Chapter Text
The truce was working. If they had to describe it in one word, they would probably say wonderfully.
Somehow, the barrier of professionalism had softened. Instead of being only coach and athlete, they had become Zhenya and Eteri again; nothing more, nothing less.
It had started with polite greetings in the hallways, then a light touch on the shoulder in passing, a quiet acknowledgment. Zhenya had made a stupid joke one day, and rather than scolding her, Eteri had laughed. It was strangely addictive to admit that, without ever saying it aloud, they both shared the same longing to step onto the ice every morning. And even when their schedules left little room for conversation, there was comfort in knowing the day would at least grant them the chance to catch sight of each other from across the rink.
The other's presence was no longer an irritating obstacle. It had become something pleasant instead. The kind of closeness Zhenya had secretly learned to miss.
And her joy was returning, it showed even on the ice.
“That was incredible, Zhenya!” Daniil exclaimed.
She stayed quiet, letting the music linger in her body, absorbing its final echoes so she could fully savor the choreography.
Nocturne carried a depth that had taken countless listens in her bedroom to truly understand. Beyond its sadness, the melody evoked the particular nostalgia of someone learning to live among the ruins of their own life while presenting a flawless mask to the world. Midway through the piece, the violins stretched into a brief suspended silence before giving way to a fractured rhythm. In that moment, her skating became a struggle for survival, an internal battle where the only opponent she had to defeat was her own reflection.
Zhenya loved that program.
The real mystery, however, was her free skate: Anna Karenina.
The movements were there, but they still didn't belong to her. They felt distant, performed through technical instinct alone. She had devoured historical summaries and spent hours analyzing Anna's psychology, yet it was frustrating to realize she still couldn't connect with the heart of the story. Determined to break through that barrier, she decided to lock herself away in the video room that afternoon, armed with a recording of the routine her choreographer had given her.
On the screen, she studies the precise synchronization required of her arms, striving to capture the elegance and restraint of Russian aristocracy. She lets the music wash over her before turning her attention back to the technical details.
She practices the opening greeting: a subtle period gesture, almost imperceptible, one that Eteri has become obsessed with perfecting. As she recreates it in the air, Zhenya can almost feel her coach's fingers guiding hers, correcting the angle with a firm, demanding touch.
The world around her fades away completely as she sinks into the rhythm of the music. By the time the door creaks open, she is too absorbed to notice. She certainly doesn't see the figure approaching in silence.
"Has Anna really been that difficult to portray?"
The voice cuts through her concentration.
Zhenya turns her head slowly, an effortless smile brightening her features. She recognizes it immediately.
"Not exactly," she replies with a grin.
Eteri smiles back and, without asking, circles around the couch and settles beside her.
"It's just... I still can't bring her to life the way I want to. You know?"
For a moment, Eteri studies the frustration written across her face before a quiet laugh escapes her. She carefully takes the remote from Zhenya's hands and restarts the video; watching the screen, she sways unconsciously to the music.
Zhenya finds herself distracted, her attention drifting between Eteri's movements and her own performance on the screen.
When the video ends, a smile appears on the older woman's face.
"What I just saw was a Russian lady swept up in a turbulent love affair who met a tragic end." She turns fully toward Zhenya. "The performance is beautiful, Zhen."
The skater remains unconvinced, leaning back against the couch. Eteri mirrors the movement a moment later, narrowing the space between them.
Neither of them looks directly at the other when Eteri speaks again.
"If you really want my advice, I'd tell you not to lose sight of the happiness."
Zhenya frowns, confused.
The blonde absentmindedly stops fidgeting with her own fingers and extends her hand toward her. At last, Zhenya looks over and accepts the invitation. Their fingertips barely meet, brushing together in the air in a steady, absent rhythm.
"Anna had a socially acceptable life until she met Vronsky, and he turned everything upside down," Eteri said.
The younger girl listened in silence, absorbed by the brush of their hands.
