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Memories and reality overlapped, melting into a deep, curious, bitter dream . Moving through underground tunnels, running in mazes, enduring wild collisions without penalties in the open air—there was always the press of a crowd, eyes full of expectation, judgment , and disappointment . A pawn for sponsors, a springboard for someone else's ambitions.
Polar crashed into the finish zone. The jarring impact confirmed one thing: a stranded orca was she, helpless on land.
Her breathing was too fast. Cold sweat coated her palms. Her legs buckled; she couldn't stand. Floating somewhere above her own body, she felt detached, like an official conducting an impartial inspection of her physiological state. It looked like overexcitement, but with a final standing like this, fear seemed more fitting.
What am I afraid of?
Alpine pushed through the crowd and pulled her into an embrace. Through her captain's arms, Polar realized she was trembling. Watching Alpine and Glide help her to her feet, she remained baffled by her own state. She lingered above the venue, hovering as a silent observer. The despondent blur of blue and pink in the stands filled her gaze. Only when her body had been carried into the infirmary, its image fading from view, did she decide it was pointless to drift any longer. Slowly, she followed.
A gentle knock on the door, a pause, and then it opened. That was Frost's habit. Standing in the doorway, he studied her expression, asking a question she didn't really answer.
Polar heard her own voice merely reciting the medical staff's diagnosis:
“Just some muscle cramps. I pushed too hard in the first half trying to secure an advantage and couldn't control my speed.”
Frost stepped inside, settling beside her. His gaze was warm but tinged with sadness.
“Everyone got stuck at the narrowing segment of the course. That was my fault. I hit the wall and lost my line. I have to take responsibility for my failure.”
“Is that what you really want to say?” Frost's voice was quiet, yet impossibly clear. Each syllable echoed through her hollow shell.
Is that what I really want to say?
“You're a member of Gliding Glaciers. This is 2023, and we're in the Superhive Stadium. You're safe now. Nobody will come and hurt us anymore. ”
I'm safe now. Nobody will hurt me.
I can trust you.
…
Polar was pulled back into her own body.
“…I think…I might be…a little scared,” she said slowly. The words flooded out, then ebbed inward like a tide, stirring her chest and bringing her heart back to life.
After a quiet moment of seeking her consent, Frost gently took her hand.
“I didn't realize the course was starting to branch out,” she began, her voice steady but growing quicker. “All the marbles were jammed at the intersection. I wanted to squeeze through, but if I pushed too hard, it would be a foul. I couldn't tell where the line was—what counted as contact, and what crossed into aggression.
“They surrounded me, and I couldn't see the path ahead or behind. I didn't know whether to block or keep running. I thought I heard the whistle blow, but the judges and the crowd didn't react.
“In the second half, my legs wouldn't move but I couldn't figure out why. I didn't know if I was injured. No blood, no pain. Just the whistle. It kept going. Over and over and over again.”
Something lodged in Polar's throat, an unnamed weight she couldn't swallow. Her words poured out faster as if she were racing to escape the tremor at the end of her sentences.
A few drops of tears splashed onto her hand—but they weren't hers. They came from Frost. What did those tears mean? Had she hurt him when she held his hand? Had she said something wrong? She bit her lip, searching for an answer.
“Do you hate me?” she asked at last.
“Of course not,” Frost replied, catching her evasive gaze with a gentle steadiness. “You never cry, so maybe I'm doing it for you.”
Frost and Polar walked back to Glaciers' lounge in measured steps. There was a cot inside for her to rest, but Polar didn't want to lie down. Instead, she curled up in the corner of the couch, clutching an oversized soccer-ball-shaped pillow, her thoughts drifting blankly amid the endless replays of the race results on the television screen .
The door burst open with a bang.
“That was unfair! That was definitely a foul!” Iceberg stormed in, his voice loud and furious, while Sheet desperately clung to his arm, trying to calm him down. Both of them froze when they noticed Polar. The air in the room seemed to solidify.
“…It was box-seating ,” Iceberg muttered awkwardly.
“No, it wasn't.”
“Yes it was.”
“…”
“At least it wasn't Polar's fault,” Iceberg grumbled as he switched off the television and sat beside her. His tone carried none of the fiery defiance he had just shown when arguing with the referees.
“No one's at fault. Everyone was just doing their best to race,” Sheet said softly.
“…I know,” Iceberg admitted, his voice heavy with frustration. “I know nobody will come and trick us anymore , but…”
But if I don't blame someone else, I have to face reality. Polar gave it her all—every step of the way. She's trained every course hundreds, maybe thousands of times. She's been injured and healed, disheartened and determined, but still, it wasn't enough to win. Why?
Am I just supposed to accept that we aren't good enough? Maybe she can but not for me. Are we supposed to go back and try again? But how much more training will it take? Even if she never gives up, will the audience keep watching? Will her body keep up? Are we going to hear someone say she should retire because of ‘health concerns'? What right do those who've never run to tell her to step off the track?
The room fell silent. After a long while, a muffled voice emerged from the depths of the soccer pillow.
“Do you hate me?”
“Of course not!”
Iceberg let out an exasperated groan, running his hands through his hair. “It's just the stress of the season talking! I swear I'll never hate you or get tired of marble sports. For heaven's sake, you're the coolest I've ever know—why would you even think that?!”
He flopped onto the couch, rolled onto the floor, and then leaped back to his feet, stomping loudly across the room. “The next match!” he declared, his voice brimming with resolve. “Legion March Wave! Next time, you and I will wipe every other player off the leaderboard!”
Iceberg left the lounge in a whirlwind of noise and energy, leaving behind two quiet marbles to face each other.
“He's really worried about you, though doesn't always show it in the best way,” Sheet said softly, crouching in front of the couch and tilting his head to look up at Polar. His expression carried an apologetic, cautious smile. Polar recognized it as the kind of look meant there was more to be said, so she waited.
“So…” Sheet hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Do you…do you resent them? I mean the marbles in your group. I mean…”
Polar shook her head.
“Really? I mean…well…you were so shaken up at the time. I'd understand if you did, even though they didn't mean any harm…”
“I'm not angry.”
“...When I saw you kneeling in the finish zone, needing the captain and coach to help you walk, I was really worried about you. I knew unpleasant things would come to your mind from time to time, but I didn't realize how much it would affect you. I'm angry at myself for not noticing sooner. And also…”
“Do you hate me?” Polar interrupted.
“Never!” Sheet exclaimed, pulling Polar and her oversized pillow into a big, warm hug. “Thank you for asking me—that gives me a chance to say this: You're an amazing athlete. You're such an important teammate to me, and I like you so much. Besides, in our sport, marbles become friends first and competitors second. No one dislikes you—absolutely no one.”
So I hope you won't dislike them either, Sheet murmured gently. Every day, I wish for you to be happy. I hope the past can let you go. I wish that, whether on the track or off, nobody will resent or curse anyone anymore.
When Glide entered the lounge, Polar was watching footage from last year's competition. He ruffled her hair gently, as if wanting to say something, but struggled to find the right words.
“How much sugar did you put in your tea?” he finally asked, feigning casual curiosity.
Polar blinked at him, slowly—very slowly—setting down her teacup.
“…Well, just this once.” Glide smiled faintly. “Alpine's on the training grounds, practicing movements. You might want to take a look. You need to lower your center of gravity as you near the finish line. Don't worry—this event is one of our strongest…”
In Polar's cup, six sugar cubes swirled together in the tea, gradually dissolving into a warm, sweet unity, releasing a gentle steam into the air.