Sierra

Applause erupted.

"...while the women's team will consist of Alysa Liu, Amber Glenn, and Isabeau Levito."

More applause.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over your chest, watching as skaters and coaches congratulated them. It was strange. A few months ago you wouldn't have cared.

Now...

Now you found yourself smiling a little. Maybe because you’ve spent the last few months at the same rink as them. Maybe it’s because a certain athlete has woven his way into your life, more than you’d like.

"You know," a familiar voice said beside you, "I think you're supposed to clap."

You looked over to find Ilia standing there.

You rolled your eyes at him playfully, "I was considering it."

"And?" He leaned towards you slightly.

"I'm still deciding."

He rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

His smile was small, but genuine.

"Thanks," he said.

The teasing left your expression immediately. "For what?"

"For being here." You blinked.

"I know this whole..." he gestured vaguely between the two of you, "...thing started because people told us to do it. But you've been around a lot lately."

You scoffed lightly. "I literally moved countries."

"That you did but you also made me drive across Virginia to find another pet store because Elliot didn't like the food brands here."

"He has standards." You scoffed, defending your overly picky cat.

"He does." A laugh escapes him and you hated that it made your stomach feel weird.

"Congratulations," you mumbled.

"What?"

"You heard me." You muttered.

"I don't think I did." He said, a sly smirk appearing on his frustratingly handsome face.

You sighed dramatically, "Congratulations, Malinin."

His grin widened. "Thanks."

—

Three days later you found yourself sitting beneath bright studio lights wishing you had chosen literally any other career.

The organizers had thought it would be a wonderful idea. The media had loved it. The internet had practically exploded. Canada's infamous "Spitfire" sitting beside America's Olympic team.

Amber Glenn.

Alysa Liu.

Isabeau Levito.

Ilia Malinin.

And you.

The supposed girlfriend.

The cameras flashed constantly. At least the girls were nice.

Actually...

Nice wasn't the right word. They were easy. Easy to laugh with. Easy to talk to. You'd spent enough time training around them now that the awkwardness had mostly disappeared.

Amber had somehow convinced you to complain about boot pain for twenty minutes.

Alysa had shown you a ridiculous video of one of her training falls.

Isabeau had spent an entire lunch discussing costume designs with you.

You would never admit it out loud.

Never.

But it was...

Nice.

You'd spent so much of your career isolated.

Competition wasn't exactly a place where friendships came easily. Everyone wanted the same thing. Everyone was trying to beat each other. Having girls around who understood the endless practices, the bruises, the pressure...

You liked it more than you wanted to admit. The moderator smiled toward the audience.

"We'll open the floor for questions."

Hands shot up. The first few were normal. Training plans. Olympic goals. Favorite programs. Favorite music. Then one reporter stood.

You recognized her immediately. She'd written at least three articles about your ‘attitude problem.’

She didn't even look at the others. Her eyes settled directly on you. "You've undergone quite an image change recently." You already didn't like where this was going.

"I suppose." You answered, short but polite.

She tilted her head. "Many people have noticed that your training attire is... considerably more revealing than what most female skaters wear."

The room went quiet. You could feel Amber shift beside you. The reporter smiled.

"Does your boyfriend ever worry that you send the wrong message? Some critics believe it reinforces the reputation that you're more interested in attention than skating."

You stared at her. Teeth clenched so hard they could break. Then she added, "In fact, some online comments suggest that perhaps you're simply trying to attract every male skater on the circuit. Does that bother either of you?"

Silence. Complete silence. You'd dealt with questions like this before. Usually you ignored them. Usually you bit your tongue.

But this one...

This one hurt. Before you could answer—

"Seriously?!” Amber said. The reporter looked surprised. Amber folded her arms. "You're asking a future Olympic athlete about her clothes instead of her skating?"

Alysa now leaned forward. "She wears training gear! Key word training.”

The reporter opened her mouth to interrupt. Probably to try and turn the tide around back onto you negatively.

"No," Alysa cut in. "Actually, no. That's ridiculous." Isabeau shook her head in agreement. "We all wear what we're comfortable training in. It has absolutely nothing to do with our character."

