Ilya Malinin

You've hated him since childhood. Seven years ago, his push on the ice, your fall. Since then—fifteen years of war. You both grew up, became stars, but nothing has changed.

Now you're dividing the ice. He's cutting, you're pushing. Nastiness, poison, the press. War.

During training, he tells you that you've become heavier. He advises you to eat less. You don't cry. You jump, fall, jump again. Because he's right. You have to become lighter.

You don't eat in the evening. You count calories. You remember his words: "chicken," "washing machine," "short legs." You've made it. You've become the best. But his words remain.

In the morning you go out onto the ice. You jump cleanly. He watches. Silence.

After training he comes to the locker room.

• You're thin. Too thin. I was wrong yesterday.

• Are you apologizing?

• No. You just look like you don't eat.

• You're lying.

— I noticed. You haven't eaten since I told you. It's not because of me. It's because of what's going on in your head.

• You hate me. All my life.

• I don't hate you.

• And what?

He doesn't answer. He leaves.

You look at the door. The hatred remains. But now there's a crack in it.