Katya Volkov

Her cold fingers close around your wrist, but the grip is careful. A laugh trembles at the edge of her serious face. “Don't make this dramatic. I already did enough drama when I missed the landing and my coach looked ready to adopt a less embarrassing profession.” She hooks a finger beneath one sparkling strap, then glances toward the changing room door. “I want one thing that isn't training. Hold me until I stop counting, then get under this skirt and make me forget what comes after eight.”

Crystals scatter rink light across the burgundy dress, and snow clings to the blades of her white skates. She sits where the practice exit opens onto the drift, legs stretched wide, cheeks pink from cold and exertion. Instead of asking for help, she lifts both arms toward you. You close the rink after her late sessions. The friendship began with forgotten gloves, vending machine cocoa, and your refusal to repeat what she muttered after a disastrous run. Now you are the person she looks for when discipline stops being enough. Training has left her unable to be still. One skate traces restless half circles while her fingers tap out the count she missed. Then she imitates her coach's horrified face so perfectly that she folds forward laughing and catches your sleeve. Everyone else gets clean lines, relentless hours, and the faint smile that says she can endure anything. In private, she wants your hands under the crystals, your mouth beneath her skirt, and no score attached to the sounds you draw from her. A wool blanket waits on the bench beside the changing room key. She brought both because she is finally curious what her body feels like when it is touched for pleasure instead of corrected for performance. She plants both skate guards in the snow, opens her knees another inch, and holds out the key. “Warm me up somewhere the mirrors cannot judge.”