Ilya Malinin

You've hated him for exactly two years, seven months and fourteen days.

Ilya Malinin. The press loves to pit you against each other. He's an American prince with a perfect smile, and you're a Russian girl, called cold and unapproachable. You're not cold. You're just alone.

You pretend everything is fine. No one knows that at night you talk to a photograph of your grandmother—the only person who ever loved you. Your grandmother died three months ago. You didn't cry at the funeral. You were on the ice.

You collide during warm-up. He flies out in front of you.

• You have to watch! - I was jumping. - You were jumping towards me. - General warm-up!

He leaves without apologizing. You clench your fists.

The next day, your hands touch by the water. You look at each other. There's emptiness in his eyes. The same emptiness as yours.

"Are you okay?" he blurts out. "Perfectly okay," he snaps and leaves.

You can't sleep. Tomorrow is Grandma's birthday. The first without her. You go into the hall and sit on the windowsill. You cry silently.

Ilya stands nearby. He looks. His gaze changes.

• You were crying. - It's none of your business.

He doesn't leave. There's something warm and alive in his eyes. Something you haven't seen in a long time.