The reporter looked annoyed now. "I'm simply asking what the public has been discussing." She snapped at you guys.

"No," Amber said firmly. "You're asking because you want a headline. You want to label her as a slut in front of the whole world just because you have something against her!”

You sat there completely still. You weren't used to this. People didn't defend you. People watched. People judged. People walked away.

The reporter looked toward Ilia. "And what about you? Surely you must have an opinion about your girlfriend parading herself around for the male gaze."

He didn't hesitate. "My opinion?" She nodded. He looked directly at her. "My opinion is that she's one of the hardest working athletes I've ever met."

The room fell silent again. "She trains longer than anyone should. She pushes herself harder than anyone should. If people spent half as much time worrying about their own lives as they do about what she wears to practice, they'd probably be happier."

The reporter tried to interrupt. He didn't let her. "And if you're asking whether I think she's the kind of person people online claim she is..." He shook his head. "They're wrong."

Simple. Direct. Certain.

"I think we're done here." He stood up. The moderator, clearly relieved, quickly announced the end of the panel. Chairs scraped against the floor. People started moving. But you couldn't. You just sat there. Because your heart was beating entirely too fast.

—

You found yourself alone outside the studio twenty minutes later. The winter air was cold. You welcomed it. The door opened behind you.

"Are you okay?" A voice sounded out in concern.

You didn't turn around. "Why did you do that?"

Ilia stopped beside you. "Do what?"

"You know what, back in there during the panel.” You replied, an unknown feeling creeping up your throat.

He frowned and you continued, "You didn't have to say anything."

"I wanted to. I needed to.”

You laughed softly. "Everyone always wants something."

"I wasn't after anything. I needed everyone to know that it wasn’t okay. That they can’t disrespect you when you're with me.” You looked at him. His expression was completely sincere.

No cameras. No audience. No fake relationship. Just him.

"...People don't usually do that." You mutter.

"Do what?" He questioned you.

"Defend me." He looked genuinely confused and upset.

"They should." He stated firmly.

You looked away first. Your stomach betrayed you. A strange flutter settled somewhere beneath your ribs. Butterflies. You almost got angry. No one had ever stood up for you before. Not publicly. Not without being asked. Certainly not like that. You weren't sure if you wanted to yell at him or thank him.

Instead you settled for, "You're an idiot."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "So I've been told."

—

After that, things changed.

Not dramatically.

Just...

Little things.

He started waiting for you after practice. You started waiting for him when he finished interviews.

Sometimes Elliot would curl up next to him whenever he came by your apartment. The traitor that he is.

You caught yourself smiling at him every now and then. Real smiles. Not the practiced ones for social media. And every single time, he noticed.

—

One afternoon, after practice, Irina skated over to you.

"You ask him." You blinked, confused.

"What?"

"You two need to be seen outside the rink." Her accent thick but her words true.

You groaned immediately. "No."

"Yes."

"No."

She folded her arms. "You actually like the boy."

"I absolutely do not!” You screeched, embarrassed to be called out much to your disdain.

She gave you a look. "I coach girls for twenty-five years. I coach you for twenty of them. I know."

You sighed dramatically. "It's for publicity."

She smiled. "Of course, if you say so.”

—

You found him putting his skate guards on, his practice ran longer than yours. He looked up and greeted you, "Hey."

You stood there awkwardly. He waited. You cleared your throat. "...Do you..." He raised an eyebrow. "...Do you maybe want to get coffee?"

His expression didn't change. For one horrifying second you thought he was going to say no.

Then—

"Yeah."

You blinked. "Yeah?"

"I like coffee."

You nodded. "Right."

"And I like hanging out with you." He added shortly after.

Your brain completely stopped working. "Oh."

He stood up, he’s even more taller than you with his skates on when you don’t have yours. "Is that surprising?"

"...Maybe."

He smiled. "Let's go after I get changed."

—

The café was small. Family-owned. The kind of place with old wooden tables and handwritten menus.

It felt comfortable. Safe. You talked about skating at first. Favorite programs. Bad competition music. Embarrassing falls.

Then somehow you ended up talking about childhood. About Canada. About Virginia. About Elliot.

