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Venla feels about five minutes away from either getting on the next plane back home or kicking someone in the face, with her skates on.
The hapless IOC official who’s trying to explain what happened here will be first on the list, even if he probably doesn’t really deserve it - he’s just the unlucky messenger. The half-dozen different language barriers in the room aren’t helping his case, but he really does seem exceptionally flustered as he tries to explain that, despite the sheer number of venues that have been reserved for these Olympics, they’ve managed to double-book this ice rink. The last figure skating practice session, the group Venla’s in, and the training time for the Swedish hockey team overlap.
Wonderful. Most of the other skaters shrug and seem happy to take the afternoon off - a Swedish girl whose name Venla can’t remember off the top of my head cheerfully waves to the hockey players before sliding the blade guards onto her skates and stepping off the ice - but Venla cannot afford to miss out on practice time.
“You can’t be serious,” she says, glaring at the official. He looks like he wants to hide behind his clipboard, but instead he takes a deep breath.
“Our sincere apologies, Miss Heikkinen. We’ll try to find your practice group another slot, but perhaps you can share the ice for now?”
That… sounds unbearably awkward. She’s never been all that keen on people watching her practice, even when she isn’t already stressed out. Before she can decline and flee, though, one of the hockey players - it’s hard to tell with the helmets and wire masks, but she thinks it’s the one wearing the captain’s jersey - speaks up.
“It’s fine,” she says, sounding completely unconcerned. “We can split the rink. Spirit of international cooperation, and all that.”
Turning directly to Venla, she continues, “You use that half, we’ll stick to this side.” When Venla doesn’t reply, she continues, “Oh, relax, we’ll keep all the sticks and flying objects away from you.”
There’s really no reasonable argument she can make here, so Venla swallows and mutters, “All right, then.” She skates to the other side of the rink and switches on her headphones.
The practice is… not great, if she’s being honest. It’s not that she’s expecting to win the gold or anything - something like three or four other skaters would have to implode spectacularly to allow that to happen - but she’s still got a stubborn hope that she might make the podium. That’s absolutely not going to happen, though, if she doesn’t keep stumbling every few jumps. Maybe she’s just tired, her legs feel a bit unsteady, but the three-and-a-half rotations on her Axel just aren’t happening today.
When she checks her phone, she notices that she’s been skating for a good hour and a half - longer than her original practice session was scheduled. True to their captain’s word, the hockey players have stayed well out of her way. She’d glanced over occasionally when she heard various crashes and shouts over the sound of her headphones, but considering nobody was stretchered off the ice, she can only assume this is what their training sessions are normally like.
It’s quieter now, anyway - all she can hear is her music, and when she glances to the other side of the rink, she can see the hockey players start to step off the ice. She shakes out her legs and decides to go for one last attempt.
She pushes off, making a few circles to gain some speed, and the second her feet have both left the ice she regrets the decision. She can immediately tell she’s not got enough height on the jump, and the angle she lands at is all wrong. She tries to adjust, to keep her footing, but her skate skids sideways and her feet slide out from under her and she falls.
Thankfully, she lands on her ass, rather than anything particularly breakable, but Venla lets herself flop backwards in exhausted frustration anyway. She closes her eyes, runs a hand over her face and swears.
“I always thought Finnish was a good cursing language,” a familiar-sounding voice says above her.
Venla removes her hand and blinks up at the silhouette above her.
“Are you okay?” The hockey player asks. It’s a little hard to tell - she’s still wearing the helmet - but Venla thinks she’s frowning. “Did you hit your head or something?”
She’s briefly puzzled, but then Venla notices the hand that’s being held out in front of her.
“Oh! No, sorry, just a little slow today.” She reaches for the offered hand and lets herself be pulled up. It doesn’t seem to cost the other woman any effort - Venla actually stumbles after she’s upright, not quite expecting the momentum.
“Whoa, princess,” the hockey player says, catching her around the waist. “Sure you’re doing alright?”
Rolling her eyes, she replies, “It’s Venla, thanks.”
There’s definitely a grin behind the face protection, now. “Linn. Nice to formally meet you, rink squatter.”
Venla, to her horror, feels herself blush, but before she can protest, Linn laughs. “It’s okay, I’m just teasing you. We had plenty of space.”
“I hope your practice went better than mine,” Venla says wryly. “Or actually, if you guys sucked too, maybe the ice was just bad.”
“Sorry,” Linn says, amusement still audible in her voice. “It seemed fine, though you’re welcome to try the other side of the rink to see if it’s a bit less cursed.”
Venla thinks it over for a moment. Really, she shouldn’t - she’s tired. But honestly, she always hates ending a practice on a sour note, and in a season like this, she’s going to need every scrap of good vibes she can find.
“I’m sure you guys got rid of any evil spirits with all the shouting,” she says, gratified when she hears a snort from behind the face guard. “But yes, I’m gonna take one last jump where I don’t fall on my ass, for luck.”
“Can I help somehow? Steal a Zamboni and re-surface the ice? Perform an exorcism?”
Something about the mental image really gets to her - Venla laughs out loud and, a second later, realises it’s been ages since she did, the preparations for the Games have been so stressful.
She should say no, she’s fine, but honestly, part of her doesn’t really want Linn to leave. And there is something she could use help with, actually. She fishes out her phone.
“Want to put in my number?” Linn says, and Venla rolls her eyes. Instead, she says, “Could you film me? I’d like to see what exactly I’m doing wrong. And, well, if I don’t fall on my face I’ll have one for my insta.”
“Sure,” Linn replies. “One second.” She hands back the phone and skates to the side of the rink, dropping her helmet, jersey, gloves and shoulder padding over the barrier.
“Sorry,” she says. “I was melting with all of that on, and I’m gonna assume you’re not going to be swinging any sticks in my face.”
“That’d be a waste,” Venla says without thinking. She feels herself blush, but it’s true - without the helmet and the padding, Linn’s all unruly blonde hair and bright green eyes, and now that she’s just wearing a black base layer, she gets a better look at her body as well. She’s always had a thing for well-built shoulders; it’s quite a view.
Venla’s pretty sure Linn can see her staring. The corner of her mouth quirks, but she just holds out a hand for the phone.
“Alright,” Linn says, fumbling with the phone for a moment before holding it up. “Let’s see that Axel, then.”
Venla tilts her head, and amusingly, Linn looks a bit flustered. “Look, it was hard not to watch you practice.”
“Sure, sure,” Venla says, feeling lighter than she has in weeks. “Camera rolling?”
“Ready when you are,” Linn replies, easily moving with her on the ice to keep her in the frame.
Venla pushes off, feels herself soar and spin through the air, and lands perfectly. Behind her, Linn raises her fist in the air.
“Beautiful,” she says, and when Venla turns back to her, she looks as pleased as if she’d landed the jump herself. She motions to hand the phone back, but Venla shakes her head.
“I didn’t see you put your number in yet.”
For a moment, Venla thinks she’s misread everything, or that she’s overstepped, but then Linn grins.
“I did offer, didn’t I.” She taps in a number, then dials it - there’s a ringtone from across the barrier, presumably her bag - before handing back the phone.
Linn skates towards the exit, steps off the ice and turns back to Venla.
“I expect you want to go take a shower too, but do you want to go grab a bite after?”
It’ll probably be a distraction. On the other hand, the constant work and near-panic just left her feeling like a tightrope walker in an old cartoon, where more and more stuff keeps being added to the stick while she tries to keep balance. She’d heard Olympics are supposed to be fun; she might as well try to make the most of it. She decides to choose something just for her, for a change.
“Yes,” she replies. “I’d like that.”