"In a desperate attempt to feel something more, she traded security for love. And it was the consequences of that choice that ultimately led her to her fate." Eteri paused briefly. "It may be tragic, and I can see that when you skate. But beyond all of that, Anna was happy. Maybe only for a short while, but she was. You can't forget that part."
Something clicked inside Zhenya's chest.
Throughout the conversation, Eteri never took her eyes off the slow movement of their fingers, completely unaware of the gaze fixed on her. When her words finally faded, she lifted her head and found a pair of brown eyes already waiting for her.
She smiled.
This time, she didn't pull away.
Instead, she threaded her fingers through Zhenya's and rested their joined hands on the couch between them.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
They simply sat there, looking at each other with their fingers intertwined.
"I missed you, you know," Zhenya admitted at last, breaking the fragile bubble around them. "I thought we'd never get this back."
"I missed you too, Zhen." The answer came easily, almost effortlessly. Then a mischievous glint appeared in Eteri's eyes. "But you should miss your training sessions a little more. Our truce doesn't include turning my couch into your personal resting area."
"Hey!", Zhenya laughed and gave her a playful shove on the shoulder.
The next few minutes passed in comfortable trivialities. They talked about everything and nothing at the same time, sheltering themselves inside a fragile imitation of normalcy.
The atmosphere finally broke when Daniil opened the door. He glanced between them with a trace of guilt, fully aware that he was interrupting the moment because duty called.
They exchanged professional nods in farewell, and the door closed once more.
Zhenya returned her attention to the video review with fresh ideas and, somehow, the appearance that nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.
—
Slovakia and Japan were the first stops where Zhenya could truly test the season's programs.
Her flawless performances reminded everyone that this was her year and that Olympic gold was waiting for her at the end of the road. In a way, it was comforting to see familiar names in the standings. There were no surprise breakthroughs, no unexpected challengers. She had beaten them all before, and she could do it again.
The crowd chanted her name as she stepped onto the ice.
Zhenya smiled and waved, carrying herself like the queen of the rink.
And she was.
Her first two gold medals came quickly.
No matter how many years passed or how much experience she gained, a small part of her still grew nervous every time her blades touched competition ice. The faint flutter in her stomach and the unsettling feeling that her legs had somehow lost their strength never truly disappeared.
Eteri noticed it from the very first event.
Just as she used to, she took Zhenya's hands in hers.
It was the first gesture to return.
"Breathe with me," she said softly.
Zhenya obeyed.
After her performance, she skated off the ice and was immediately pulled into an embrace. She wrapped her arms around Eteri's waist and rested her head near her chest. For a fleeting moment, she worried about soaking the expensive trench coat with sweat, but Eteri didn't seem to care. If anything, she only held her tighter.
Zhenya melted into the embrace.
It was the second gesture to return.
Then came the Kiss and Cry.
The screens replayed her program while Zhenya bounced her legs restlessly beneath her seat. Beside her, Eteri watched the monitor with unwavering focus. They both knew there was nothing left to do but wait for the scores.
The seconds stretched endlessly.
Sensing her student's growing anxiety, Eteri tightened the arm around Zhenya's back. Keeping that reassuring pressure at her waist, she rested her free hand on the younger girl's knee.
Zhenya noticed immediately.
In an effort to steady herself, she covered Eteri's hand with her own.
Cold met warmth.
The trembling in her legs faded, replaced by a deep and unexpected sense of peace.
Eventually, the scores appeared and confirmed her as the leader after the short program. If everything went perfectly the following day, the gold medal would be hers.
Instinctively, she turned to Eteri. Then she pulled her into a hug.
The third gesture returned.
Somehow, the powerhouse duo that had dominated women's figure skating for an entire season was back. They were back. And the future shone as brightly as Olympic gold..
Of course, nothing could stay perfect forever.
With another victory secured, old ghosts soon came knocking as well. Once the competition concluded, it was time for the press conference.