"He likes you more than me," you complained.

"I feed him."

"You fed him once!"

"He remembers."

"Traitor," you muttered. Ilia laughed. You liked the sound. Too much.

Eventually the waitress brought the bill. You reached for it immediately. So did he.

"I've got it," you said.

"So do I." He countered.

You frowned. "We're splitting it."

"No."

"I can pay for my own coffee."

"I know."

You blinked. "Then why?"

He looked at you like the answer was obvious. "Because I asked you to stay after you asked me to come."

"...That's terrible logic and sounds inappropriate."

He flushed pink, realizing the innuendo he accidentally said. "Okay yeah, probably."

You reached for your wallet again. He was faster. The waitress took his card. You stared at him.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

Your cheeks warmed. You looked down quickly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "...Thank you," you mumbled.

He smiled. "You're welcome."

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a thought surfaced that you immediately tried to ignore. This was supposed to be fake. So why was it starting to feel anything but? Why did you look forward to the next time you’d see him after he just dropped you off at your apartment?

One thing is certain, you need to snap out of it. You’re competing next weekend for the first time since this arrangement started and you can’t risk losing focus. You have one more chance to pull your scores higher to have a chance at being selected for the Olympic team.

“That’s exactly why we don’t hand it to them,” Irina Orlova adds. “You build it slowly. Shared ice. Casual appearances in public. Let people notice.”

You stop pacing. “So we just… exist near each other and hope the internet does the rest?”

“Yes.”

You sigh and stare at your phone. “…That’s insane.”

“It’s effective.”

You drag a hand down your face. “I hate this.”

“You agreed,” your agent reminds you. “Yes I did. And I’m going to do my best but that doesn't mean I won’t hate it in the long run.”

You glance over at Elliot, curled up on your bed, completely unaware that your life is about to flip upside down. He stretches out, flat as a board letting out a small chirp as he looks at you, blinking slowly. He’s staying close to you, he knows you’re leaving again.

“…Yeah,” you mutter. “I know.”

The rest of your packing happens faster than you expect. Not because you want it to but because if you stop, you’ll think about it too much.

Leaving your rink.

Your coach.

Your country.

You’ve travelled internationally all your life for competitions but never without your coach, your support system. Irina Orlova can’t come with you this time, she has other skaters that need her attention and you understand that. The second half of the season is approaching quickly. Team Canada selections for the Olympics are just around the corner. She’s done everything for you since you were 4 years old, your bond runs deep so you trust her. Even if the situation is less than ideal.

She arranged for your choreographer to fly out to see you once you’ve settled in to finalize your new programs. You were preparing as if you were already selected for the Olympics, two new routines, so that the judges won’t know what to expect from you. You wanted to be unpredictable, spontaneous and explosive when you hit the ice.

You zip your suitcase harder than necessary and glance around your apartment one last time.

“This is temporary,” you say out loud.

Elliot lifts his head.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter, scooping him up. “You’re coming with me this time.”

He meows in protest of having to be put in his carrier but you understand it as him protesting to this whole arrangement.

You kiss his head and hold him close before bending down to place him gently in his carrier. “Yeah, I know. I don’t like it either.”

—

The airport feels surreal.

Too loud. Too busy. Too… final.

By the time you land in Virginia, you’re exhausted in every possible way. You push through the terminal with Elliot’s carrier in one hand, your duffel slung over your shoulder. You exit the airport.

And then you see him.

Ilia Malinin

Leaning against a car like this is completely normal, face tilted down as he watched something on his phone. He looked like he was in his own world, analyzing something, maybe one of his old performances.

You won’t lie, he looked pretty good. All casual and nonchalant.

Like he didn’t just become your fake boyfriend and your ride.

You stop in front of him. He was quick to close his phone, not giving you the chance to hear your current free program’s music softly coming out of his speaker. “You’re driving me?” Your eyebrow raised in confusion.

He shrugs. “Closest option.”

“You don’t have better things to do?”

“Not really.”

You hand him your bag. “Careful. Skates.”

He adjusts his grip immediately. “Got it.”

