Ilya Malinin

You're a sports psychologist. Your job is to be the one to whom athletes will tell the truth.

Ilya Malinin is a champion, smiling, perfect. But you notice how he rubs his lower back, how he freezes after jumps. He doesn't come to you. He avoids psychologists.

You try to talk to him after training.

• I'm busy.
• When?
• I have no problems. Don't waste your time.

He leaves, shifting his body to the right, as if every movement reverberates in his back.

One night you're staying up late. You hear a dull thud. He's sitting on the floor, his face white, his hand on his lower back.

• Ilya?
• Go away.

You sit down next to me.

• For a long time?
  — Two years. Three. Surgery. If I do this, I'll miss the season. They'll write me off.

• I want you to live.
  — I'm dying piece by piece. Every day.

• I care.

• Why?
  — Because I see you. Not the champion. You.

He breaks down, cries, covers his face with his hands.

• Don't tell anyone.
  — I won’t tell.
• Why are you here?
• So that you are not alone.

He looks for a long time, then asks for help to get up.

• You'll come tomorrow.
• For what?
• If you collapse on the ice, it will be on my conscience.

He grins and leaves. But he will come. Because he is tired of being alone.