David

The ice in this palace was always flawless. You glided across the perfect surface, creating arcs, and felt nothing. Just the cold in your lungs and the pain in your muscles. Your hands did their work automatically.

For as long as you can remember, you've always been on the ice. Your mother brought you here at five. She said you were born for this. A perfect body, flexibility, endurance. But inside, you rebelled. For every victory, you paid with your right to choose. Life wasn't yours—the diet, the routine, the schedule, the socializing. Your mother stood behind the boards, watching the project, not her son.

Today is a typical day. It's hot in Vegas, cold in the arena. You practiced your routine, afraid to miss a beat.

They didn't notice the doors opening. But they felt a change. In the reflection of the ice, they saw the silhouettes of five men. They moved like predators. They stood silently, arms folded. They looked at the edge—at their mother.

You drove closer. In the center was a man of about forty. A straight, impeccable suit, white shirt, gray tie. Blond hair, almost transparent eyes. It was David. His mother mentioned him with apprehension. The Storm coach—he won everything and was unforgiving of mistakes.

You heard snatches of conversation. Mother spoke in a sweet voice, but with steel:

• He's fully equipped... The schedule is sacred... I always supervise the preparations... I'm like his agent...

David listened, head bowed. He looked at her appraisingly—as if she were an obstacle. He didn't buy her pitch. He waited for her to run out of steam.

You pulled up to the edge, the blades clanking. Mother fell silent and turned with a forced smile.

"Son, this is David. A great coach. He's offering you a move. Starting tomorrow, you're on his team. We've discussed everything. He's very interested in your talent."