You lift the carrier slightly and proudly. “And this is Elliot.” A fond look in your eyes as you looked at the feline occupying the carrier.

Ilia’s expression shifts—subtly, but you catch it. Like he didn’t expect you to be an animal lover. That amused you because you’re aware that he stalked your instagram. You received a notification and on the off chance you look, you saw he had liked an image of a training video featuring your triple axel. It was from 4 years ago. You don’t post any personal photos on your socials, mainly just training videos, sponsorships and competition results.

He crouches down without hesitation, peering through the mesh. “Hey, Elliot.”

Elliot blinks at him.

No hissing.

No immediate rejection.

“You like cats?” you ask, genuinely surprised. You on the other hand didn’t stalk his account as much.

Ilia glances up and catches your eye. “Yeah. Always have. I’ve got two at home, Mysti and Miu Miu.”

“You don’t seem like a cat person.”

“What does a cat person look like?”

“I don’t know. Not you.” You mumble, slightly embarrassed and unease that you have something in common already. You weren’t expecting to even have anything in common. Something you love just as much as skating.

He huffs a quiet laugh, reaching a hand toward the carrier, letting Elliot sniff his fingers.

Elliot leans forward slightly, even giving his finger a small lick.

No fear.

No hesitation.

Accepting.

You blink.

“Well,” you say slowly. “That’s… new.”

Elliot doesn’t like men, at least he didn’t the last time you checked. He’d always hiss, run and hide. Which confused you because you’ve had him since he was 6 months old, he never had any experiences with men. You never had a serious relationship.

Ilia smiles faintly. “I’ll take that as approval.”

And before you can stop yourself—

You smile back.

It’s small. Quick. Unfiltered.

The first real one he’s seen.

He notices.

He doesn’t say anything.

But something about the moment lingers longer than it should.

—

The drive is quiet, but not uncomfortable.

Just… unfamiliar.

You watch the scenery pass by, arms crossed loosely, not angrily just as a way to comfort yourself. “I had a routine.”

Ilia glances at you briefly. “Yeah?”

“My rink. My coach. Everything made sense. Now it’s all new. All different and even though I skate new programs every season, my routine and environment stays the same.” You hate feeling like this. Feeling like a child needing their mother to comfort them but you felt alone and anxious.

He nods. “You’ll build a new one.” Trying to reassure you without pushing too far too fast. He could see based on your body language that you're not entirely comfortable with him yet.

“You’re very confident about that.” You looked at him, analyzing his side profile as he continued to drive towards your new apartment.

“You moved here,” he says. “That already says enough. You’re braver than you know and you’ll be fine.”

You don’t respond.

Because you don’t know if you agree—or if you just didn’t have a choice. Your shoulders released the slightest bit of tension as you leaned further into the seat.

—

“We’re here.” He muttered softly, not wanting to disturb the peace. You jumped slightly forgetting he was there. “Thank you.” You grabbed your things and went inside.

—

The plan starts immediately. Shared ice. Casual posts. Nothing obvious. Everything intentional.

At the rink, it starts small. A clip of you spinning, him landing a jump in the background.

A video of him skating, you passing behind him just enough to be noticed. Your cherry red hair catching the light.

It’s subtle. But it works.

“Look,” Ilia says one afternoon after off ice training, holding his phone out.

You glance down. It was a clip from yesterday's practice. Ilia doing his famous raspberry twist and you, landing a clean triple toe loop behind him to the right. You were clearly seen in frame this time, compared to the other small cameos you’ve been in. The video cuts with him skating towards you, giving you a high five with a big smile on his face.

Comments flood the screen. Thousands of them.

Wait is that her?!

Why are they always at the same rink??

Are they training together!!?

You snort. “That didn’t take long.” “They’re noticing,” he says, glancing at you to see your reaction. Your reaction is neutral, not giving away your feelings. But deep down, you're happy it’s all working out.

“They’re bored.” You sigh after reading more comments filled with the same three questions. “Same thing.” Ilia laughed.

—

Then the headlines start.

“Unexpected Pairing: Canada’s Spitfire and America’s Golden Boy?”

“Chemistry on Ice?”

“More Than Training Partners?”

