St. Petersburg, 1997

'It's going to be one of the longest and the coldest winters in the whole Russian history! April slowly comes to an end, but nothing indicates that snow on Petersburg's streets would melt any soon. According to meteorologists...'

A man standing in front of a mirror was half-listening to the announcer, paying most of his attention to a blade running across his square chin. The razor held with almost surgical care didn't spare a last single hair. After all, it was the banquet night – it would be simply not appropriate to look even a bit away from the perfection! Even though Yakov shrugged in disgust at a single thought of leaving home...

Firstly – as the Important Person babbling on the TV pointed out – it was fucking cold outside. Secondly, the banquet would be attended by a horde of journalists and Yakov wasn't exactly sure whether he could answer another question on his divorce without anyone getting punched in their face. And at last... this time the damned journalists would ask not only about the divorce. The majority of questions would concern...

Yakov mumbled a swear word.

No, he thought. Stop. Don't think about it. You've been thinking about it for far too long. It just happened. You're not going to change it. And it's not like you miss that boy that much. Or that little bastard, his brother.

Well, he could repeat all of these to himself, but the green eyes reflected in the mirror were telling him something else – being dark and depressed.

'... a major weather change will come in the second week of May. And that's when the people of western Russia can finally put the winter clothing back in their wardrobes. The latest fashion trends bring...'

Feltsman's eyes wandered over the boxes stacked in the living room. They were everywhere – on the floor, on the sofa, on the table... Some of them were empty, some of them were just in the half, and some of them were still tightly taped. There were three pictures peeping out of one of them.

At the first one, two skaters were making threatening faces at the camera and showing their middle fingers while wearing medals. Yakov smiled at the reminder of that moment. The photo was taken in 1967. That was when Feltsman and Lubicheva won their first and only gold – but what kind of a gold! An Olympic one! Eh, what a marvellous day.

Another photo pictured Lilia and Tatyana on the beach in Los Angeles. The women wearing striped swimsuits were standing by a palm, both with a hand put on a hairy trunk of the plant and with a leg raised up in a full standing split. Baranovskaya-Feltsman's sunglasses were heart-shaped, and the ones belonging to Lubicheva-McKenzie had eyelashes attached to them. The photo would be perfect if not for a finger put in the frame accidentally by Steve – American Olympic champion in speed skating, privately married to Tatyana.

For the third photo...

'Newlyweds should think about spending their honeymoon in France!' the announcer chirruped. 'The weather at Cote d'Azure is going to be just perfect!'

For a second... literally just for a second Yakov considered throwing the TV out the window. For fuck's sake, why were the smug fools always babble about honeymoons? Were they getting paid for it, or what?

With his mouth foaming, Yakov walked across the room, grabbed a remote controller angrily and turned the volume down. Before going back to the toilet, he glanced at the Photo Number Three. After a thought he took it out of the box and put it on the table, image facing the tabletop. He felt a little better. A little.

Time will heal, they say...

Fifteen minutes passed and Yakov finished shaving. A large hand wearing a gold signet ring ran over his cheeks.

All smooth like a baby's arse, he mumbled in his thoughts. Let's hope it's enough for the ladies to stop complaining I can't get myself ready for a banquet.

The fifty-year-old gazed at his reflection for a while. He wasn't one of these candyarse blokes who would spend hours in front of a mirror, but that day... that day he felt a weird need to look at himself more closely.

He didn't know why he did. Maybe it was because he was about to attend a banquet finishing the World Championships in Figure Skating? Or rather because... he was about to attend an event like that without his wife for the first time in twenty five years.

Feltsman shrugged. The man in the mirror looked strangely... foreign to him. Even though he didn't see it at the first sight. His hair was the same fair-brown shade as always, his brows were furrowed in the same way, and his arms exposed by a white vest were just as muscular as in his youth (or even a bit more?). There were just some slightest differences – a few of grey hair strands by his ear, a bit of wrinkles around his eyes, the look being more tired and resigned compared to the predatory one... and the hair. Pulled back in a ponytail, reaching his shoulder blades hair begged him to see a hairdresser – it was a high time to get it trimmed! But Yakov couldn't get up the courage to do it for one reason:

For the past twenty five years Lilia was the only person who ever trimmed his hair.

All right, enough of this! I gave to get myself together at last. The last thing I need is prowling around the house like a lady with a period!

Yakov marched into his living room angrily. He chose the perfect moment – the damned weather forecast had finished, finally.

'And now,' the man in the TV studio began, winking at the audience, 'a special edition of the „Daily Sport News"! To celebrate the end of World Figure Skating Championships held in Petersburg we decided to focus today's episode only on the news directly from the ice. For starters, straight from Rio de Janeiro, a highlight of Denise Biellmann's performance! An exceptional skater known for an even more exceptional spin! The piece is entitled „Samba de Janeiro"!'

