink and her afternoons with Ruby. She thinks she might be open to competing again if she can find the right trainer. Yuna is already salivating over it, texting Irina about brand deals and finding the best coach.

Yuna doesn’t see red, Shane always jokes, she sees gold. Team Canada gold. Ilya also secretly thinks she likes having a girl. Girl sponsorships are more fun, even though Irina is definitely not the most feminine.

He tries not to worry that Shane’s a bit wary of Irina; they have a language barrier, after all. And it’s only been a few months. It’s still hard for him to communicate with her, even. But they’ve found a steady sort of rhythm over the course of her stay. A new part of his family. For the first time, he feels really complete. Shane will come around soon. He knows it.

They finish up dinner downtown by the water, get ice cream, and walk around the lake. A fan recognizes them, and they take a picture. He’s okay with that; it’s no longer overwhelming, the fame of it all. He and Shane are mostly respected by now, old legends put out to pasture. They still do the charity and the skating camp. Helping those kids learn means more to him than any cup.

They get home around eight, and the girls are screaming. Joyful, enthusiastic screeches, only comparable to what he’s heard in locker rooms and living rooms, hockey fans watching a particularly riveting game.

Shane quirks an eyebrow at him. Ruby always rolled her eyes whenever they would turn the TV to a game. Maybe they are watching ice skating?

In the living room, multiple empty spiked seltzers litter the coffee table. Anya barks, and Irina scoops the dog up into her arms, kissing her head. Ruby grabs her arm and points at the TV, yelling.

On the screen are two — Drag queens? The queens lip-sync to a Mariah Carey song, doing backflips and contorting their bodies in ways Ilya truly has never seen before, and he’s seen a lot.

When they are done, RuPaul, (He knows who RuPaul is, okay?) points at one of the queens and says: Shantay, you stay. Ruby nudges Irina, gleefully shouting, “I told you so!” and Irina pouts like she’s lost a bet.

Shane clearly does not know who RuPaul is. “What are you guys watching?”

“Drag Race.”

“What is Drag Race?”

Ruby flops face down into the couch, as if she has just heard the saddest news of her entire life. She groans. “Uncle Shane, you did not just.” She stands, gesticulating wildly with her hands. “You’re gay! You are GAY!!!”

Irina lounges back, sipping her white claw, a bemused smile on her face. “Not all gay people like same things, Ruby.” She says.

Ruby flails. “But still, this is CULTURE.”

Ilya pats Shane on the back. “I have to agree with Ruby on this one. This is culture.”

A small voice in his brain tells him that maybe he and Shane were wrong, to never do the whole pride float thing. They were so ashamed, afraid of being ostracized from the male sports world, that they never really tried to connect with the queer community. He thinks he would like to do that. There’s still time, he figures, and the perfect place to start is right in front of him.

He plops down on the couch next to Irina and points at the TV to a woman with a gray streak in her hair. “Who is that?”

Ruby leaps in as if she’s been electrocuted. “That’s Michelle Visage, RuPaul’s best friend. I’d let her fuck me, total MILF.”

Shane blushes profusely. Ilya ignores him, the prude. “And whose’s that?”

“That’s Style Superstar Carson Kressley.”

“He doesn’t look very stylish to me,” Illya snarks. “They let anyone on this show? Maybe they'll let me be a guest judge next season.”

Irina laughs, “No. I am more famous than you. And more stylish. I will be guest judge. I will talk to Yuna about it in morning. She will, how you say, hook me up.”

Damn, he can’t argue with that. He tells Ruby that she’s drunk, that she must sleep over. She says she was already planning on it. Shane has that pained look in his eyes he gets when things don’t go exactly as planned.

That night, as Shane and he lie in bed, the girls’ voices float down the hallway, and then there is a slam of a door and muffled laughter.

Shane blearily rubs his eyes, taking off his glasses and putting them on the bedside table. No! Ilya thinks, put them back on, please! “I think they’re fucking.” He bemoans, clearly distressed.

Ilya shrugs, wacking him with a pillow. “When we were one year older, we met and were fucking.”

“That was you and me. This is Hayden’s kid. When you and I started fucking she was a baby.”

“Yes, old man, explain to me how time works again. Tick tock.”

Shane laughs, “I don’t know. I just don’t want Ruby to get hurt.”