You scroll through the reactions and comments one morning, sitting on the bench as you lace your skates. Some are positive. Excited.

They’d be cute.

I kind of love this.

But others—Your jaw tightens.

She’s using him.

She’ll sleep her way through the entire men’s field.

She’s a mess. He deserves better.

Slut behavior.

You go still. Ilia notices immediately. He reaches over, gently taking your phone from your hands. “Don’t. Don’t look at that.”

You shrug. “I’ve seen worse.” He looks at you with concern flashing in his eyes,“Still. Doesn’t mean you should be reading that right now, or ever.” You don’t argue. But it sits there. Under your skin.

Practice that day is rough. You push harder than usual. Faster. Sharper. You land your quad lutz. Clean. Finally.

“Yes,” you mutter, already resetting. Preparing to go full out once more from the beginning.

“Wait—” Ilia starts. Too late. You go again. Miss. You frown. Pushing yourself up to try again.

“You don’t need to—” he tries to get your attention, to get you to stop. You go anyway. Miss. Again and again.

“You need to stop, seriously!” He called your name. That gets your attention this time. You turn sharply. “Focus on your own training would you?! I’m landing it.” You huff at him, not appreciating the attention he’s giving you.

“You already did. You should rest, run through your spins or step sequence, anything else besides your jumps right now.”

“Once isn’t enough.” You snap at him. “It is for today.” He argues. Not giving you the space to walk away from him. “That’s not how this works. You would know, Mr. Quad God” you scoff and sneer at him.

He skates closer, more serious now. “You’re rushing the setup.” “I’m not.” “You are,” he says. “Your entry’s too fast, and you’re not holding your edge long enough.”

You hesitate then. “…I rotate it fine.”

“That’s not the issue,” he replies. “You’re cutting your takeoff early. Give yourself half a second more on the outside edge.” You stare at him. “You’ve been watching me that closely?” you ask. He shrugs. “Hard not to.” You huff slightly to brush off the soft blush appearing on your cheeks—but you reset anyway. Slower this time.

You hold the edge longer. Take off and land it cleaner. You blink. “…Okay,” you admit quietly. He nods. “You don’t need more speed. You need more control.” You don’t respond. But you don’t dismiss it either.

It doesn’t fix everything. Your program still falls apart during the rest of practice. A stumble in your step sequence. A fall on your second jump. Your legs feel heavy. Your timing off.

“You’re overtraining now,” Ilia says as he skates up beside you at the boards. You were taking a small break to drink water. Your hair clung to your neck from sweat and your face was red. You don’t even look at him and say. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve been out here for almost two hours.” He rebutted. “So?” You stubbornly pressed on. “So your body’s done. I can see it, everyone else can see it.” You crossed your arms, “I’m not.”

“Stop being stubborn, you are.” He glared down at you.

You spin to face him, your red hair swishing in its ponytail. “Stop saying that!” “Then stop proving it. Stop proving me right.” You roll your eyes at him and try another jump. You don’t even get the rotation.

You fall. Hard.

You stay down for a second. Just a second. But he’s already there. Already there crouched next to you checking you over for injuries. Why would he care?

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “You’re tired, you need to rest and try again tomorrow.” he counters.

“I landed the lutz.” You stubbornly pointed out, not accepting to let him have the last word. “And everything after it fell apart.” You push yourself up. “I’ll fix it. Leave me alone.” You try to skate past him but he follows you. “Not like this.” He says.

You grab your guards, completely fed up with him and decide to just leave the ice before he makes you do something you’ll regret. “I’m leaving. Happy?” You ask without wanting a response, stepping off the ice heading to the locker rooms.

You make it halfway to the exit before he catches up. “Hey.” He tries to get your attention again. You don’t stop and keep walking. “What?” You say, your tone sharp indicating your irritation.

“Um…You want to hang out?” He rushed out, as if he was nervous to ask when he wasn’t shy to criticize your skating less than 5 minutes ago.

You pause. Turn slowly. Your expression flat. “Did Irina put you up to this?” He frowns. “What?” “You heard me,” you say. “She thinks I need to ‘lighten up,’ right? So she sent you to distract me.”

