Chapter Text
Zhenya remembers how much she longed to learn how to skate.
There was a small television in the living room of her home that she used to watch in the afternoons. Sometimes it showed children’s programs—meaningless noise; other times, like that day, it was the Olympic Games. She would sit close, watching the skaters glide, spin, and lift into the air before landing with precision—seconds suspended where they no longer seemed human. And she, sitting cross-legged in front of the screen, began to believe that the improbable might not be so impossible after all.
“I want to learn how to skate!” she repeated it so many times that it eventually became inevitable.
Zhanna gave in to the intensity with which that desire had settled into her daughter’s small body, guided by a quiet maternal instinct that told her she was meant for something greater.
The first rink she went to was close to home. Modest, tucked away beneath the noise of the city. That was where it all started. Zhenya learned to stand, then to move, later to turn.
Every achievement, no matter how small, she carried with pride, and her coaches began to praise her. It was the result of her passion for the sport, something that always drew the eye back to her again and again. No matter the awkwardness of her missteps or the aimless turns, there was something burning inside her. Pure fire.
Zhanna saw it too, and knew that a talent like that could not be kept from the world.
That is how Evgenia ended up enrolled in the state academy Sambo-70.
“Why do I have to change schools? I don’t want to stop seeing my friends!” she protested, upset.
“You’re going to love it,” her mother assured her, with a certainty the girl could not share.
The drive was short, but long enough for unease to grow in her chest. When the car stopped in front of the complex, the first thing she felt was how small her old mall rink seemed in comparison. She didn’t move from her seat until Zhanna insisted, nearly pulling her out.
She walked close beside her, hiding in the fabric of her coat, observing everything without daring to touch anything. The spotless walls, the distant echo of blades scraping against the ice, followed by the low murmur of focused voices.
Each step brought her closer to something she didn’t know if she wanted to face.
Until the doors opened and the world changed.
The ice stretched out before Evgenia like a perfect surface, bright, almost unreal. Skaters crossed from one side to the other, jumping, spinning, falling, and rising again with a natural ease that stole her breath. It was like watching that screen again, only this time she could feel the cold, hear the impact, and see the effort behind every movement.
Her heart skipped.
Much later, she would find the words to describe what she felt: “love at first sight.” Of the rink, of skating, of this new horizon opening before her.
A woman approached them, dressed in training gear with the colors of the country. She was tall—even taller than her mother—with brown hair falling in soft curls along the sides of her face. She seemed kind, but there was something more in the way she walked, a quiet confidence that made everything around her fall into place without effort.
“You must be Zhanna Medvedeva, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending her hand with ease. Her mother responded with a smile. “My name is Eteri Georgievna. Welcome.”
The woman must have noticed how the girl clung to Zhanna’s back, refusing to take another step, because instead of insisting, she bent down to her level and, with unexpected gentleness, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture was small, almost insignificant, but Zhenya felt heat rush to her face all at once, as if she had been caught in something she didn’t even understand. She wanted to hide, to cry from embarrassment, to just disappear. She couldn’t stop wondering, again, why her mother had brought her there.
“You must be Evgenia,” her voice was different now—slower, drawing her gaze upward. “Your mother told me you like watching the Olympics… I train girls to get there. Tell me, Evgenia, would you like to go to the Olympics?”
“She’s beautiful and kind”, she thought, unable to stop herself—and that thought betrayed her more than the fear.
She nodded slightly, a movement so small she wasn’t even sure she had truly made it. Eteri smiled as if it had been enough and stood again, offering her hand without pressure, simply leaving it there for her.
Zhenya hesitated a second longer than necessary before deciding to take the invitation—out of curiosity, because there was something about that woman that made her want to move forward even when everything in her told her not to.
The walk was slow and patient. Eteri spoke and she listened; sometimes she answered, sometimes she found herself asking more than she thought she could. When she finally sat down to put on her skates, her hands were no longer trembling as much, and when she stood, she gave a small nod toward her new coach.
She walked toward the entrance of the rink, her pulse racing.
The door opened, and the white light blinded her for a moment; she had to squint to adjust, while the sound of the ice wrapped around everything again. She heard a soft laugh beside her, and when she turned, Eteri was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. Zhenya smiled without realizing it, her heart pounding hard against her chest.
A hand appeared in front of her again.
This time, she didn’t hesitate.
She took her hand and stepped onto the ice.
“Show me what you can do kiddo,” Eteri said.