Ilya puffs. “What if Ruby hurts Irina?”

“Irina has gone through things. Ruby’s biggest struggle has been sitting alone at the lunch table a few times in high school. Don’t give me that bullshit.”

Ilya thinks for a moment, playing with the string on his sweatpants. He tries to communicate his thoughts efficiently: “When we met, I would say that I had been through more hardship than you, yes?” Shane purses his lips, then nods, agreeing. “You still hurt me too, it ways. Like that day you left.”

Shane acquiesces, mentally licking his wounds. “Fair point.”

“We let them figure it out; we are not their parents. Just, guardian of adult niece and close mentor to an adult family friend. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Besides,” Ilya smirks, “If they are occupied, that means we can…”

“No. I am not having sex with you when they’re in the house.”

“Didn’t stop you the other day. Or the day before that one, or that time they went to the mall and we—”

Shane shuts him up with a searing kiss.

After, Ilya can’t sleep. His mind races, thinking about Irina and Ruby and the things he missed out on. He’s never been to a gay club. He’s never…

He heads to the kitchen for a glass of water. The girls are by the island, not noticing him yet, examining a baking tray fresh out of the oven. It’s one AM, and here they are, as if it were the middle of the afternoon. Irina takes her fork and digs into the pan, giving Ruby a bite of what looks like a brownie. Ruby chews contemplatively, then gives Irina a thumbs-up. Irina smiles, then, in a display of strength, turns around and pins Ruby up against the kitchen island.

He should turn around and give the girls their privacy. He doesn’t.

“Taste good?” Irina asks.

“Uh-huh. You had a good recipe.” Ruby stammers out, clearly a little in awe, a little love-struck.

Irina smirks, pressing her hand around Ruby’s waist. “Let me taste now. Gimme kiss.”

Oh God, she really is his niece, isn't she?

He coughs loudly. The girls scatter, Ruby turning a shade of red Ilya’s previously only reserved for Hollander’s and tomatoes.

He heads into the kitchen and fills his glass from the sink. Irina has the biggest hickey on her neck, Ruby has three. Shane’s going to blow a gasket in the morning.

He looks over at the brownies. “Those better not be pot brownies, you guys.”

Ruby has somehow figured out a way to completely shrink into the wall.

Irina laughs, a little sheepishly. “Uh, don’t eat them, then? Sorry.”

He holds out his hand. “Cut me one.”

“What?”

“I said get me a pot brownie, Irina. Just don’t tell Shane.”

She gives him a pot brownie. It will help him sleep. He needs it.

Once devouring the brownie, Irina did have a good recipe, he tells the girls to be safe, flops into bed, and lets sleep claim him.

He dreams of Shane that first night, when what he wanted to communicate came out in scattered, sexual flares. How empty he felt after, like he had wasted the biggest opportunity of his life. In the dream, Shane doesn’t text him back ever again.

The next morning, Ruby is gone, Irina has three more visible hickeys, and her hair is completely shorn off.

Shane doesn’t know where to start, so Ilya chimes in. “Cool haircut.”

“Thanks,” Irina blushes. “Ruby did it.”

“When you were high?” He darts his eyes across the back of Irina’s neck, looking for flaws. For a woman under the influence, Ruby did a surprisingly good job. It almost could be professional.

“They were high?” Shane totally blows a gasket.

“It’s legal, moya lyubov. Do not give me this much grief this early in the morning.” Ilya sips his coffee. “I like it. You look like, uh, DiCaprio.”

Irina quirks an eyebrow. “In Romeo and Juliet or Titanic?”

“Uh, Titanic.” This was the right answer. Irina beams.

Irina turns her attention to Shane, looking down at the floor. “I vacuumed up, no mess. Just really wanted the haircut.”

It must take every ounce of Shane’s will, but he smiles and says, “It’s okay, Irina. You look good.”

Irina takes her skates off the hook and heads towards the back door. “Gonna go skate now, bye bye.” And she’s off, the door shutting behind her.

They watch her go.

“I’m calling Hayden,” Shane says, already scrolling through his contacts to find the number.

“You’re not.”

“Why?”

“Because as we agreed, they are adults and they are figuring it out on their own.”

Shane throws his hands up in the air, clearly having lost. He goes into their room to get dressed for the day, Ilya follows.

