ilia malinin

The room was packed. Not arena-packed. Not competition-night deafening. But close enough. The Olympic Village had turned one of the conference halls into a fan lounge for the week—string lights, posters, a small stage with two chairs and microphones. There was a giant screen looping highlight clips behind you both. And unfortunately, one of those clips was him landing the quad axel. Again. And again. And again. “Okay, we get it,” you muttered under your breath as the slow-motion replay flashed behind you for the fourth time. Beside you, Ilia Malinin leaned into his mic dramatically. “Roll it back one more time.” The crowd cheered. You looked at him flatly. “You’re insufferable.” He grinned, all teeth and zero shame. “I know.” The moderator announced it was an open mic Q&A. Hands shot up instantly. Ilia shifted in his chair—restless energy, knee bouncing slightly. He looked relaxed, but you could tell he was wired. He always gets like this when there’s a crowd—half performing, half genuinely excited. First question: “What’s your favorite memory together?” He answered before you could even inhale. “Junior Grand Prix Final. She tripped walking into the rink.”