不是我不想发，是发了给度娘删掉了

Aly, like the rest of her team, knows the Russian gymnasts. Not only because Russia and China are their toughest competition, but also because the more veteran international gymnasts, like Aly, Jordyn, Aliya Mustafina and Viktoria Komova, sort of grew up together; in the yearly competitions everyone got a chance to catch up on who’s grown up a couple of inches, who’s perfected that skill they struggled with last year, etc. So Aly knows who Mustafina is, and knew she was going to be here, and yet, for some reason she can’t figure out, her attention is completely monopolized by her. She has to blink back a flash of memory; a blur of sparkling purple leotard, flying impossibly high above every apparatus, and the one perfect landing at Worlds in 2010 that made Aly wish she spoke Russian, so she could congratulate the gymnast and have a chance to say, however breathlessly and dorkily, “you’re perfect—really, really perfect.” The scene, only a moment long, splashes inside her mind and is gone just as quickly.

Aly clears her throat and turns to the hotel employee again, who now has the extra keys available and is wishing her luck in a crisp English accent. Reluctantly, Aly walks back to where her team is awaiting her; she’s almost too aware that Mustafina and the rest of Team Russia are standing only a few feet away now, and there’s a nervous tremor accompanying her heartbeats, anxious for when competition finally begins and she has to go up against the Russian juggernaut, and nervous for when Mustafina finally sees her (will she recognize her?). Aly is then immersed by her teammates’ conversations, momentarily forgetting all about Mustafina: apparently McKayla can’t find her phone charger, Jordyn thinks her shampoo exploded in her bag, and Gabby is having a hard time fitting all her luggage inside the carrying carts they’ve been supplied with.
It’s only when the girls are already in their rooms (and she and McKayla are squealing that they get to share theirs), that Aly wonders whether she should have greeted Mustafina and the rest of the Russian team. Gymnastics is a fiercely competitive sport, of course, but there’s genuine camaraderie between its athletes. No one was overjoyed when Mustafina’s knee practically came apart after that vault landing a year and a half ago… every athlete has a certain amount of respect for the others who have worked just as hard to achieve their own dream.
But then, Aly thinks, biting the corner of her lip, she’ll be seeing plenty of the Russian gymnastics team out there when they go head-to-head for the gold. Most of the Chinese and Romanian teams are injured so it looks like Russia will be their main adversary.

She’s walking down the hallway, smiling goofily at a pair of laughing athletes from where she guesses is New Zealand, when her gymnastic reflexes allow her to narrowly avoid tripping over a backpack laying on the carpeted floor. She feels a hand on her lower back, steadying her off-balance body. It takes her a split second to gather her composure and turn around to thank her helper, and another split second for her to widen her eyes, her words of gratitude stalling on her tongue.

Oh my God it’s Aliya Mustafina. That was the hand steadying her.
Her breath catches and her body freezes, and it really only takes one very long, stretched out second for Aly’s eyes to sweep and study the Russian—the flawless ponytail, the way her skin is kind of perfect, glowing and pale, and the way her eyes are large and colored halfway between green and gray, the shape of her slightly blushed cheeks, and the curve of her mouth… wait… she’s smiling. It’s not a wide smile, by any means, but there is a smile there, apologetic, and maybe a bit shy. Aly immediately takes a step back, to create some much-needed distance.
“Okay?” Even a simple word like this betrays her accent, but it only makes Aly appreciate it more; Aliya Mustafina is trying to speak her language in order to inquire on her well-being. It sends a dangerously exhilarating sensation down her chest and stomach.

Aly enters the small room with the ice dispenser and various snack and drink vending machines, and stands to the side and waits. Sure enough, Aliya Mustafina follows her inside a second later, and Aly almost wants to throw her arms up to the sky and ask, “really, universe? I have to be in this little room with her?” but she settles for moving on ahead towards the ice dispenser. Apparently Mustafina had the same idea, and their hands end up bumping against each other as they simultaneously reach for the dispenser’s button.
Mother of God. (Why does everything feel so awkward with Mustafina?)
“You can go first,” Aly blurts out rapidly, but of course the Russian only throws her a puzzled look.

She’s said that name before, but it feels odd to say it now; it’s weightier, and it feels like it means something.
McKayla has the expected dramatic response. “Oooh, the ice queen.”
“She’s really nice,” Aly responds, a little too quickly. “I mean, she was nice to me. She taught me some Russian, too.”
As soon as she adds that last part, Aly regrets it; McKayla shifts her attention to her and Aly is tempted to take a step back into the wall to avoid her friend’s intense gaze.
“Really? So you two actually talked?”
“For a little bit.”
“How was it?”
“I told you; she’s nice.” And beautiful. Really, really beautiful.
“And she taught you some Russian words?” McKayla is smiling. That’s not a good sign. “Which ones?”
“’Ice’ and ‘thank you.’”
She laughs then, but Aly isn’t sure if she’s amused by what she just told her, or by Aly herself—she feels so, so uncomfortable right now, and it probably shows.

“Did you teach her some English, too?”
“She kind of speaks it already,” Aly answers, unsure of whether she should even say another word about her encounter with the Russian. Now that she’s talking about it with someone else, she realizes that it really wasn’t that much of a big deal. These are the Olympics and they’re going to be seeing other gymnasts practically every hour of every day. With this in mind, Aly forces herself to be nonchalant as she adds, “we talked for like, thirty seconds. I barely remember what happened.”
You remember everything…
“Ice.”
“Ice? Right—yes, this is ice.”
“Oh, okay.” McKayla’s attention is once again focused on her luggage, much to Aly’s relief. Aly herself puts down the bag of half-melted ice on their small kitchen sink and slumps down on her bed. “You haven’t even touched your bags yet.”
She throws one languid look at her pile of luggage and sinks down on her bed. “I’m having a lazy moment. Leave me alone.”
She’s in no mood to unpack, and they have a meeting with their coaches in less than 40 minutes. Can she just take a quick nap? She savors the softness of the covers, closing her eyes to rest for the first time since they landed in London. She doesn’t think about her routines, doesn’t think about the pressure of being the team captain, doesn’t think about the hopes and expectations of an entire nation, resting on their hands. And she tries her very hardest not to think about Aliya Mustafina, and that perfect smile, and those impossibly bright eyes, and that voice that’s gotten her almost addicted and wanting to hear her say every word ever invented. She’s really close to allowing her mind to be dragged into unconsciousness…
Until: “So. How do you say ‘ice’ in Russian?”
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