He’s starting to get upset. This isn’t going as well as he wanted to; he just wants everyone to get along. He feels a little petulant, like a child upset after losing a game.

“Could you go talk to her, please?” He asks.

Shane already has his shirt over his head and his socks on. “We have hockey camp, remember?”

“I can go on my own.”

“They’re expecting us.”

Ilya places his hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Shane, please. Pozhaluysta.”

He only breaks out the please in Russian when it’s important. Shane knows this; he crumbles a little.

“Fine. She doesn’t like me, though.”

“She just wants you to like her. Go try and like each other.”

Shane wilts a little, sitting on the bed.

“Okay.”

Ilya leaves for practice a little angrily, but still kisses him goodbye. Shane makes his morning smoothie, the whir of the Nutribullet comforting him. He fucked up, made Ilya upset, and made Irina upset, too.

Just go talk to her, Jackass, he chides himself, slipping on his shoes and heading out across the back lawn, over to where the private rink is.

What would he even say to her? Tell her that her hair looks cool? Ilya already beat him to it. Besides, he's too hung up on the fact that two teenagers were smoking pot, having sex, and making a mess in his house. He thinks about the unwashed brownie pan in the sink. Scratch that, making edibles in his house. Only Ilya's allowed to make a mess in his house.

Maybe he isn't ready to be a dad. There was too much pressure, too much risk. He hates himself, hates the fact that he was squandering the perfect opportunity, hates the fact that he was referring to his husband’s niece as an opportunity.

And why is he so hung up on this Ruby thing? Ruby’s vulgar, he’s heard her say crude things far more than Irina ever has. Is it what was in the backpack? People have sex, people have sexual preferences. It’s just that Irina reminds him of Ilya at that age, and Ilya was… provocative, to say the least. Ilya at nineteen sometimes made Shane at nineteen feel like shit. They’ve talked about it, it’s all good now, but he doesn’t know if Irina is capable of talking about it with Ruby. And why is he so certain that Irina is as emotionally inept when it came to sex as Ilya was? He’s projecting; he needs to stop.

Just go talk to her. He hears it in Ilya’s voice this time. He can do this.

Irina has a speaker next to the ice, indie rock droning loudly, and she skates. He’s never seen her like this before, skating in sweatpants and a loose top rather than a glittery costume. She looks freer. There’s no stoic smile, but rather she’s emoting, expressing how the music makes her feel.

She launches into a quick jump that Shane vaguely recognizes as her signature move, the quadruple lutz. It’s effortless. Guitar and drums play, there’s no string quartet anymore to build up her triumph. Shane listens to the lyrics; it’s a girl singer, low and apathetic, but there’s pain in her voice:

‘It's not the formless being / Nor the cry in the air /Nor the boy I'm seeing/

With her long black hair.”

Irina spins, faster than Shane has ever seen a person spin in real life, her body a whiz of skin and blonde and black clothes. She dips down to the ground, moving faster.

“It's not the room / Not beginning /Not the crowd /Not winning /Not the planet/

That's spinning/ Not a ruse / Not heat / Not the fire lapping up the creek /Not food/

That you eat.”

Shane was being honest when he said he didn’t really listen to music, especially not lyrics, but he let himself really hear this one. This is what Irina chose. Not the crowd. Not winning.

The boy she was seeing - with her long black hair. He could certainly relate to that, couldn’t he? He was with ‘Lily’ for so long. Years.

Irina breezes through another jumping pass. As she moves through the turn, she meets his gaze, skates backwards, stopping. She gives him a look, a little deer in headlights, a little scared, but quickly shakes it off, giving him a wave. She goes to stop the music.

“I thought you were teaching babies how to skate with Uncle Ilya today.” She says, taking a big gulp of water.

He shrugs, “I thought I’d skip.”

“Doesn’t sound like you.” She says, eyeing him cautiously. She glugs the whole bottle and crushes it in the palm of her hand. “I love water.” She says, dead serious.

Shane feels so helpless. “Who doesn’t?”

“Coach never let me drink water. I was allowed to gargle, then spit. Only one bottle per practice.”

Shane blanches; he’s never heard a thing like this in his life. “That’s so unhealthy. Why?”

Irina pinches her stomach, where she, obviously, has rock-hard abs. “Water weight. Coach said I am chunky.”

