Chapter Text
By the time Odette stepped onto the ice, the applause for the skater before her had already begun to fade.
It never truly disappeared.
It lingered in the air above the rink, caught in the high rafters and swallowed by the bright white lights. It lived in the scrape of blades from the warm-up session, in the murmur of spectators settling back into their seats, in the announcer’s voice when he read her name with deliberate grandeur.
Odette did not look up at the stands.
She stood at center ice with one gloved hand resting lightly against her thigh and listened to the opening notes of her music.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
The ice was good tonight. Smooth enough to trust. Fast enough to punish hesitation.
Her coach had said that to her before she went out.
Do not chase the score. Skate the program.
As though scores did not follow her everywhere.
As though every clean landing did not become a number. Every spin level. Every edge call. Every tenth of a point that could separate a medal from an apology.
The first note rose.
Odette moved.
Her body knew the program before she did.
A sweep of her arm. A change of edge. Her free leg extending behind her in a line that had once belonged to a dance studio rather than an arena. The audience softened into a blur beyond the lights. The judges became shadows behind the boards.
For three minutes and forty-seven seconds, she was not allowed to be tired.
She was not allowed to remember that her right ankle had ached through warm-up. She was not allowed to think about the standings, the selection committee in the front row, the international assignments still undecided, or the fact that Alyosha was skating last.
She entered her opening jump.
Up.
Turn.
Land.
The impact jolted cleanly through her blade and into her knee. Stable. Controlled. Good.
The applause swelled.
Odette did not smile—not yet.
The program carried her onward. Triple after triple, each one placed exactly where it belonged. Her spins centered. Her step sequence cut deep curves into the ice. She let her shoulders soften only where the choreography demanded it; let longing pass across her face only because the music asked for it.
Her old dance instructor had once told her that audiences could smell dishonesty.
Do not show them the effort, she had said, adjusting Odette’s elbow into position. They have come to see the impossible look easy.
Odette had learned that lesson too well.
By the final minute, her lungs were burning.
She stepped into the closing combination with the last of her strength, arms opening as the music lifted. Her blade found the edge. Her body rose. The rotations blurred, then stopped.
She landed.
Clean.
The rink erupted.
Only then did Odette let herself breathe.
The final note stretched thin and bright through the arena. She lowered into the ending position, one knee bent, one arm extended toward the lights as though she could reach through them and pull something back.
For one suspended second, she stayed there.
Then the applause became real.
Odette rose, bowed, and smiled because she knew when she was supposed to.
Her coach was waiting at the boards with a towel and a look that was almost pleased.
“Beautiful,” she said as Odette stepped off the ice.
Almost pleased was not enough.
Odette accepted the towel. “Almost?”
Her coach’s mouth tightened. “The landing on the second Lutz traveled.”
“It was clean.”
“It was clean,” her coach agreed. “But it traveled.”
Odette pressed the towel against the back of her neck. The cold air curled around her damp skin.
“What did you think?”
“I think you gave them nothing they could punish.”
That was supposed to be reassuring.
Odette looked back at the ice. The marks from her program still crossed its surface in pale white scars.
“And nothing they could reward,” she said.
Her coach did not answer.
The kiss-and-cry was too warm.
Odette sat beneath the sponsor boards with her skates still on, hands folded in her lap. Her coach sat beside her, composed in the way coaches learned to be for cameras. Across the rink, another skater finished warming down. An announcer said something in a language Odette only half understood.
The score appeared.
137.46
A personal best.
The crowd cheered again.
Her coach squeezed her hand. “That puts you first.”
For now, Odette thought.
She smiled for the camera.
The standings flashed on the screen.
- Odette — 213.18
- Childe — 211.67
- Ayaka — 204.92
One skater remained.
Alyosha.
Odette stared at the screen for exactly one second too long.
Her coach noticed.
“You do not need to watch.”
“Yes,” Odette said, standing. “I do.”
Her coach gave her a look that said she knew better than to argue.
Odette left the kiss-and-cry before the cameras could catch anything other than the proper version of her face.
In the hallway behind the rink, the atmosphere changed. The arena noise became distant and muffled, as though the building had shut a door between itself and the rest of the world. Coaches spoke in low voices. Volunteers hurried past with clipboards. Someone laughed too loudly near the locker rooms.
Odette should have gone to change.
Instead, she stopped near the entrance to the athlete tunnel.
The broadcast monitor mounted above the hallway flickered, then shifted to the ice.
Alyosha was standing at center.
Even from a grainy screen, he looked wrong against the rink.
Odette’s costume had been pale blue, silvered at the sleeves, soft enough that the lights made her look almost translucent. Alyosha wore black from throat to wrist, with one jagged line of dark red across his chest like somebody had drawn a blade through the fabric.
He did not hold himself like a dancer.
He held himself like the ice had offended him.
The first beat of his music struck.
Alyosha moved.
Odette hated that he was good.
No—she hated that he was impossible to ignore.
His skating had none of her restraint. He attacked every edge. He came too close to the boards and seemed to enjoy making the front row flinch. Where Odette shaped each movement around the music, Alyosha dragged the music after him.