Zhenya felt every syllable like a challenge she couldn’t refuse. The doubt faded, replaced by something new—something steadier.
Then she smiled.
And she did.
—
In the years that followed, Zhenya made sure to prove it again and again—not with words, but with effort, with every fall and every attempt, with that stubbornness of hers that didn’t know how to give up, even when it hurt. In the good moments and the bad ones, on the days when everything came out clean and on those when the ice seemed to work against her, she always got back up with the same fixed idea: to show what she was made of.
She grew there, in that space, measuring time in seasons and new programs. And as she moved forward, so did Eteri. She watched her change little by little, gain presence, become a name within the complex, and take her first student to the Olympics.
That was the day Zhenya understood something she had only imagined before: it wasn’t a distant dream, or something she watched on a screen. It was possible. It was there, within reach—if she could hold on long enough.
She knew she could.
She didn’t say it out loud, but she felt it in the way her body responded, in how she began to surpass the others almost without noticing, and in the ease with which she faced everything new placed in front of her. More complex jumps, faster combinations, sequences that demanded absolute precision.
She tried, she failed, she repeated, she landed it.
Again and again.
Always one more time.
—
One morning, she arrived earlier than usual.
The complex was still quiet—the kind of silence that only exists before everything begins, when the ice has not yet been touched. Zhenya was sitting in the stands, bent over her skates, carefully tightening the laces.
“It’s seven in the morning, Zhenya. Your training isn’t until eight—what are you doing here?”
The voice caught her off guard, but didn’t stop her. She shrugged without really looking up, finishing the adjustment of one blade before standing.
“I couldn’t think about anything but skating,” she answered easily, moving closer. “I can’t think about anything but winning.”
She said it without dramatics. Just a simple truth.
Eteri looked at her for a second and then, almost without thinking, returned the hug Zhenya had already half-led her into. Over time, that kind of gesture had become normal between them. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of place.
“That does seem to be something you’re good at.”
Zhenya let out a small laugh.
“Good morning to you too, Eteri Georgievna.”
She pulled away lightly and slipped off toward the rink. It welcomed her with that familiar crackle beneath her blades, and everything settled back into place.
“Try not to ruin the ice before the others get here!” Eteri called after her, laughing, the sound fading into the empty space.
“No promises!” Zhenya called back, already gliding away, letting her voice bounce off the walls.
Eteri did not move right away. She stayed there, watching her with a smile that would not quite fade, before finally turning and walking toward her office like any other morning.
She was right.
Zhenya was very good at winning.
She had a few minor appearances before fully stepping into her junior season, nothing that truly stood out. Local competitions, modest results, names no one remembered by the end of the day. It was not the story she had imagined in front of the television, nor the version of herself she believed she was on the ice.
Then came the injury. It was not serious—nothing that time, rest, and fewer hours of training could not heal—but it was enough to throw her off rhythm and make her doubt.
And when the world finally opened up before her, it did not feel like a promise. It felt cold and indifferent, and for the first time, Zhenya thought that maybe everything that made her special existed only inside her own head and in the way her mother looked at her.
“I don’t want to keep skating.”
She said it quietly, seated with her shoulders slumped and her gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.
She had placed eighth. It was not a terrible number; no one had humiliated her, no one had singled her out, but it hurt as if it were the worst thing that had ever happened to her.
Eteri did not answer right away. She took her time, choosing each word with care.
“You can leave now, if that’s what you want. Leave everything here and not come back.” Her tone wasn’t harsh, nor was it condescending—just clear. “You’ll never know if you could have achieved everything you’re imagining.”
Zhenya didn’t lift her gaze.
“Or you can stay,” she continued. “And then we’ll find out together.”
It wasn’t a gentle promise. It was a maybe—one that, for Zhenya, felt like something to hold onto, enough to keep her afloat in the middle of a quiet wreck.
She stayed.
Not out of pride, not even out of love for the sport, but for something harder to name—something that had to do with that voice, with the way Eteri had said those words, as if they truly meant something. As if she wasn’t alone in it.
The years that followed passed quickly.
The junior season arrived, and with it, everything that had once seemed distant began to fall into place. Zhenya won. Then she won again. And again. The feeling was unlike anything she had known before. The medal and the podium mattered, but they were nothing compared to what came after. The moment in the kiss and cry, the embrace she always found waiting, the weight of a hand on her shoulder, the voice close, the kiss on her forehead. The small ritual she shared with Eteri that belonged only to her.
Glory looked like that.
Like that gaze.