In all of his years of dieting, macrobiotic, constantly counting his protein intake and weighing it with his lifestyle, he’s never limited himself water. That’s unbelievable. “That’s… horrible.” He manages to say.

“She is in Russia. I even drink Gatorade now. And I get to skate to whatever music I want now, not just boring ballet,” she winks at him, as if they are both in on some secret. “Would you like to see backflip? Ruby loves when I do backflip.”

His hand involuntarily clenches at the mention of Ruby, but yeah, he kind of does want to see the backflip. He nods, and she grins, pushes herself back, and launches into a perfect backflip. He’s a bit slack-jawed, to be honest. It’s super cool. “And you are telling me that gets you no points?”

She nods. “This is what gets points,” she warms up a bit, then repeats the same jump she did earlier.

Shane wants to show off his knowledge. “Quadruple lutz, right?” She raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised that he’s taken the time to learn. “It’s amazing, Irina, but the backflip is still cooler.”

She barks out a laugh. “I agree, famous Hollander. I agree.” She pauses, skating over to the edge of the rink, up to him. “You come over here. Everything okay—”

Irina’s phone rings; they both look down at it. The caller ID reads ‘Dan’ with a kissy face emoji next to it. Irina grimaces. “I kind of need to take this.’

She picks up the phone, skates a few paces away from where Shane stands. She starts speaking a foreign language a little choppily. It’s not Russian, he clocks, it’s Italian. Very bad Italian, sometimes intercut with English words, like ‘fuck,’ and ‘stop.’

Irina’s raising her voice now, clearly very angry at the voice on the other end of the line. Shane is suddenly grateful for his limited French skills (romance languages all sound the same at the end of the day), as he can make out what Irina says at the end of the call: “Don’t ever call me again.”

She hangs up, slips the device in her sweatpants, and heads back to Shane. “I’m sorry,” She says, “Why did you come by?”

“I didn’t realize you spoke Italian.”

Irina shrugs. “Not good, worse than I speak English now.”

“It’s still impressive. Three languages.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, I just had difficult call. I need — I need cigarette, pozhaluysta. I know you don’t like them, Uncle Ilya has been getting me to stop, but I need one now. Care to come outside with me? I don’t want to get your nice facility smelly.”

He didn’t know that Ilya had been telling her to stop. “You don’t need to ask me for permission to smoke, Irina.”

She unlaces her skates then jams already-tied high-tops on her feet. Careful with one thing, rough with the next. She heads out the door, beckoning him to follow her. He does.

Shane has put a few picnic tables outside the private rink. It’s not a very big one, only enough to run a few practice drills, but they have the kids from the foundation come over sometimes to use it, so he figured the outdoor space was worth it. Irina smokes, opens up her pack, and takes an upside-down cigarette out of it.

“Last one,” she muses, “It’s my lucky. Uncle Ilya and Ruby will not let me buy more.” She pulls a rhinestoned vanity lighter out of her pocket and lights the cigarette, taking a deep drag.

“Who is Dan?” Shane asks, immediately wanting to smack himself for being so stupid. “You don’t need to answer that, sorry.”

“It is okay. You will be first person I tell, famous Hollander. You are only allowed to tell famous Rose Landry, okay?” She holds out her pinky to Shane. A bona-fide pinky promise, Shane’s not sure if he’s ever done that before. He grasps his finger around hers tightly.

“Dan is Daniella. I am saved as Ira in her phone. She is mediocre Italian figure skater. I don’t say that to be mean, it is just the truth. She is very… she is very beautiful. On the ice, beautiful, da? But no tricks. Only few triples, no quads. You can’t medal with no tricks. We meet at competition. We are fourteen. I approach her, I don’t know. I feel bold. Coach was sleeping upstairs. We,” She flushes, remembering who she is talking to, “We do. We do many times. Many years.”

“What happened?”

Irina takes another deep drag. “I, how you say, catch feelings? I tell her I love her, it’s very embarrassing. She says she likes me back, but wants to be together, be out. She has nothing riding on her; she is not going to be Olympian. I am going to be two-time gold medalist, but more so, I am going to be Russian. Russian forever. I obviously didn’t know about this.” She gestures towards the lake, towards Shane.

