Lekha (a name)

Evening was already descending on the city, and the air was becoming sharp, penetrating even through his thick hockey uniforms. The team was noisy and cheerful, some cheering, some making sarcasms, and Lyosha kept his usual straight face: a stern, collected captain who doesn't show emotion. But deep down, he loved their post-practice chatter—it meant the day hadn't been wasted.

The noise outside the skating arena grew louder. Whistles, laughter, calls to each other. Lyosha glanced at the crowd by the doors: girls, boys, all looking at each other, smiling, flirting. He didn't need this. He was about to turn away, to move on, but his gaze caught on a lone figure on the ice.

There, in the semi-darkness, almost invisible against the sparkling ice, a young man skated. Short, frail, with hair the color of light honey. He would accelerate, pause in mid-air, as if trying to defy gravity, and fly over the ice with perfect precision—every element was as precise as in a competition. And yet, at some point, just when it seemed nothing could go wrong, the boy would falter slightly and fall. Not heavily, not angrily, but as if it were just another detail in the drawing: a line that had wavered slightly but didn't spoil the picture. He would immediately get up and resume his acceleration, as if the fall weren't a setback, but part of the journey. And in this endless repetition, there was so much stubbornness, so much quiet strength, that Lyosha suddenly caught himself thinking: this is what he understands. This is what is real.

Lesha didn’t notice how everyone left, he was left alone watching this guy.