Like the way Eteri watched her when everything went right, knowing that in that moment, no one else existed.
Zhenya began to chase it—the way to provoke that look, that quiet pride she knew she stood at the center of.
And for a time, she did.
—
Things began to change.
Sambo-70 stopped being what it once was and became something bigger. Eteri’s name began to carry undeniable weight, drawing in more students, bringing with them more noise, more expectations. Everything grew. The team grew.
Without anyone ever saying it out loud, time began to divide itself.
At first, it was almost imperceptible. A training session where Eteri wasn’t there. A correction that came from someone else. A day when Zhenya searched for her with her eyes and couldn’t find her.
Zhenya didn’t know exactly when it started to bother her.
She just felt it.
“Is she not coming again?”
The question came out faster than she intended, directed at Daniil, with a restlessness she didn’t bother to hide.
He looked at her for a second, understanding more than she had actually said.
“I know you’d like her to be here,” he replied calmly, “but she won’t be able to make it today, Zhenya. I’m sorry.”
She nodded, as if that were enough.
As if she understood.
One day, when Eteri finally showed up, Zhenya decided to do everything wrong on purpose. There was something stubborn in it—each mistake was a way of pushing at something that had been stuck for a while, something she no longer knew how to say any other way. Eteri noticed from the very beginning, because she knew too well the difference between when Zhenya failed and when she chose to fail. And still, she said nothing on the ice—which somehow made it worse.
By the time Zhenya reached the office, she was already upset. She dropped into the chair with her arms crossed, avoiding looking at her directly, as if that gave her even the smallest advantage: a rebellious student called into the principal’s office.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Eteri asked, without raising her voice.
Zhenya shrugged slightly, pretending at an indifference she didn’t fully believe herself.
“Nothing.”
Eteri watched her for a moment longer than necessary before answering, waiting for her to correct herself.
“Your entire technique was off today.”
The sentence landed differently for Zhenya, because it wasn’t a reproach or an argument—it was a statement. And that made her feel more exposed than she would have liked.
“Then maybe someone should have corrected it,” she replied, finally lifting her gaze and holding it, with a strange mix of defiance and something else slipping between her words. “Because I’m supposed to have a coach, right? One who lately seems to have too many other priorities.”
Eteri smiled, then let out a short laugh—not quite mocking, but not gentle either. It caught Zhenya off guard; she had expected a reprimand, a correction—but not that. Heat rushed to her face, an uncomfortable mix of embarrassment and anger, and her expression hardened further.
“Zhen, look at me,” Eteri said, leaning slightly toward her, closing the distance without touching her.
It took effort to obey. She knew that the moment she did, she wouldn’t be able to hold onto that armor she had built around herself—but still, she lifted her gaze.
“Is this because I’ve been absent?”
The question landed directly, without hesitation, and for a second Zhenya faltered, caught in her own doubts.
“You haven’t been,” she said at last, softer than she meant to. “Not with me. You’re always busy, there’s always someone else, and this…” She paused briefly, finding the words without backing away. “This matters to me, Eteri… Georgievna.”
The full name came out heavy, almost forced—an attempt to restore a distance she no longer knew how to manage.
“And stop looking at me like I’m a little kid,” she added quickly, her tone hardening again so she wouldn’t linger on what she’d just said. “I’m turning sixteen.”
Eteri didn’t respond right away. She watched her differently now, weighing her thoughts before speaking, her gaze shifting away for just a moment.
“You’re right,” she said finally. “I’ve been absent—more than I should have. And it hasn’t been professional.”
For the second time, Zhenya hadn’t expected that answer. She didn’t know what to say.
“The team is growing. There are more responsibilities, more students coming in,” Eteri continued, laying out her reasons without turning them into excuses. “But that doesn’t change what you are to me.”
The words lingered between them, uneasy in a different way now—because they didn’t quite belong to the moment they were standing in.
“I’ll be here,” she added. “If you are too.”
Zhenya frowned slightly. She didn’t like the way that sounded.
“I’m always here.”
Eteri shook her head, just barely.
“Not today.”
The impact was small, but precise—and it stayed there, with no way for Zhenya to avoid it.
“What do you want?” Eteri asked then, and this time it didn’t sound like a training question.
Zhenya hesitated—which already said too much.
“I want you to take me seriously.”
Her voice came out quiet, but without the sharp edge from before, and the moment she said it, she felt she had crossed something she couldn’t undo.
Eteri held her gaze, more firmly now.
“I do.”