“Anyway. I tell her no, tell her we have to keep private, but that I still am in love. She goes and fucks American girl without telling me. American girl who won.” She makes a bittersweet smile around her cigarette, then ashes it out. She has Ilya’s Cupid’s bow, the one that looks so cruel if you do not know its intention. “I understand, she wants to be public, but she could have told me first. Not done it behind my back. She calls me now, but I no longer want her.”

Shane taps his fingers on the table, takes a drink of his smoothie. “You know,” he starts, not knowing where he is going with this, “Your uncle was saved on my phone as ‘Lily’ for many years.”

Her eyes crinkle in pure joy. “No shit. What were you, Shanya?”

“No, I was Jane.”

“Jane is better. Less obvious.” She smiles, looking out at the nature. “So it wasn’t always like this?” 

“Like what?” He asks.

“I sometimes feel like I have entered a little pocket of heaven, coming here. I have never seen a world like this. Everyone happy. Everyone love. You mean to tell me, you worked for this, with my Uncle Ilya?”

It takes the wind out of him, her confession. “Yeah, I guess we did. It was hard for a while, harder for him. But it got better.”

“I do not deserve to be here.”

“What’s with you, Rosanovs, huh?” He tries to make the conversation light, but fails; he’s getting a little choked up. “You do deserve it, Irina. Seriously, we love having you here.”

“You do not.” She grimaces, and there’s that casually cruel Cupid’s bow again, wobbling now, forever disguising its true meaning.

“I do.” And as he says it, he realizes that he really does. He likes the laughter, likes the dirty brownie pan, likes having life in his home. Especially when that life comes from Ilya’s history.

Irina stands, then sits again. “I have to say, I do not call Dani any longer, not just because I am hurt, but because I have met someone else.” She scratches at her neck, where the hickey Shane has already zeroed in on a few times is no longer hidden under long hair. “I know you probably feel scared. I know I seem like bad news.”

“You don’t seem like bad news,” he tells her, even though she definitely does.

“Ruby is… Ruby is like this place. Perfect. She is perfectly boring.” Irina cringes, “Not boring in bad way! Maybe regular is the right word. But she is also neobyknovennyy. Do you know that one?”

Extraordinary, remarkable, marvelous. He knows that one. “I do.”

“Everyone has always wanted something from me. Dani, she was jealous. It got in way. Ruby just thinks backflip is cool. Your mother thinks I could skate again, go to Utah. If I go, I would want Ruby there, not anyone else. I would want her to pick song. You understand?”

He does. He tells her as much.

She blushes. “Also, uh, I give her my trust.”

“How so?”

“It’s uh, not appropriate, but I feel you should know, know I am not going to hurt her. I have never let anyone see me before. Be with me before. It’s always, uh, just them. It’s not like that with Ruby. Do you understand?”

He nods, trying not to get too embarrassed. “I think that’s very beautiful, Irina,” He says, wincing internally a little. He sounds like his dad. “You are both wonderful people, I’m glad you get to… share that together.”

“Is it weird if I give you hug?” Irina asks.

He tells her no, it's not weird, and she heads over to the other side of the table, embracing him tightly. “I like you, Shane.” She says. She smells like that awful unisex perfume his mom made him be the ambassador of when Ilya turned it down.

He likes her too.

Ruby comes over later, and when she walks through the door, for the first time, Shane looks at Irina’s face, not Ruby’s. It’s that same lovesick face, just painted a different shade. He just didn’t know how to look for it.

Shane watches them as they go out to the lake, Ruby sitting on the rocky crag, Irina diving in deep. Shane watches Irina do a handstand, Ruby clapping as if the girl cannot do a fucking backflip on ice skates. Irina breaks for air, pretends to be some sort of sea monster or wet dog, plastering her body over Ruby’s. Ruby yelps, pushes her away, but there is no malice in her actions. They kiss.

What was it that Irina had called it? A little pocket of heaven. It was his, then his and Ilya’s, and now hers too.

He barely notices Ilya come up from behind him. “It feels like it was just yesterday,” Ilya muses, “doesn’t it?”

Kind of, but not really. This feels better. The nostalgia, but also the future, blinding and bright, intertwining.

That summer, they go to the pride parade. Ilya paints a rainbow on his cheek. They go every year after that, with Irina, with Ruby, the rest of the Pikes, and eventually, with their daughters.

Little pocket of heaven, indeed.