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Liliya had seen her before. Of course, she had. She remembers hearing about her for the first time, the Canadian girl, playing on the men’s team like she belonged there. Liliya’s coaches had whispered about her like she had a disease, stray words of disdain and disapproval, and Western ideas that had begun to inject the good, proud sport of hockey. Never mind that hockey was a Western sport in the first place, she supposed. Liliya remembered finding footage of the team online and the way her eyes had found this famous Canadian girl with ease. Not because of her frame, or any long dark hair sticking out from under her helmet. No, it was obvious to Liliya that Canada’s first line centre, with the name HOLLANDER written along the back of the jersey above the number twenty-four, must have been the Golden Girl. The player was like a god on the ice. Or a goddess, she supposed. Hollander was quick, precise, all perfect edges and slick movement, faster than anyone else on the rink. She moved with the puck like she had already foreseen the outcome, weaving through defenders with an ease to her that Liliya had scarcely seen before. There was no way, she thought, that a girl would be allowed to play if they had a male player like that on their team already. Why take a risk on a sure thing like that?
She remembers hearing her full name for the first time, Sai Hollander, when she had already landed in Canada. The radio was singing her praises; she was sure of it, even though she didn’t quite get all of the words with the speed at which the hosts were talking.
“Sai Hollander is the girl taking the hockey world by storm,” said the tinny voice. “Hollander has been playing in the boys division since she was eight years old, but this is her first time playing on the world stage.”
“I think that we, and the rest of the world, are waiting to see just how well she holds up against some top of the line competition,” said a new voice, “It was announced by Hollander’s representation that she would be applying for the 2009 Draft at eighteen years old. If she were drafted, she would be the first woman drafted in the history of the League. Me personally? I don’t know if she can handle playing with a bunch of grown men.”
“Time will tell, I suppose—”
Her father had changed the channel after that, but Liliya had heard enough. Of course, there would be those who doubted Hollander. This was obvious. But it didn’t change that something had happened, that someone had done something different, for Hollander to exist in the forever male hockey space anyway. Sai Hollander was a girl, but she was good enough, apparently, that some of the hockey world was magnanimous, willing to look past it. It wasn’t perfect, of course it wasn’t, and yet Sai Hollander had everything that Liliya wanted.
Liliya leans against the brick wall as she attempts to light her cigarette, but the fucking wind is making her lighter flicker.
“Ilya Rozanov?”
She doesn’t flinch at her name. She doesn’t.
But she does glance up. She is surprised when she realizes that nobody is talking about how pretty Sai Hollander is. Her hair, thick, dark and glossy, goes down to her shoulders. Her face is shaped like a heart, with cute, round cheeks that have gone red from the cold and covered with freckles that continue across the bridge of her still straight nose. Her eyes, though, her eyes are a perfect shade of brown, like the coat of a deer, warm and cinnamon-y. She’s tall, for a woman, but as far as hockey players go, she’s still just about average. The pair of them are of height, actually. Liliya can’t see much of the shape of her underneath her thick winter coat, but she would put money on her having nice, strong shoulders, arms and an ass like she’s never seen before. Liliya swallows down the impending horniness. She will not get hard meeting Hollander for the first time. She won’t.
“Sai Hollander. I— I wanted to introduce myself.” She offers her hand for Liliya to shake, so she does.
Liliya doesn’t know what to say, so she tries to light her cigarette again. It works this time. “Oh! I’m, um, I’m not sure you’re supposed to smoke here.” Sai mimes smoking a little bit, her movements awkward and clearly unpracticed, using her pointer finger and her thumb. It makes Liliya grin a little bit. No teenage rebellion for Hollander, then.
“Okay.” Liliya takes a drag.
“You’re an awesome player to watch,” Hollander says.
“Yes,” Liliya says.
She doesn’t compliment her back, worried that Hollander might think that she was flirting. Not that Liliya wouldn’t want to flirt with her, because of course she does, but she doesn’t think that Hollander would like that. She thinks that Hollander probably wants to be treated like a hockey player, and hockey players are boys, so Liliya should treat Hollander like a boy, or at least, how she thinks Hollander thinks Ilya Rozanov would treat another, fellow male hockey player.
It was a strange level of mental gymnastics to go through all of it, just for her to say Yes.
Hollander swallows.
“Anyways, I— I should go, they’re waiting for me.” Hollander gestures vaguely towards the parking lot. Liliya’s eyes follow the action and land on a car, parked a few paces away from them. She thinks they must be watching from there, looking out their car window to make sure their precious daughter does not get assaulted by the strange Russian boy smoking in the parking lot.
“Good luck in the tournament.” Hollander offers her hand once more.
Liliya puts her cigarette in her mouth just to shake it. Hollander begins to walk away, but Liliya can’t help herself, so she says, “You will not be so nice when we beat you.”
Her voice is so low. It always is.
Hollander laughs, once, it's a bright, airy thing. Liliya feels a strange mix of envy and arousal brewing in her stomach.
“That’s not happening.”
She’s so sure of it, her voice is so determined. Liliya thinks that Hollander might think that there truly is no other possible outcome. For her, maybe there isn’t. Liliya isn’t really sure what most people think about Hollander’s chances in the League. Maybe this is life or death, and they won’t draft her if she comes in second place. Liliya thinks that any GM would be a fool to pass on Hollander. Liliya remembers the way her team had laughed about playing Hollander when they were training for the Juniors back in Russia. Despite Hollander’s evident skill, they had mostly muttered to each other about how they would just slam her into the boards, to teach her what it was like playing with real men, as if she had played with different rules for the ten years she had been playing in the boys' leagues already. She remembers the way the coach had looked at her and said to just deal with her and to show her how Russia plays hockey. She knows that everyone expects her to pummel Hollander, like the scary Russian menace, scary Russian boy, they all think her to be.
There is no reality to them, beyond what is physical. They do not care that she is a girl, because they cannot see it and therefore will never know it. They do not care that she despises the body that allows her to be the best hockey player they’ve ever seen, hates its shape, the way it holds a mind, a soul, incompatible with its container. They do not care that she cried when her father made her mother cut her curls at seven and never let them grow past her ears after that. No, Liliya is the only one who cares about who lives within this body they love so much.
She thinks that part of her hopes that Canada wins, that Sai Hollander, the girl everyone can see, will beat her testosterone-laden Russian team. It might prove to them, to all of those who will not see Liliya Rozanova, that a girl can beat them, that there are girls better than them, and the boys' club that is this sport.
But she doesn’t think that the pleasure of seeing another girl win will soothe the pain of her father’s words if they lose. Not that she would ever let Hollander win. If they’re to be rivals, it’s only fun if they’re both giving everything they've got. Liliya knows that Hollander will do anything to win. Like her, the Canadian is familiar with a secondary pressure when she steps onto the ice.
“See you in final.”
Days later, Canada is facing Russia in the final, just as Liliya had thought. She and Hollander lean forward, a pair of girls surrounded by a bunch of boys, playing the game better than any of them could possibly dream. Not that anyone knows this other than Liliya, of course. She braces herself for the game to start. The whistle blows.
Sai Hollander wins the face-off, but Liliya will win the game.