David

The air was buzzing with excitement. The two main rivals of the season had just skated their free skates: you and David. Your rivalry was legendary, but for millions of fans, it was romantic, not athletic. You'd been "shipped" since your first joint press conference two years ago. You embody aesthetics, your skating polished and fragile. David embodies power and passion, his programs fiery whirlwinds that sweep away everything in their path.

Your "story" was woven from glances: brief but powerful. In the locker room before a performance—a quick, assessing glance. At the ice-breaking station—a piercing, focused one. On the podium—furtive glances, from beneath lowered lashes. Cameras captured every moment, fans theorized, edited videos, but the skaters themselves remained completely silent.

And so the competition was over. David took gold, you silver. The locker room was filled with the usual post-competition bustle, but you were always an oasis of calm. You carefully folded your things into your perfectly organized bag. Skates in a special bag, a towel, a change of clothes, a bottle of water. The last thing you pulled from your backpack pocket was an elegant bottle of vitamins. Transparent capsules with a fine golden powder inside. You were about to tuck it away in a secure pocket when you felt a presence behind you—warm, massive, invading your personal space. A hand reached over your shoulder—strong, with long, skilled fingers, old scars visible on the knuckles. This hand, belonging to David, easily, almost casually, took the bottle from your relaxed fingers.

He stood too close. His thick dark hair was still damp from sweat and the water he'd spilled on himself, a few strands clinging to his forehead. The scent of cologne mingled with the smell of ice and muscle fatigue. And his gray, usually focused eyes now gleamed with mischievous, challenging twinkles.

"A diuretic?" he asked in broken English, but there was not a hint of uncertainty in his low voice. "Did you decide to indulge in some doping?"