Zhenya didn't enjoy them in the slightest. So she stepped up to the podium as if fulfilling nothing more than a bureaucratic obligation, and the reporters descended on her immediately.
The first question was predictable.
A local journalist asked about her impressions after winning gold and how she envisioned the start of the Olympic season. She adjusted the microphone with practiced ease, offered her most polished smile, and answered graciously.
It was a routine she knew by heart.
Thereafter the atmosphere in the room shifted.
"Evgenia, congratulations on the victory," a foreign journalist called from the third row. "You recently turned eighteen, an age that, within your coach's system, is often considered the biological limit for a female skater. Do you feel your career may be nearing its end? Have you considered retirement?"
The question landed like a blow. For a fraction of a second, her smile froze.
Retirement?
At eighteen?
The suggestion that her body was already beginning to fail her left her momentarily stunned. Before she could gather a response, another microphone came alive to her left.
"On the subject of your training camp," another reporter said sharply, "former Sambo-70 athletes have recently come forward with allegations of extreme restrictive dieting, psychological mistreatment, and a culture of abuse that leaves young girls with irreversible chronic injuries before they even reach adulthood. As the academy's star student, what is your response to those accusations?"
The camera flashes seemed to multiply instantly, turning the auditorium lights harsh and suffocating.
The murmur of the press transformed into something hungry. Expectant.
Zhenya felt trapped.
Carefully, she drew in a breath, feeling the tension spread through her spine. She wanted to push back, to tell them they were wrong. But as she searched for an answer, she realized she didn't know how to respond.
She had no way of measuring whether what she experienced was abuse because she had never known anything else. Pain, hunger, and pressure had been the only path she had walked since childhood.
To her, those demands had always meant success.
They had always meant she still mattered.
Forcing herself to remain composed, she leaned toward the microphone and offered a cautiously measured answer, weighing every word before she spoke.
"I'm sorry that other athletes had difficult experiences," she said, her voice noticeably strained. "As for me, all I can say is that every achievement in my career has been possible because of my coach's training and guidance."
Her answer did nothing to calm the storm.
If anything, it made it worse.
Questions came from every direction at once, abandoning the competition entirely in favor of dissecting the controversy surrounding the Tutberidze method.
The barrage left her dizzy.
Before the situation could spiral any further, a tall figure stepped forward and positioned himself between Zhenya and the reporters. Daniil took hold of the microphone, his expression firm.
"We'll be ending the press conference here. Thank you all for coming."
His tone left little room for argument. As photographers pushed forward, he blocked their advance and gave Zhenya a subtle gesture to move. He guided her quickly through the inner corridors of the arena, putting distance between her and the noise until they reached a quiet corner behind the dressing rooms.
The silence of the hallway settled around them like a balm.
Daniil stopped, studied her for a moment, and let out a slow breath.
"Are you okay, Zhenya?"
She gave a small nod, keeping her eyes fixed on a random spot on the floor.
"Yeah. Thanks, Daniil."
He squeezed her shoulder briefly in support before heading off to check departure schedules, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
In the isolation of the corridor, Zhenya wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of a chill beneath her skin.
She wondered how it was possible for the rest of the world to describe such a terrible reality within the place that had raised her.
And, despite herself, a darker question followed.
What if they were right?
What if that darkness had become so deeply woven into her life that she could no longer recognize it for what it was?
To keep from getting lost down a dangerous path, she shook her head and pushed her thoughts aside. She wasn’t going to let them beat her.
Not today.
—
Training resumed almost immediately after she returned to Russia. The Rostelecom Cup was just around the corner, and she still needed to secure her place in the Grand Prix Final.
Truthfully, she knew there were no major flaws left in her programs. What remained were small details, subtle adjustments she had already begun noticing on her own during performances.
Although her scheduled ice session had ended early that afternoon, she found herself drifting back to the rink anyway, searching for anything that might help pass the time.
