CHAPTER TWO
VIKTORIYA
Trust my ex to ruin another perfectly good night. But when he reaches out to grab my arm, that’s it.
I snap it away, continuing to speak in Russian. “We’re not together any more, Bogdan, for exactly this reason… and many more.”
“You don’t know what’s good for you, Viktoriya.”
I cross my arms. “Is that so? I suppose it’s you, is it? With your quick temper and demeaning attitude. That I do not need.”
I go to walk away, but he grabs my wrist.
I come around and drive my knee into his chest but somehow manage to land it square into his balls instead. They’re just as small and insignificant as I remember.
He crumples in half on the dancefloor, a delayed ‘Oof’ following from his teammates. They separate as I head towards the doors. I shake a finger at them. “You tell your captain that if he actually wants to keep his balls between his legs and not lodged somewhere in his throat, to leave me the hell alone.”
Silence follows as I exit the club, only the pounding boom, boom, boom of the kick drum following.
Outside, I look for Liam the American. As cheesy as he was, I wanted more, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
I shake my head, telling myself in Russian, “It wouldn’t have worked anyhow, Viktoriya.”
*
Daniel, my skating partner, is nowhere to be found come morning. He’s sleeping, I imagine, seemingly more and more on his current medication and far greater than seems healthy.
There’s no such luxury for me, of course, though my performance at Sochi in 2014 did buy me a bit of leeway, especially in terms of what I can and can’t do before a performance. My coach, Helena, is actually quite progressive when it comes to these matters. When I told her I was going out to dance last night, she simply replied, “Horizontal or vertical?”
I’m tired from the journey out to Pyeongchang, a largely rural area in South Korea that’s been transformed for the Games. The athletics village is dominated by a series of towering apartment blocks, utilitarian for the most part. I’m sharing a room with Helena—the same Helena whose mouth turns to a foghorn come sleeping time.
The communal dining area is busy. I thought I’d show up early and get the jump on training, but it seems every athlete in the village had the same idea.
I set my tray down and pick up my spoon. There’s a voice behind me. “Can you believe they have a McDonalds here?”
Liam the American sets his own tray down opposite me. “Fancy seeing you again, out of three-thousand athletes.”
I settle into my chair. “You’ve been stalking me?”
He jumps back in his own, hands up. “Jesus, no. I would never.”
He is cute. I’ll give him that, with dusty brown hair and a sharp jawline, the kind of chiseled features normally reserved for soapy stars, and those arms… I didn’t know you needed arms like that to play ice hockey, which only makes me wonder about the size of his, ahem, ‘stick.’
“I’m, how do you say it, joking?” I offer.
He smiles back, a smile I’m sure gets him damn near anywhere in life… maybe even my pants if he plays his cards right.
I can hear Helena. Training is all that matters, Viktoriya. Training. Training. Training.
She doesn’t know what good workout sex is. I doubt poor Helena’s seen a real-life penis in about thirty years.
“Your English is excellent, by the way,” he says.
I look around for Bogdan and his cronies, but they’re nowhere to be seen—still cradling his balls from last night, no doubt. “Thank you, and your Russian?”
“Dosvidaniya?” he shrugs.
I laugh aloud. “You’re saying goodbye already? But we’ve barely met.”
“I thought it meant ‘good life.’”
I shake my head. “You’re going to have to try a bit harder than that if you want to woo me, flyboy.”
“Flyboy?”
“It’s what we call Americans in Russia… the good-looking ones, at least.”
His features draw up again until he’s close to irresistible. “You think I’m good-looking?”
I select a grape from my tray and pop it into my mouth. “I think you need to take me out on an old-fashioned date before you even think about anything else.”
He looks around. “A date? Here, at the Games? I mean, there are vending machines down the hall, but I hardly see restaurants and a cinema.”
I pick up my tray, notice my teammates filing through the doors. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” I lean down to him. “But don’t wait too long. The Games only last two weeks.”
I walk away to my teammates smiling to myself. A medal, a man, or memories—I’m not leaving Pyeongchang without one of them.