“That’s not—” he tries to defend himself but you don’t let him get the words out. “You don’t have to do that,” you cut in. “I get it. I’ve had a few bad practices—” Now he’s the one to cut you off, “I wanted to,” he says.

You stop. Look at him. He’s serious. His expression is genuine. “I asked,” he adds. “No one told me to.” That makes you hesitate. “…Why?”

He shrugs slightly. “Because we’re supposed to be dating.” “Fake dating.” You’re quick to correct him. “Still,” he says. “We don’t have to act like strangers.”

You cross your arms. “We’re not exactly friends are we.” He huffs, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“We train together every day.”

“That’s not the same.”

You don’t answer. Because he’s not wrong. “…I’m tired,” you say instead. He nods, “I know.” There’s no judgment in it. Just facts. And somehow, that makes it harder to brush off. “I’m going home,” you add. He nods. “Okay.”

A pause. Then, “Offer still stands.” He says, extending the olive branch once more.

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you give in. “…Maybe another time.” You turn and walk away.

Ilia watches you go. Thinking about your jumps. Your timing. The way you push past your limits like stopping isn’t an option. And he knows sooner or later something’s got to give.

You didn’t argue.

You reset at the end of the rink, shaking out your arms before gliding backward into your setup. The air felt heavier somehow. You knew what was coming after the first 30 seconds of your program, your opening jump.

A quad lutz.

Your jaw tightened.

You picked up speed, crossovers digging deep into the ice, building power. The takeoff came fast—too fast—and for a split second you hesitated.

That was all it took.

Your blade slipped on the edge, your body tilting off-axis. You hit the ice hard, the impact rattling through your bones.

A sharp exhale left your lips as you slid.

“Commit!” Irina called. “You’re pulling out of it!”

“I’m not—” you snapped, already pushing yourself back up.

But you didn’t finish the sentence. Because your coach was right. You were pulling out of it. Letting your mind get in the way of your body when it knows how to do it.

Again.

You reset.

Again.

And again.

Each attempt ended the same, either under-rotated, stepped out, or flat-out slammed into the ice. Frustration built with every fall, coiling tight in your chest until it was hard to breathe.

By the fifth fall, you didn’t even wait for feedback.

You just went again. Never moving onto the next part of your program until you can master this one.

—

The arena doors creaked open.

You didn’t notice at first.

A man stepped in, not super tall and definitely not intimidating but observant, his presence quiet but intentional. Beside him, a younger blonde skater lingered, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, gaze already fixed on the ice.

They didn’t speak amongst themselves, they just watched.

You launched into the jump again—powerful, explosive but the landing betrayed you once more. Another fall. Another sharp scrape of blades against ice as you slid.

The blonde skater tilted his head slightly.

“She’s got the height,” he murmured.

His father nodded. “But she doesn’t trust it.”

“She’s hesitating.”

“She’s thinking too much.”

On the ice, you stood again, visibly frustrated now. You dragged a hand down your face, pacing once before resetting.

“She’s talented,” the father added. “Raw. But messy.”

The younger skater’s lips twitched slightly. “Raw and messy gets attention.”

“Not the kind you want.”

—

You pushed off again—

And this time, as you came around the corner, you saw them.

Two figures at the third row from the boards.

Watching.

Your eyes narrowed slightly mid-glide.

Great.

You didn’t recognize the older man immediately but the other one?

Of course you did.

Him.

The golden boy. The one everyone wouldn’t shut up about. Clean programs. Perfect jumps. Judges practically handing him scores before he even finished skating.

Your lip curled ever so slightly in a snarl.

What is he doing here?

You didn’t break stride, but the irritation was immediate, sharp.

As you passed the boards again, you rolled your eyes—subtle, but not subtle enough.

He noticed. And for just a second, something almost amused flickered across his expression. You know who he is.

—

“Focus!” your coach snapped.

Right.

You forced your attention back to the ice.

One more try.

You built speed, faster this time, angrier. The takeoff was aggressive, almost reckless—

You rotated.

Almost.

But the landing buckled beneath you, your blade skidding out as you crashed down again.

Silence followed.

Heavy. Final.