October was not usually one of Moscow's rainiest months. Most precipitation arrived as a prelude to the snow that would soon settle over the city. With winter approaching, the cold had already begun to sink deeper into people's bones. But on that particular day, torrential rain swept across the capital, darkening the afternoon long before sunset.
The streets were deserted.
Everyone had retreated indoors, except for a handful of people who, like her, remained trapped inside the routines of their everyday lives.
It was just her luck that public transportation had come to a standstill because of the storm.
Still, Zhenya had an ace up her sleeve.
Back on the ice, she didn't attempt difficult jumps or intricate spin combinations.
She simply skated.
She couldn't remember the last time she had visited a rink for the simple pleasure of it, free from constant pressure, expectations, or media scrutiny. So, for the moment, she allowed herself to enjoy the uncomplicated act of gliding across the ice.
"Looks like I'm not the only one stranded here." The voice from the entrance immediately caught her attention.
A few months ago, she would have rolled her eyes and silently prayed for the interaction to be brief, tolerable, and, if possible, entirely avoidable.
Now she simply laughed.
Pushing off the ice, she skated toward the doorway. When she reached it, she stopped abruptly.
The maneuver sent a burst of icy air straight toward Eteri, who shivered at the impact.
"Are you serious?" Zhenya let out an amused laugh.
The woman was dressed in what Zhenya privately considered her uniform, even if it technically wasn't one. The same athletic pants and lightweight jacket. Beneath it, she could see the edge of yet another hooded sweatshirt.
At this point, the second layer seemed excessive. That, naturally, was the target of her joke.
"What?" Eteri replied. "I'm not exactly a fan of the cold."
"What a shame to hear that. I think you picked the wrong sport, coach." The comeback earned her half a smile. "You should probably take one last lap around the rink to make sure everything's in order, don't you think?"
It was an open invitation to join her on the ice; not as her coach, but simply as herself.
Zhenya delivered it as though it were the most insignificant suggestion in the world before pushing off and skating away.
From across the rink, she heard Eteri laugh, followed a moment later by the creak of the small wooden gate opening. By the time she reached the far end of the ice, she turned lazily and looked back.
Eteri stood in the distance with her arms crossed and, somehow, her skates already on.
She looked like she was waiting for her.
Zhenya immediately changed direction, throwing in a few deliberately ridiculous movements along the way in an attempt to make her laugh. When she finally reached her, she slowed to a careful glide and studied her with exaggerated seriousness, slipping into the role of an imaginary judge. Straightening her posture, she clasped her hands neatly behind her back.
"When was the last time you skated for fun?"
The question came out before she had the chance to reconsider it.
As she spoke, she drifted around Eteri and came to a stop behind her, removing any possibility of meeting her eyes.
It was a genuine question, one she regretted almost as soon as she asked it.
The truth was that she knew very little about Eteri's life before all of this. The idea that she had once existed entirely outside the version of herself Zhenya knew was both fascinating and strangely sad, based on the few details that had become public over the years.
Her gaze traveled over Eteri's silhouette before settling on her lower back. The scar was probably hidden somewhere there; the one that had, at some point, brought her career to a halt. Zhenya didn't know the details, and for obvious reasons she had never asked, but she often found herself wondering.
What she did know was simple enough. Eteri's competitive career had ended because of that injury. Afterward came the ice shows, a period spent away from Russia, and eventually her return. She later coached her student, Yulia Lipnitskaya, through the Olympics, and her popularity skyrocketed.
And now Eteri was here, stuck with her.
The realization settled over Zhenya unexpectedly. In truth, Eteri had been stuck with her for quite some time.
Perhaps the silence stretched a little too long, because without turning around, Eteri interrupted her train of thought.
"I can barely remember," she admitted softly.
Zhenya completed the circle around her before stopping directly in front of her. Uncertainty flickered across her face as she lifted her gaze. Eteri looked down at her in return.
After a brief moment of hesitation, Zhenya opened her arms.
Eteri took the invitation without question.
