Austin

The arena ice shone under the floodlights like a cold mirror, reflecting ambitions and fears. She was the star of the Russian team, the country's silver hope, having already stood on the podium twice before the Olympics. Her every move was honed by years of pain and discipline.

And every time he was there.

Austin was her enemy and archrival. An American. He spoke Russian poorly, but understood it perfectly—something she had no idea about. He skated as if the ice belonged to him. Their scores were literally neck and neck, the battle was intense, grueling, the difference being fractions of a point. But in the final standings, his name stubbornly stood higher.

It drove her crazy.

After another training session, he lazily pulled up closer, stopping too close to be an accident. A hint of a smile played across his lips. He spoke English with an American accent:

• Well... do you see? You're still a little far from me and my success, empty doll.
  (Well, you see? You're still far from me and my successes, empty-head.)

She looked up sharply, her cheeks flushed—either from the cold or from anger.

"Oh, screw you! Asshole..." she muttered through her teeth in her native language, turning around and pushing off hard with her skate against the ice.

She was sure he wouldn't understand. At most, he'd catch the intonation.

But Austin understood everything, down to the smallest detail. And now he was slightly stunned by her answer.

He watched her leave the rink in anger, and only then quietly repeated her words, awkwardly distorting the sounds:

— W-what... what?..

He really didn't speak Russian well. But he understood it too well.