His opening jump was enormous.
Odette watched his body rise, twist, and land with a force that sent a spray of ice behind his blade.
The crowd screamed.
He did not look pleased.
He looked angry.
The second jump was clean. The third, harder, was not.
His landing pitched forward. One hand dropped toward the ice—not touching, not quite—but the edge scraped rough and ugly before he forced himself upright.
Odette’s breath caught.
Alyosha continued as though nothing had happened.
Of course he did.
He skated faster.
By the time he reached the step sequence, the near-mistake had become part of the program. His expression sharpened. His movements turned harsher, more desperate, and the audience followed him into it as though he had planned the whole thing.
It was infuriating.
It was brilliant.
Odette folded her arms tighter across her chest.
“He is going to kill himself one day,” someone said behind her.
She did not turn. “That is not a useful prediction.”
The person laughed quietly.
Mitya stood a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his team jacket. Odette knew him by reputation—an ice dancer, friend of Alyosha’s, constantly at the edge of the singles events despite claiming that he hated watching them.
“He likes the dramatic approach,” Mitya said.
“He likes attention.”
“Those are not always different things.”
Odette looked back at the screen.
Alyosha launched into his final combination.
The first jump snapped into the air. The second followed. The last landing held—barely—and for a moment Odette thought he might step out.
He did not.
He stayed upright through sheer spite.
The final notes of the music crashed through the arena. Alyosha dropped into his ending pose, one knee bent, one hand braced against the ice.
The crowd rose to its feet.
Odette did not.
She stood in the hallway, staring at the monitor while applause thundered through the building.
Mitya exhaled through his nose. “Well. That was annoying.”
“Yes,” Odette said.
The technical score appeared first.
Then the components.
Then the total.
214.00
For a second, nothing happened.
Odette’s mind did the calculation without permission.
0.82.
Alyosha took first place by 0.82 points.
Mitya swore softly.
On the screen, Alyosha blinked at the score as though he did not believe it. Then he laughed once—sharp and startled—and bent forward with both hands on his knees.
The arena roared his name.
Odette turned away.
“Odette,” Mitya said.
She did not stop walking.
The locker room was empty when she reached it.
That should have helped.
Instead, the silence made everything louder: the click of her skate guards against the bench, the rustle of her costume as she tugged at the zipper, the blood beating at the base of her throat.
She had skated clean.
She had done everything right.
And she had lost.
Odette sat down hard on the bench and began untying her skates.
Her fingers did not shake.
She was proud of that.
She had just pulled off the first skate when the locker-room door opened.
Alyosha stood in the doorway.
He was still in costume. His hair was damp with sweat, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. Up close, the smugness everyone expected from him was there—but it sat unevenly on his face, like something he had put on in a hurry.
Odette looked back down at her laces.
“You are in the wrong room.”
“I know.”
“Then leave.”
He shut the door behind him.
Odette looked up.
Alyosha leaned back against it, folding his arms. “You were watching.”
“Everyone was watching.”
“You stayed.”
“I was waiting for the hallway to clear.”
He smiled. “Liar.”
Odette tugged at the knot in her skate lace. “Congratulations. You nearly survived your own choreography.”
His smile widened, but his eyes remained tired. “And you nearly looked happy out there.”
“I was skating.”
“Exactly.”
The knot finally gave. Odette removed the skate with more force than necessary and set it beside the bench.
Alyosha watched her for a moment.
“You skated well,” he said.
She glanced at him.
The words did not sound like a taunt. That made them worse.
“So did you,” she said.
He tipped his head slightly. “That almost sounded sincere.”
“Do not get used to it.”
“I will try not to.”
Odette reached for her other skate.
Alyosha shifted his weight against the door. His right shoulder moved strangely—too carefully, as though he had forgotten she could see him. It lasted less than a second.
Then he rolled it back and smiled again.
Odette’s hands paused.
“You should get that looked at,” she said.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“Your shoulder.”
“It is fine.”
“It does not look fine.”
“It is.”
Odette met his eyes.
For the first time since he had walked in, his smile disappeared completely.
The room felt colder.
“You are very loud when you are frightened,” she said.
Alyosha went still.
Odette had not meant to say it.
Or perhaps she had. She was not sure.
The look on his face was brief, almost invisible. But it was there: surprise first, then anger, then something guarded and exhausted beneath both.
He pushed away from the door.
“You should be careful,” he said lightly, though nothing about his voice was light now. “People might think you care.”
Odette stared at him.
Then she looked back down and began untying the second skate.
“I care about not having to watch you collapse during a medal ceremony,” she said. “It would be inconvenient.”
Alyosha laughed once.
This time, it did not sound convincing.
“Goodnight, Odette.”
“Goodnight, Alyosha.”
The door shut behind him.
Odette sat alone in the empty locker room with one skate on, one skate off, and a silver medal waiting somewhere in her bag.
Outside, the crowd was still cheering for him.
She told herself the sound did not matter.
She told herself 0.82 points did not matter.
She told herself she did not care that Alyosha had looked at her as though she had seen something he wanted hidden.
Then she pulled off her second skate, stood, and found herself staring at the closed door long after he was gone.