The contact lasted only a second before Zhenya gently tugged her forward, breaking the intensity of the moment almost as soon as it appeared.
Leaning back, she guided Eteri toward the center of the rink and released her the instant they arrived.
"You can do it right now."
Eteri frowned.
"What?"
"Skate for fun."
The hour was late, and the storm showed no sign of ending, but the ice belonged to them.
To the two of them alone.
Eteri drew in a slow breath. She closed her eyes for a moment and opened them again as she exhaled. With her hands tucked safely into her pockets, she pushed off and began gliding across a space she knew by heart.
Zhenya followed close behind, matching her steady rhythm. Once she was certain Eteri felt comfortable on the ice, she slipped alongside her and joined her path.
For a while, everything settled into a tense but comfortable silence. Then Zhenya caught a glance from the corner of Eteri's eye.
The look was playful, carrying the faintest trace of mischief.
Without warning, Eteri gave her a firm shove against the shoulder.
Zhenya wobbled, quickly recovering her balance.
"Hey!"
The protest came out more surprised than offended. Eteri only laughed and glided several feet away.
"I thought you said we were skating for fun."
The challenge in her voice was unmistakable.
Zhenya recognized it immediately and accepted.
She trusted the advantage that youth gave her: the speed, the quick reactions, the certainty that she could catch her if she really tried.
She was wrong.
Every time she closed the distance, Eteri slipped away with infuriating elegance. She never had to accelerate or make any dramatic effort. A shift of her weight at precisely the right moment was enough.
Refusing to surrender so easily, Zhenya widened the gap between them. Then, from several meters away, she pushed off hard and surged forward at full speed.
Eteri was more than ready to receive the impact of their game.
But just before they could collide, a deafening crack echoed through the entire complex.
The sound jolted through Zhenya's body and her legs reacted before she could think.
The sudden shock stole her balance, and with no time to recover, she went hurtling straight toward Eteri.
As if her string of bad luck needed any further encouragement, a second disaster followed immediately after the first.
The lights went out. Darkness swallowed them whole.
Acting on pure instinct, Eteri's arms shot out through the blackness and caught her firmly around the waist. Zhenya clung to the lapels of her half-open jacket, searching desperately for something solid to anchor herself to.
It was the deepest silence she had ever known. Not simply the absence of sound, but something dense and oppressive, a stillness so complete that, if not for the gentle breath brushing against her face and the certainty of Eteri's arms holding her upright, fear might have frozen her in place.
"Are you okay?" Eteri asked, her voice reduced to a faint echo in the darkness.
"I think so," Zhenya managed.
For what felt like an endless minute, the universe narrowed to that shared breath. Two separate orbits caught around the same center. Her heart began to pound violently, overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions she could neither name nor untangle, and judging by the uneven rhythm of Eteri's breathing, she seemed trapped within a similar prison.
Neither of them moved. Neither of them made any effort to break the hold.
The electricity returned as suddenly as it had vanished, flooding the rink with light and revealing a scene that felt entirely out of place.
They were standing far too close. The distance between them had disappeared completely, and Zhenya could feel the warmth of Eteri's body through the layers of clothing separating them. Their eyes met, and something in the collision of their gazes seemed to accelerate everything at once, suspending them inside a space that belonged to no one else; a fragile, uncertain place occupied equally by doubt and desire.
Eteri had to summon an almost painful amount of self-control before she could manage to speak.
"It's late."
No answer came.
Zhenya's gaze drifted downward and settled on her coach's lips. She tried to convince herself it was a perfectly logical reaction; Eteri had just spoken, after all. The excuse lasted only a moment. The truth was that those lips had become impossible to ignore, transforming into something dangerously compelling, and she had no desire whatsoever to save herself from the fall.
She wanted to answer. She desperately wanted to answer. Yet every attempt to form a coherent thought dissolved before it could fully take shape, leaving her trapped in the overwhelming awareness of how close they still were.