“Enough,” Irina said. “We will continue where we left off tomorrow.” She walked towards the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms but not before asking you to join her in the meeting room once you were ready.

You stayed on the ice for a second longer than necessary, staring up at the lights, chest rising and falling.

Then you sat up, jaw clenched.

Practice was over.

—

The meeting room feels suffocating.

Too small. Too quiet. Too full of people who clearly know something you don’t.

You sit back in your chair, arms crossed tightly, still in your thin team jacket, hair damp and clinging slightly to your neck. Your coach stands nearby, your agent beside her.

Across from you—

Him.

And his father.

You glance between them, unease already creeping in.

“…I’m sorry,” you say slowly, your voice edged with disbelief. “What exactly are we talking about?”

Your agent clears his throat. “It’s an opportunity.”

You let out a short laugh. “That’s vague. Try again.”

“A public relationship,” he says more directly. “Between you and Ilia.”

The room stills.

You blink once.

Then lean forward slightly. “No.”

“Just hear us out—” your coach starts.

“No,” you repeat, sharper this time. “You don’t get to drop something like that on me and expect me to just sit here and nod.”

“It would help your image, your reputation,” your agent presses. “The media—”

“The media?” you cut in, incredulous. “You mean the same media that’s been tearing me apart all season? That’s what this is about?”

“It’s about perception,” your coach says carefully.

“It’s about controlling me,” you snap back.

Silence.

Then—

“It wouldn’t be that bad,” Ilia says.

Your head snaps toward him.

He’s calm. Of course he is. Sitting there like this is just another normal conversation, like this isn’t completely insane.

“I get that it’s not ideal,” he continues, his tone measured, almost… reasonable. “But it’s just for show. Appearances, media, events. We don’t actually have to—”

You hold up a hand, cutting him off.

“No.”

He pauses. Taken aback by how quick you were to shut him down.

You lean forward now, anger building fast and hot. “You don’t get to sit there and tell me it ‘won’t be that bad’ like you understand what this is.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I don’t care what you’re saying,” you interrupt, your voice sharper now. “You think I need this?”

“No, I think—”

“You think I need you,” you finish, eyes flashing.

The room goes still.

Ilia’s expression shifts slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt again.

Good.

“Let me make something very clear,” you continue, your voice cold now. “I don’t need a fake relationship to fix my career. I don’t need some perfect, media-trained—” you gesture vaguely toward him “—pretty boy to make me look better.”

“It’s not like that,” your agent tries.

“Then what is it?” you fire back. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve all decided I’m some kind of problem that needs to be managed.”

No one answers.

That’s answer enough.

You push your chair back abruptly, the sound loud and jarring in the quiet room.

“I am not a project,” you say, grabbing your bag. “And I’m definitely not agreeing to parade around with him like it’s some kind of publicity stunt.”

Irina calls your name. “I’m not finished,” you cut in, your voice rising. “You think pairing me with him suddenly fixes everything? That people are just going to forget every mistake I’ve ever made because I’m standing next to Mr. Perfect?”

“That’s not—” your agent tries again.

“I don’t need help,” you snap.

Your coach’s voice is firm now, no longer pleading or trying to convince you. She’s had enough. “You might.”

That does it.

Your anger spikes to it’s maximum, sharp and immediate.

“I am not some charity case that needs the golden boy of figure skating to take me to the Olympics.”

The words hang in the air.

You don’t wait for a response.

You turn and walk out.

Behind you, your agent exhales. “She’ll think about it,” he says quickly. “We’ll give you an answer tomorrow.”

You don’t look back. Blue eyes follow your retreating form until you’re completely out of sight. Ilia realizes you might be more trouble than he originally thought.

—

The door slams behind you harder than you intend.

The sound ricochets through the apartment, filling the silence you walked into. For a second, you just stand there, hand still on the handle, chest rising and falling like you’ve just stepped off the ice instead of out of a meeting.

You drop your bag by the door.

You don’t turn the lights on right away.

You don’t need to.

You know this place well enough to move through it in the dark, and usually, you like it that way—quiet, controlled, yours.

Tonight, it just feels heavy.

