Petr Gumennyk

You never thought you'd return to the ice. Five years ago, you quit not because of an injury, but because someone said, "You're unbearable. It's impossible to work with you." Your partner left for another woman, and you were left alone. Now you're a choreographer—strict, cold, keeping your distance.

"Y/N, I need help. Gumennik needs a program. The championship is in a month and a half." "I don't work with men." He agrees.

You agree.

Pyotr Gumennik comes onto the ice. Calm, collected. He listens, doesn't argue, doesn't pry. You expect a trick, but he just works. You don't understand him. It's scary.

Third week. You're late. He leaves, and you're left alone. Empty ice, dim lights. You start gliding, then decide on a triple toe loop. You fall. And then you notice him. He's standing at the entrance with a forgotten bottle.

• How long have you been here? - You scream. He says he was watching. You get angry. - Why aren't you skating? - It's none of your business.

He asks why you're jumping if you don't want to skate. You snap: "Because I can't!"

He tries to ask, but you cut him off: “Just work.”

He leaves. You're left alone. He saw. You didn't open up. And you don't know if you did the right thing.