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Gabriella Papadakis. The Ice Queen of France. Accomplished, skilled, beautiful. The epitome of professionalism and collected grace. Nothing seemed to go wrong for her.
What people didn't see was the sleepless nights, the panic attacks, the near-suicide attempts, starving herself and clambering on empty bathroom floors after meals, the pills she threw back in between sets, the brain fog. People didn't know about the anxiety, her previously failed pregnancy, her burgeoning bisexuality, the desire to leave the ice game soon.
When she was young and full of fire, Gabriella was intent on skating until she was forty, then retire and work as a coach. Now that she was nearing thirty—she could not see that happening. As much as she still wanted to be in the ice skating world, she found herself growing disillusioned and jaded at the ice dance industry. Despite the sport being dominated by women, men held all the cards—and they made it clear just how much they cared about the female athletes.
Gabriella was grateful for the success she had achieved so far—naturally, due to their high standards and premier coaching, she and Guillaume had a healthy collection of trophies and medals. Even the huge, unwieldy plastic ones from 2017 or 2018. She forgot what year they were from. The media probably assumed she had glass cases and dust jackets for them, and maybe little plaques. Quite the opposite. They were kept out of sight, stowed away in a box somewhere. The only reason she pulled them out was for mandated ad campaigns and PR photoshoots. She didn't know what other champions did with their commendations, but she couldn't bear to look at them.
Instead, her walls were covered in pictures. Most were taken by her, but there were a few taken by others that she enjoyed. Madison's touch was visible on a good handful of them. Childhood friends and friends from music school, classmates and competitors from the Gadbois, her loyal group of fools from the French queer scene. These were her chosen family.
Many of these framed photos featured one particular woman: Madison Hubbell. A training mate, then friend, then rival, then best friend, then love interest, then dancing partner. The progression of their relationship over the years had been catalogued in the countless photos and videos they had taken of and with each other. Madison always seemed to know when the camera lens was focused on her; she had mastered the saucy look that seemed to say, "Wouldn't you like to know?" For this reason, along with many others, Gabriella found the other woman a compelling subject.
Her camera roll was full of random videos, candids, official Getty snaps, social media screenshots… she secretly even read long-winded Tumblr posts and fanfiction about an imagined dynamic between herself and Madison. Perhaps in an alternate timeline, their relationship would be different. In this timeline, Gabriella was perfectly content with the close, fulfilling friendship that had bloomed from the moment she had been approached by the blue-eyed girl. Her queer friends always teased her and were incredulous, and she understood why. Admittedly, she still had a bit of a crush, one could call it. How could you not fall a little bit in love with Madison Hubbell? Over the years, however, her romantic feelings had mellowed out and strengthened their platonic bond.
Behind her photos and memories, Gabriella did hold one thing dear.
A crewneck sweater, made from loud, vomit-inducing, yellow French terrycloth. Plain, unbranded, timeless—no frills, and probably a cheap purchase. It sounded ridiculous when she stopped to think about how much she treasured this simple sweater, but it was the truth. Ever since she had liberated this article of clothing from Canadian borders, it became her constant home companion. The paparazzi would have a field day if she ventured outside with it. It had never made a public appearance, and she was determined to keep it that way. Inside her apartment, the sweater was usually within arm's reach. Whenever the weather was cold or her anxiety came creeping back, she was quick to burrow into the warmth of the sweater.
The sweater's first owner was Madison. One fateful night in 2018, Gabriella had knocked on her door without warning, on the verge of a breakdown. Usually she asked the older woman for permission, but she had hoped Madison would understand the extenuating circumstances. She hadn't needed to worry—Madison hadn't even batted an eye before she pulled Gabriella's shaking frame into her dorm. The long hug had been expected, but the sweater had not been. When Gabriella had left the following morning, the sweater had still blanketed her upper body. Madison had never asked for it back, so Gabriella had kept it.
In the following years, the sweater made a reappearance at the Worlds and their last Olympics. Gabriella had put the sweater on without thinking once in Beijing, and Madison had raised her eyebrow from the couch. "I was wondering what happened to that," she had commented, before she turned back to her book. "Glad to see it's still in commission." Once again, she had not asked for its return. Gabriella wasn't going to voluntarily give it back.
It was an ugly thing, utterly hideous; the neckline had begun to lose its tension, and the hems of the cuffs had begun to fade from the constant folding back. The terrycloth had started out scratchy and rough, but the years of regular wear had softened the loops on both the inside and outside. The fabric no longer smelled like Madison, but sometimes Gabriella could smell the phantom traces of baby powder and lavender if she thought hard enough.
This evening, a little chill sat in the air. As Gabriella pulled the sweater over her head, her heart panged. A whole ocean separated her from her favorite person, but Madison had always said she was a call away. She navigated to her bookmarked contacts and pressed the name at the top. The phone rang twice, then the line picked up.
"Hey, Gabs. How's it hangin'?" Madison's voice crackled through the phone. In the background, Gabriella heard the familiar scratch of sharp metal on ice. What time was it in Canada? She checked her international clock app. Around eight p.m.… Madison must have pulled a late night at the rink. The weary edge to her voice made sense. Gabriella felt guilty; she hoped it wasn't a bad time. Even at her busiest, Madison always made time for her—sometimes sacrificing her sleep to stay up and chat. This drove Gabriella crazy, but Madison was more stubborn. To compensate for the time zone difference, Gabriella tried to call during the wee hours of the morning. If anyone was worth staying up for, it was Madison.
"Madi." Gabriella took a deep breath in before she continued. She had missed her best friend's voice. The warmth, the rich timbre, and the clipped Northern accent brought forth a smile. "Nothing much. I was just thinking of you." Gabriella rubbed her fingers along the stitches at the cuffs. The grids of thin thread jumped out under her callused tips.
Madison's voice softened. "Aw, is Gabi going a lil' soft? Someone alert the press!" Her bright laughter seemed to echo against the ice.
"Don't be mean, I'll hang up!" Gabriella pouted. She tucked her nose into the neck of the sweater and closed her eyes.
"Okay, okay. I'm glad you called. I was going to reach out to see how you're doing." A dim clatter punctuated the end of her sentence. Gabriella guessed she was getting out of the rink. "You still have to come skate with me here, you know."
"I know." Gabriella huffed a sigh. "Soon. I promise."
"All right." Silence buzzed over the line.
"Bye, Madi. I love you." Gabriella hung up before she said anything stupid. Her phone cast to the side, she fully buried her face into the soft fabric. Hopefully, if her schedule allowed, she'd get to feel Madison's arms around her once more, not just her sweater.
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