“That’s not how it feels,” Zhenya said, shaking her head.
The silence that followed stretched, unbroken, and when Eteri spoke again, she didn’t soften it.
“Then I will and you’re going to meet me there.”
She didn’t explain how, didn’t leave room for interpretation.
Zhenya paid close attention to that last part. She realized that maybe she had just asked for something far more serious than she had meant to.
“Alright, big girl,” Eteri added, with the same ease she had used earlier to point out her mistakes. “We’re going to win everything next season. Now go.”
It was a simple statement, and Zhenya didn’t respond—because she wasn’t entirely sure how it connected to what she had asked for.
—
After that, the reality she knew changed completely.
Eteri kept her end of the deal. She did it in a way that, at another time, would have been everything Zhenya wanted: more time, more attention, more presence— always close, always watching. For a while, it even felt like she was at the center again, as if everything she had asked for out loud had finally fallen into place in her favor.
Except it wasn’t the same.
Something shifted when Zhenya moved up to senior—something that came without warning, without a clear moment to mark it. Small signs, stretched out over time, that eventually made all the difference. Eteri became stricter, more demanding, with a precision that no longer allowed for small mistakes or indulgence. Trainings grew longer, repetitions became mandatory, and the closeness that had once felt natural began to fade, replaced by something else—a distance that felt almost indifferent.
It was as if the softness Zhenya had known as a child, the one Eteri had shown her in those early years, had been replaced by something sharper, more adult—coming from a version of Eteri she didn’t fully know.
There were no arms waiting for her when she stepped off the ice, no soft voice after a clean program. Now there were corrections. Adjustments. Again. Always again.
Zhenya learned the new language quickly. No one explained it to her—she just understood, even if she hated it in silence. The affection hadn’t disappeared; it had simply changed shape. If Eteri said her name in that firm tone, it meant she still saw her, that she still expected something from her. And as long as that remained, it was enough.
She didn’t complain. She didn’t ask. She adapted.
Her career was beginning to take off, and everything else faded into the background.
Outside voices began to slip into her training: journalists, other coaches, opinions she never asked for but that reached her anyway. They said her training was excessive, that her routine was unsustainable, that no one should demand that much from someone her age. Big, uncomfortable words that repeated themselves until they became constant noise.
“Inappropriate.” “A nightmare.” "Poor child".
They spoke about her life as if they knew it, and Zhenya listened without really listening—because there was nothing outside of it. There had been nothing before Eteri for her.
So she did the only thing she knew how to do: skate.
Eteri had changed on the outside, too. Her hair was different—lighter, more carefully styled, her whole appearance more polished than before. Zhenya couldn’t have said exactly what had changed, only that she noticed it immediately, and that it took more effort than she expected to hold her gaze the first time she saw her like that, up close.
She remembered saying once, in an interview, that she wanted to be as pretty as Eteri when she grew up. She had said it without thinking much about what it meant, like so many other things.
It didn’t amuse her now.
There was something uncomfortable in the way her body reacted—a warmth that rose without permission, a feeling she didn’t know where to place, one that left her exposed, awkward in a way she never was on the ice. It bothered her not to understand it, and for some reason, it bothered her even more that Eteri didn’t seem to notice—or worse, that she did and chose to ignore it.
“That color suits you,” she said, trying to make it sound casual.
Eteri didn’t respond. Not a smile, not even a gesture to show she had heard.
Zhenya noticed that the way she looked at her had changed, too.
It wasn’t disinterest—it was something else. A colder, more focused gaze, as if she were looking at her exactly the way Zhenya had once asked her to. No softness. No allowances. No space where she could be anything other than an athlete.
Only performance and results.
She had become something that had to work.
A winning project.
Zhenya couldn’t protest without sounding absurd, without exposing herself in ways she wasn’t willing to admit. What would she even ask for? To be treated differently? To be cared for the way she used to be? If everything she was achieving came from this—from this new method—and everything she wanted… did too.
So she kept it to herself.
And she kept going, just as she always had.
—
She won everything in her first year as a senior—one victory after another, stacking up with an almost unreal ease: the Grand Prix, Nationals, Europeans. Every program landed the way it should, every result confirming what had already become obvious to everyone.
Eteri didn’t celebrate.
She watched. Corrected. Adjusted the next program with the same precise, measured coldness.
As if victory were only the starting point.
As if it still wasn’t enough.
World Championships came before Zhenya had time to fully process it.