"How are you getting home?"
Eteri continued speaking.
The question came out two tones lower, rougher, every word carrying the strain of someone making one final attempt to regain control of a situation already slipping through her fingers. It was the last barrier she tried to raise against the collapse, a futile defense when she herself had long since surrendered to the pull of the young woman standing before her.
"Maybe... you could... I... want..."
The request, that Eteri take her home herself, fell apart somewhere between thought and speech, reduced to unfinished fragments that refused to form a complete sentence.
Zhenya seemed to be operating on instinct alone, and the realization was both comforting and terrifying. She felt an inexplicable need to close the distance between them and stretched upward slightly, tilting her head as she became acutely aware of Eteri's breath against her skin.
Eteri showed no intention of retreating. Her hands remained firmly anchored at Zhenya's waist as she leaned forward ever so slightly.
Ready to abandon reason entirely, Zhenya parted her lips and closed her eyes, longing for the precise moment when the distance between them would finally disappear.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly, each second passing with agonizing slowness.
But the contact never came.
The moment fell apart when a familiar voice called out from the entrance to the rink.
"Zhen!"
It was Dmitry.
The only reason Zhenya had remained at the complex so late in the first place.
She had asked him to pick her up after finishing her training, knowing that the city's transportation system had practically shut down because of the storm. He had agreed immediately, warning her that he might arrive a little later than usual.
“I could be risking my life for this, you know”, one of his text messages had read, accompanied by a broken-heart emoji. She had replied with nothing more than “Drama queen”.
Now he was standing there, looking for her, motionless in the doorway.
His figure remained hidden from view because Eteri's body blocked her line of sight completely. She wasn't about to complain about that. Instead, her thoughts latched onto a far colder question as she wondered just how much he might have been able to see from the darkness of the corridor.
The moment Dmitry's voice echoed from the doorway, Eteri's hands slipped away from Zhenya's waist.
The loss of warmth was immediate. A sudden chill settled over her in the middle of the rink, making her miss the contact far more than she wanted to admit.
"I'll be there in a second!" she called toward the entrance, taking advantage of the moment Eteri finally stepped away and headed toward the observation table to collect her belongings.
Dmitry nodded from a distance before disappearing toward the parking lot.
When the rink belonged to them once more, Zhenya skated nervously toward the table. Unsure of what to think, and even less certain of what to do, she cleared her throat softly to catch Eteri's attention.
Once she was close enough, she ventured the question.
"Are you okay?"
Eteri didn't seem angry. As far as Zhenya could tell, there was no emotion on her face at all. The expression was so carefully neutral that she couldn't decide whether it should reassure her or make her worry even more.
"Yeah, just..." Eteri hesitated, still wrestling with the remnants of her nerves and silently scolding herself for it. "It's nothing. I just need to check the power supply system and make sure the outage didn't cause any serious damage."
Zhenya paused for a moment, absorbing the distance that had suddenly reappeared between them.
"Okay. I... should go."
A faint smile touched Eteri's lips.
Zhenya nearly forgot how to breathe when the older woman turned her head slightly toward her, allowing a few loose curls to fall along her jaw and frame her features.
"Go on," she said with a small nod.
They simply looked at each other.
Zhenya understood then that they would not speak about what had just happened. Not now and perhaps not ever.
She accepted it in silence. Nor could she find the words to break the unspoken agreement herself.
Turning toward the exit, she pushed off across the ice, fully intending to leave. She had barely gone a few feet when a second remark stopped her cold.
"He is waiting for you."
There was no malice in Eteri's voice. No anger. No mockery.
Just a handful of words suspended in the air, carrying the weight of a secret far larger than either of them was willing to acknowledge.
Unable to turn around, Zhenya paused for only a moment before continuing toward the exit, carrying with her the uneasy churn in her stomach and the shiver that ran the length of her spine before she finally met Dmitry and headed home.