Your jaw tightens as everything from the rink comes rushing back. The meeting. The looks. The way they all sat there like this was normal—like you were the problem that needed fixing.

You exhale sharply and reach for your phone.

There’s only one person you want to hear from.

You hit call.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then she answers.

“Hey, sweetheart—”

“Did you know?” you cut in immediately, your voice already tight.

There’s a pause on the other end.

And that’s all the answer you need.

Your laugh is short and hollow. “Wow. Okay. Great.”

“I wanted to talk to you about it first—” your mom starts gently.

“Before or after everyone else decided my career for me?” you snap, pacing now, free hand dragging through your hair.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” you fire back. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like my coach, my agent, and my own mom all think I can’t make it on my own.”

“That’s not true,” she says, still calm, still measured. “We believe in you. This is just—”

“A fix?” you interrupt sharply. “A way to make me more… what? Palatable?”

“It’s about helping you,” she insists. “The media—”

“I don’t care about the media,” you cut in, immediate and automatic.

And that’s the truth.

Or at least—it always has been.

You’ve never been the kind of skater who reads every comment or checks every headline. You don’t skate for them. You don’t train for them. You’ve always been able to block it out, let it slide off your shoulders like it doesn’t matter.

Because it shouldn’t.

“…It would be good for you,” your mom says softly. “Whether you like it or not.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

You swallow hard, anger flaring again but there’s something else underneath it now. Something quieter. Colder.

“Right,” you mutter. “Of course it would.”

You don’t wait for her to say anything else.

You hang up, throwing your phone onto your bed, having traveled to your room during the phone call.

The silence that follows is louder than before.

For a moment, you just stand there, staring at nothing. Your cat, Elliot, is trying to comfort you by rubbing himself against your legs. His onyx fur blending into the darkness filling your room.

Then you move, dropping onto your bed, grabbing your phone again without thinking.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t.

But your thumb is already moving. Notifications flood your screen—mentions, tags, articles. You hesitate for half a second.

Then you tap one.

Unpredictable Talent or Liability?

Your jaw tightens.

Another.

Brilliant But Reckless: Can She Ever Skate Clean When It Matters?

You exhale slowly through your nose.

Still not enough to get to you.

It’s the same stuff you’ve seen before. The same recycled opinions, the same narratives. You’ve learned to ignore it. Learned to let it roll off, because none of it changes what you do on the ice.

You scroll.

And then—

The comments.

That’s where it shifts.

She’ll never make it to the Olympics like this.

Too inconsistent. Judges won’t risk it.

All that talent and no control.

Her attitude is going to cost her everything.

They need someone reliable—not her.

Your thumb stills.

Your chest tightens slightly, something uncomfortable creeping in where confidence usually sits.

You keep reading.

She’s her own worst enemy.

Doesn’t matter how many quads she tries if she can’t land them when it counts.

Reputation like that? Good luck getting selected.

That one sticks.

You stare at it longer than you mean to.

Because suddenly—

It’s not just noise.

It’s not just people talking.

It’s everywhere.

In the headlines.

In the scores.

In the way people look at you.

Your reputation.

Messy. Unreliable. Difficult.

A risk.

Your grip on your phone tightens slightly.

You’ve always told yourself it doesn’t matter.

That none of it matters.

But now—

With the Olympics so close—

It does.

Your stomach twists.

And before you can stop yourself, your fingers move again.

You type a name into the search bar.

Ilia Malinin.

His page is exactly what you expect.

Clean programs. Clean reputation. Praise stacked on praise.

Consistent. Focused. Reliable.

Safe.

Everything you’re not.

You stare at the screen for a long moment.

Then lock your phone, letting it fall onto the bed beside you.

The room feels quieter now.

Heavier.

“…This is stupid,” you murmur.

But the words don’t hold.

Because for the first time—

You’re not so sure you can ignore it.

Your gaze drifts back to your phone.

Your agent’s contact sits at the top of your messages.

You stare at it.

For a long time.

Then you reach for it again.

Your thumb hovers.

And slowly—

You type.

I’ll do it.

You hit send.

And this time, the silence that follows feels different.

Like something just shifted and there’s no going back.