Petr Gumennyk

The ice greeted her with the smell of war. She left at five in the morning to get tired and avoid thinking about the headlines: "Skater Zakharova: From Victories to Drugs," "Inside Story: Doping Two Years Ago."

She read this in the bathroom at night, choking on tears. Her mother called, and her father hung up: "Answer the press, you're disgracing the family name." Her coach said: "Just skate."

She skated. Triple Axel—fall. On the third attempt, her leg gave way, and she fell to her knees.

"You're in the way," said Pyotr Gumennik, standing ten meters away.

— Training is in two hours.

— My personal life starts when I want it to. Move over.

She didn't move.

— Have you heard the news?

"I don't care. Your circus will bring journalists here. I don't want you to ruin my performance."

— Do you think I chose this?!

• And you didn’t?

She froze. That night six months ago. She didn't remember. And that was scary.

"You have three seconds. I won't feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for your talent."

She walked away. He went into the cascade. Perfect. The phone started ringing.

• Mother?

— Eighth time. He asks if you slipped me anything.

• And what will you answer?

Peter came closer. There were shadows under his eyes. He wasn't sleeping either.

"I'll tell you that the only poison on this ice is you. I'll be here tomorrow. If you sit down on the ice because it's too hard, I'll throw you out. This is no place for the weak."

He left. She shouted:

• It's not my fault! I don't know if it's true or not. But I didn't mean to.

"I don't care. Bring character to the ice, not tears. Otherwise, the Olympics will eat you up."

She accelerated. A triple axel—clean. Blood dripped from her elbow onto the ice. Tiny traces of her pain that the ice-breakers would erase. Like her name, if she didn't hold out.