—
Eteri continued her final inspection of the complex, making sure the facilities had survived the power outage intact. There was no reason for her to be walking the halls at that hour, no obligation requiring her to stand guard over an empty building, yet she felt an overwhelming need to do so. Maybe the orderliness of the place represented one of the few things she still had control over.
The illusion shattered the moment she stepped into the parking lot.
A strange sense of guilt rose from somewhere deep inside her as she hurried through the storm and finally took refuge inside her car. Nausea settled heavily in her stomach, accompanied by a violent disgust directed entirely at herself.
A thousand accusations in her head followed her at home.
By the time she reached her apartment, she had driven the entire way on instinct alone. She kicked off her shoes and shrugged out of her coat in the entryway before making her way to the bedroom and collapsing onto the bed. Her bag landed heavily on a nearby sofa as she stared up at the ceiling, lulled by the hostile rhythm of rain striking the windowpane.
What the hell had she been thinking?
The answer suffocated her.
Zhenya is her student. A girl she had practically helped raise since she was eight years old. The way she had looked at her tonight felt sickening to acknowledge, charged with a desire so intense it still burned beneath her ribs.
She knew exactly who Zhenya was. Brilliant. Articulate. Genuine. One of the most fascinating people she had ever met. And despite everything, she remained incapable of silencing the longing she felt for her presence, for her attention, for the quiet devotion she had denied herself for years under the guise of protecting her.
What a lie.
The realization left nowhere to hide.
She understood now that the only person she had ever protected with that cold distance was herself. Admitting that a part of her soul belonged to Zhenya, and perhaps always had, was a truth so painful that she had buried it beneath an armor of perfect composure.
In the end, the deception had accomplished nothing and the blade had found its way through regardless.
All those years spent reinforcing the armor, convincing herself she was stronger than this, had only delayed the inevitable. The wound was already there, cut deep enough that she could no longer pretend it wasn't bleeding.
She was crossing so many lines that the age difference had become the least of her concerns.
There was the fact that Zhenya was also… a woman. Eteri swallowed hard. Her fingers rose to the cross that always hung around her neck, pressing it against her skin.
It was a sin. And in that moment, she accepted herself as a sinner.
She should never have allowed her baser instincts to surface the way they had earlier that evening when she watched Zhenya leave with that boy. At first, the feeling had been fueled by something dangerously close to possessiveness, sharpened by a flash of jealousy she had managed to conceal reasonably well.
In the end, however, reality offered no mercy.
Guiding Zhenya toward Olympic gold was a powerful motivation, but it paled beside the simple desire to see her smile, to know that she was happy. And that was a kind of happiness Eteri knew she could never provide.
At least not outside the rink.
The boy, on the other hand, whose name she couldn't even remember at that moment, could give her those things. He could offer what Eteri never would: a quiet life, uncomplicated affection, something normal.
That acknowledgment should have brought her peace. If Zhenya was happy, then she should be happy too.
Instead, the war inside her became unbearable.
The revelation that she had no idea how she would look Zhenya in the eye the following morning only made it worse. She feared destroying the fragile truce they had fought so hard to rebuild, yet pretending Zhenya didn't exist was equally impossible. With growing frustration, she found herself wondering how it was possible to be a fully grown woman and still feel so incapable of handling the situation with any degree of maturity.
Eventually, the noise in her head quieted enough that she believed sleep might finally be within reach.
She lay in bed, determined to abandon her thoughts before insomnia claimed the rest of the night, when the sudden vibration of her phone from across the room sent a sharp wave of alarm through her body.
She sat upright immediately, moving before the call could disconnect. Crossing the room in hurried strides, she snatched up the phone and answered.
She recognized the voice on the other end at once.
The rushed words reached her through the speaker, tumbling over one another, and suddenly she felt something she had not experienced in years: a fear so sharp and suffocating that it stole the air from her lungs.
Her throat closed completely.
Making a superhuman effort simply to breathe, she managed a single promise before ending the call.
"I'm on my way."