One afternoon, practice ran longer than usual. The complex slowly emptied until the silence became louder than the sound of blades against the ice. The other girls had already left. The lights were still on, and the rink felt untouched—too perfect to leave like that.
Zhenya repeated the final sequence.
Jump. Spin. Clean landing.
This time was fine.
She let herself glide toward the boards where Eteri had been watching her for a while. She stopped in front of her, waiting for anything—any sign that she had been seen.
Nothing.
Not even a harsh correction.
Just Eteri, indifference in her eyes.
“Again.”
Zhenya frowned. The exhaustion had already settled into her body, and she wanted to leave.
“It was fine,” she protested.
Eteri did not argue. She went down into the ice, ignoring her stubbornness, and approached with that calm that always meant she had already made up her mind.
“You hesitate here.”
Zhenya shook her head slightly, almost irritated.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
The closeness caught her off guard. Eteri stopped right in front of her, close enough that the cold air blurred with her breath, close enough that any attempt to pull away would have felt pointless.
“It’s not the jump.”
Zhenya held her gaze—more out of pride than anything else.
“Then what is it?”
Eteri looked at her as if she were reading something she didn’t quite like. Then, almost on instinct, she took her wrist—with that same precise control—and guided her hand to her own sternum.
“Here.”
The contact unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. Beneath the fabric, the pulse was steady, firm—impossible to ignore.
“Your pulse speeds up,” Eteri said quietly, without letting go. “You lose your timing before the entry, and you rush it.”
It sounded like a technical correction. It was a technical correction.
But Zhenya didn’t experience it that way.
She stopped hearing the rest. Her attention caught on that exact point where her fingers rested—the warmth that had nothing to do with training, the pulse beneath her hand, too fast to place. She couldn’t tell if it was Eteri’s… or her own—and the uncertainty was enough to throw everything out of balance.
The ice turned against her like something treacherous, amplifying the brush of fabric, the sound of their breathing and the silence.
Eteri let go, suddenly.
“Control that,” she added, detached.
The gesture was clean, as if nothing had happened—as if it had been exactly what it was meant to be, and nothing more.
She stepped back behind the boards, reclaiming her distance, giving Zhenya the space to piece herself back together—to reconnect her mind with her legs.
“I don’t want you skating thinking about winning,” she said. “I want you to skate like no one can catch you.”
It took Zhenya a second to react, to remember where she was. She gave a small nod, still caught in something she couldn’t quite name, until the next, sharper “Again” pushed her back onto the ice and into the rhythm.
—
On the night of the World Championships, when the entire arena began chanting Evgenia Medvedeva’s name and the sound turned deafening, Eteri leaned in just slightly and whispered so no one else could hear:
“Don’t look at the crowd when you land. Look at me.”
Zhenya did.
She didn’t think about anything else.
The program unfolded as if her body knew something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet—each jump falling into place, each spin held with precision. And when the final landing came, she didn’t look for the lights or the roar breaking around her. She looked for Eteri.
Only her.
And she found her—still, waiting—everything narrowing to that single point where their eyes held for just a second longer than necessary, long enough for everything else to fall away.
She placed first.
World champion.
Seventeen, and a season that had never faltered—perfect from beginning to end.
The medal settled against her neck through applause and flashing lights, the metal cold against her skin, unfamiliar hands adjusting it into place, voices congratulating her that she barely heard. Her attention had already shifted elsewhere, fixed on a single thought that became urgent.
The moment she stepped off the ice, she went straight for her, cutting through the noise. And when she reached her, she didn’t think—she simply took off the medal and placed it around Eteri’s neck, hurried, almost clumsy, as if confirming that it belonged to both of them.
Then she held her.
Zhenya wrapped her arms around Eteri’s neck, holding her gaze in a closeness she had learned to miss without ever admitting it.
“You were perfect,” Eteri murmured, leaning close to her ear.
Zhenya closed her eyes and held on just a little tighter.
She was the world champion.
At seventeen.
And still that wasn’t the real victory.
It was that illusion—that they were invincible together, that there were no limits as long as they kept moving in the same direction, that everything ahead would be nothing more than a continuation of this moment.
Sometimes, Zhenya would wish she could stay there, in that exact point in her life, in the fullness of that happiness. Later, she would look back on it with a clarity she didn’t have then, and wish she hadn’t mistaken that closeness for something that could last—hadn’t believed that moment was the beginning of something, instead of its purest form just before it broke.
But that night, she didn’t know.
That night, she only knew she had won, that Eteri was holding her, and that she didn’t want to move.