'Oh boooy, yes!' Yakov squealed, grabbing the remote control and nervously hitting the volume button. 'Oh, God, yes... Denise, darling, you're all I needed right now!'

The plasma display taking almost a half of a wall showed a silhouette of the woman, wearing a pink bikini with fringes. Ah, Denise wasn't one of these thin as a rake skaters who looked like they'd spent their holiday in a Siberian labour camp! Decent-sized thighs and muscular arms made the '81 World Champion easy to mistake for a man. Although Yakov doubted any man would be able to put such an amount of grace and sexiness in his programme!

'Well, and that's some serious skating!' Feltsman clucked, shaking his butt in samba rhythms.

Ah, If only his ladies had got some of Biellmann's advantages! If a Swiss woman in her thirties who wasn't even a competitive skater could pull out a performance that seemed to be more tiring than doing aerobics for three hours in a row, then why four Russian hussies couldn't dedicate themselves to their practice a little bit more? It would be just enough if the'd once in a while listened to Yakov's polite suggestions ('Don't fuck around and start jogging!!! I know very well that you took a SHORTCUT!'), paid some attention to his gentle, heartfelt guidance ('Lutz?! Are you telling me that was a FUCKING Lutz?! It wasn't even fucking related to Lutz!') and stopped getting offended after he'd softly motivated them to work harder ('Your tits aren't going to grow after you stare at them in a mirror for a long enough time, so stop dolling yourself up and go to the fucking gym!'). Ah, life could be so beautiful. If only someone bothered listening to Yakov...

Not stopping his energetic dance, Yakov grabbed an ironing board. A few moments later he was standing in the middle of the room wearing a white vest and grey shorts with red dots. Yakov's bottom and the iron moved to the music and the wrinkles on his smart, black trousers were gradually straightening, making the fabric smooth and stiff. Maybe the day wasn't going to be that awful?

Denise's samba was kick-ass. Too bad it ended so quickly. And it was followed by something Yakov hadn't foreshadowed even in his nightmares to happen in his favourite programme. And definitely not that day!

'Oh, what a woman!' A man dressed in an elegant, black sweater used his hand as a fan. 'It got a little hotter instantly. A hot routine from Rio is the perfect way to make the day better for all shivering Petersburgians! And now we have a little surprise. Our guest is very young indeed, but he's already earned himself the title of one of the most popular athletes in the country! Ladies and gentlemen... please welcome this year's World Junior Figure Skating Championships silver medalist, fourteen-years-old Maxim Levin!

NO! For God's love, please, no!

Yakov abandoned his iron instantly and grabbed the remote control. To make matters worse, the damned thing slipped from his hands and rolled under the couch. Feltsman clenched his teeth. His last attempt at getting something out from under the piece of furniture ended in getting a pulled muscle. Moving the couch didn't seem to be a good idea either. If only it was the old sofa that was here when he'd bought the flat... it could have been possible. But that monster? Yakov perfectly remembered the day he ordered it. Five men had difficulties placing the said piece of furniture where it was supposed to be.

The man started to search his drawers with a sigh. He should've had another remote.

'It's your first medal in an event such big as the World Juniors,' the host spoke to the young skater. 'Are you proud?'

Yakov risked a quick glance at his ex-student. Max Levin was exactly the same as Feltsman remembered him – slim, but well-built, with short, slicked back blond hair and the calm expression never leaving his oval face. The blue, half-way closed eyes emanned with a polite interest.

'I'm happy with my result, but I know I can do better,' the boy stated with a smile. 'I must admit I would prefer gold.'

'Who wouldn't?' The journalist blinked at him. 'But it's needless to say that silver is a great achievement as well. After all, you've never reached the podium before. The whole country is very proud of you. Everyone started to have some great expectations for you overnight. How do you feel, knowing that?'

A half of the drawer's content was on the floor and there was no sign of the remote. The damned Murphy's Law!

'I'd like to point out that not only the country has high expectations, but in the first place I have high expectations for myself,' Yakov hears Max's voice. 'I have high demands on myself. No matter how important championships are, I always want to do my best. I'm glad people are cheering for me, but I don't feel any pressure. Except for the one I am putting on myself personally.'

Feltsman smiled in sadness.

It's so blatantly him, he thought, sighing deeply. Like he'd been reciting "The Good Athlete's Handbook".I've told him so many times that he should just keep being himself. People like confusing, but HONEST answers so much more than all the clichés learnt by heart. You should've realised it by now, Maxik. But, hold on a moment! Why do I even bother? Eh, where's that bloody remote?

'A hard-working boy!' the journalist chirruped. 'You're a tough guy, managing to get the silver even though you skipped the previous season. You had a year's break, am I right?'

