The whispers about Erik have been building for months.
Iris told me first, carefully, and then Brita mentioned it, and then it appeared in the skating press in the oblique way these things appear before they become official.
Another athlete, the Russian one he’s been coaching.
The federation finally asking questions.
The fact that the issue was coming up again meant that people who hadn’t believed it the first time were starting to change their stance.
I don’t feel triumphant about it. It surprises me that I don’t. I thought I’d want this when it came. I thought I’d want the vindication and the record publicly corrected.
But instead I feel tired on behalf of whoever she is - the new one, the one going through it now. What happened to me was wrong and I’m now watching the world slowly, belatedly, agree. That’s enough.
The awards are fun and celebratory. The speed skater across from us wins a significant award and the whole table cheers. Iris orders another bottle of wine.
When my name is called I walk to the stage and I accept the award and I say something brief and genuine. I talk about Brita and what it means to come back after time away.
Mateo is watching me proudly and, beside him, Iris is dabbing at her eyes.
“Regional champion,” he says when I get back to the table, kissing my cheek.
The rest of the evening races past - more wine is poured, and someone makes a speech. Mateo’s hand finds my knee at regular intervals.
By the time dessert arrives, I feel fuzzy and happy. And I need to pee.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say to no-one in particular.
Iris nods. Mateo’s hand squeezes my knee once and releases.
The restroom is down a corridor off the main ballroom, past the coat check and the silent bank of elevators. I go. I wash my hands and check myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed and I feel a rush of pride for my resilience in coming back to skating.
I walk back toward the ballroom.
And there he is.
Erik is standing in the corridor, phone in hand, scrolling. He’s alone - the woman he was with must still be at the table. He hasn’t seen me yet. I’m struck again by tired andordinaryhe looks.
I could walk past him.
The corridor is wide enough. I could keep my eyes forward, my chin up, my pace even, and I could stride straight past him.
Or I could turn around.
Go back to the restroom. Wait five minutes. Come back when he’s gone.
That’s what the old me would have done. The one who flinched at unexpected touches. The one who read comment sections at 3am.
He looks up and our eyes meet.
“Elida,” he says.
My name in his mouth. I’ve heard it a thousand times. On the ice. In his bed.
“Erik.”
My voice doesn’t shake.
He takes a step toward me.
