The Favorites: A Novel(109)

As for filling a vase to the brim with blood? No translation necessary there; that was a clear fuck you in any country.

Our first full day in Sochi passed without further incident. We ran our programs during our allotted time on the practice rink, then went straight back to our room and tried to sleep—no easy feat with the hotel’s paper-thin walls and creaky innerspring mattress.

Bella had been horrified when we told her about the accommodations during our post-practice Skype debrief. But every other hotel in the area was either booked solid or even seedier, so we were stuck.

The ice dance competition started on Sunday evening at the Iceberg Skating Palace, the brand-new skating venue right off the plaza where the Olympic torch burned. On the way there, I was even more exhausted than when we first arrived in Sochi. As soon as we walked inside, though, excitement took over.

The whole building vibrated with energy—the buzz of anticipation from spectators already in the stands, the giddy nerves of the other competitors getting ready to take the ice, the potent mix of pride and awe that only the Olympic Games could provoke.

Before starting our warm-up, we ducked into the arena and snapped a selfie to send to the twins. It was early morning in Boston, but they were awake already, settling in to watch the live stream of the event. Garrett texted good luck you two!!, followed by a string of American flag emojis, while Bella’s reply was more ominous:

Watch your back.

We couldn’t prove the Russians were responsible for my special deliveries, or for Heath’s injury at the Rostelecom Cup. But I was sure as hell going to keep a close eye out in case they tried anything else.

I didn’t run into either of the Volkovas until Heath and I went our separate ways to get into costume. When I walked into the dressing room, Yelena was already there, busy applying crystals along her lash line to match the rhinestone-encrusted bodice of her dress. Our eyes met in the mirror, and she dropped one of the stones. As she was patting the floor in search of it, I swept past without a second glance.

She looked innocent as ever, all fluttery and delicate like some gossamer-winged blond butterfly, but I wasn’t fooled. Yelena was a wolf in sparkly clothing, same as her aunt. She wouldn’t have lasted this long in the sport otherwise.

By the time I emerged in my dress, Yelena was gone, and two German girls were vying for her spot at the mirror. I found an empty bench and sat down to lace up my skates.

I’d spent an hour after our morning practice session cleaning and polishing them until the white leather was spotless and the steel blades gleamed. I ran my thumb over the engraved letters of my name and thought of the carving Heath and I had made all those years ago.

Shaw & Rocha. The way our names would be written in the record books.

Some skaters have superstitions about which skate they put on first. They have to do it in the same order every time, or risk casting a pall of bad luck over their performance. I’ve never given it much thought; whichever one I grab, right or left, that’s the one I step into.

Before the short dance in Sochi, it was the left. I slipped my foot into the boot, savoring the feel of the custom-fit leather molding around my ankle, cradling my instep.

Then something stabbed deep into my arch, and all I could do was scream.





Veronika Volkova: Yes, I heard the scream. Everyone did.

Before the short dance event at the 2014 Winter Olympics, Katarina Shaw bursts out of the backstage dressing room. She’s holding her skates, and she looks livid.

Other skaters, including fellow team USA ice dancer Francesca Gaskell, rush over to see what’s the matter. Katarina ignores them, frantically glancing around—until she spots Heath Rocha, sitting on a bench several yards away, about to step into his own skates.

“STOP!” Katarina shouts.

Ellis Dean: I was backstage doing interviews, minding my own damn business. Then all hell breaks loose. Luckily my camera was already rolling.

Heath looks up, confused. Katarina hurries past—leaving a trail of bloody footprints.

Veronika Volkova: She seemed to have a little cut on her foot. That is all.

Ellis Dean: Kat was bleeding everywhere. It was like a murder scene.

Francesca Gaskell: I just tried to stay out of the way. You know what she could be like. (She shakes her head.) That temper.

Veronika Volkova stands nearby, talking with Yelena Volkova and Dmitri Kipriyanov. Katarina stalks up to them and turns her skates upside down. Several small objects tumble out.

Ellis Dean: There were thorns in her skates.

Katarina hurls accusations at the Russian coach and skaters. Only a few words are audible on the video—“flowers,” “blood,” and “sabotage.”

Veronika Volkova: I had no idea what she was going on about.

Ellis Dean: Not like little tiny ones either. Big jagged motherfuckers.

Heath checks his own skates. Sure enough, when he turns them over, more thorns fall out.

Ellis Dean: First GlitterGate, now this. Her foot was all ripped up, and if she hadn’t warned Heath in time, his would’ve been too.

The camera moves in closer as Katarina continues her tirade. Yelena shrinks away, while Veronika stands her ground, seeming vaguely amused by the situation. Dmitri stands off to the side, looking dumbfounded—until Heath comes to stand by Katarina’s side.

“This is low,” Heath says. “Even for you.”

Dmitri gets in Heath’s face, growling something in Russian. Katarina moves between them, but not to keep the peace. She shoves Dmitri so hard he stumbles back, hitting the cement floor.