'Indeed,' the young man's voice hinted dissatisfaction. 'I hadn't been competing for over a year. But that was not my decision to make. It was my ex-coach, Yakov Feltsman, who forbade me to start in competitions.'

The man's hand frozen in the drawer a few inches over a pile of files.

'I'm glad you've mentioned it as I've just wanted to talk about it! A few months ago you've shocked the entire skating world by leaving your coach, Yakov Feltsman, who you've been practising with since you'd been a child. Moreover... for your new coach you've picked Feltsman's greatest rival, Alexei Vronkov. Could you tell us something more about that decision?'

Don't listen, Yakov told himself, furiously moving away some paperclips laying over some papers. You don't have to listen! Just focus on finding the remote.

'Coach Feltsman didn't understand my needs,' Max stated bitterly. 'He wouldn't allow me to spread my wings. The championships I'd practically had in my hands slipped out of them. I'm still angry because of that, I still don't understand... why my coach hadn't allowed me to compete when I was in my top shape.'

Yakov tightened his grasp on the drawer's border.

In your top shape? Feltsman thought, clenching his teeth. In top shape?! You had your knee fucked up! You NEEDED that bloody surgery! Maybe it's true that you had that prize in your hands, that you've learned how to jump a fucking quad toe and all that stuff, but for heaven's sake, it's not all about winning! Don't you understand what competing that one time could lead to?

'So you claim that Mr. Feltsman was overreacting when speaking about your injury?' the journalist asked hesitantly. 'It wasn't that serious?'

'Not serious enough to prevent me from competing,' Max answered disrespectfully. 'And even if it was, it wasn't the only reason me and Mr. Feltsman ended our partnership. I've made the final decision after what happened to my younger brother, Ivan. I was shocked mister Feltsman could be so unfair! Imagine that one of the club's kids, Lyov Rykov, attacked my brother! Everyone expected the culprit to be punished. But he wasn't. Coach Feltsman not only took Rykov's side, but also kicked MY BROTHER out of the club! For a provocation that nobody... nobody had seen, that Lyov came out with to have an excuse for his horrible attack!'

Everything you say is so beautiful and pretty, Maxik, Yakov snapped in his mind, but why won't you tell the nice mister journalist what is said about that, how you call him, „innocent child", your brother? Or what were the words he provoked Lyov with? You're not being exactly objective here, you know?

Maybe listening to that damned interview had some advantages? It was probably the first time since Levin has left him that Yakov felt relief his no longer the brat's coach.

'Only after speaking to my new coach I realised, why Mr. Feltsman has always favoured Rykov,' Max continued. 'Mr. Vronkov explained that Lyov, as a skater, is exactly the same as Mr. Feltsman used to be. It's obvious that a coach would pay more attention to somebody in whom he can see his own traits resembled...'

If so, why did I pay so much attention to YOU? The fifty-year-old didn't even notice despair that appeared in his thoughts. You're not even a bit how I used to be like!

'How old is your brother at the moment?' the host asked.

'He's going to be ten in a month.'

'He's a great jumper, just like you are, am I right?'

Max smiled proudly. 'That's true. He's just amazing with Lutz. And he's jumping very high, even the toe loop. Me and my mother hope that thanks to Mr. Vronkov he's going to develop even better! Changing the coach is already working out for him. Even though not much time has passed, I already see a great improvement in Ivanko's technique.'

'Speaking of which... could you say something more about Feltsman's and Vronkov's ways of coaching?' the journalist asked excitedly. 'You're probably the only person able to compare methods of two greatest rivals in the world of figure skating.'

'Both Vronkov and Feltsman have huge demands for their skaters,' Levin said in a thoughtful voice. 'But I think that it's Mr. Vronkov who is more professional. His club, Spartan, is a perfect place for people who want to overcome their own weaknesses. Mr. Vronkov is focused on winning medals, so he doesn't allow his students to feel sorry for themselves. He uses old, tested coaching methods... as opposed to Mr. Feltsman, he doesn't do any wild experiments. And in particular, he doesn't force his students to torture themselves with any useless supplementary exercises.

I wonder if Vronkov told him to say all these things? Yakov thought when opening another drawer. It sounds like he had learnt it all by heart.

'The Champions' Club was known for providing dance lessons for its members since the communist period,' the guy in the studio pointed out politely. 'Feltsman's former students have commented on the matter rather positively. Many of them were fond of the opportunity to get to know the basics of the ballroom dancing, stage moves and ballet...'

'Well of course, when somebody can't jump properly, he'd clutch at anything,' Max muttered. 'But I can jump. And I'm not saying that because I'm arrogant. I just know what I am capable of. I'm glad that someone has finally let me focus on what I'm best in.'

And you've just said that Spartan is a club for people who want to overcome their weaknesses, Yakov snorted in his mind. You contradict yourself, Maxik. And, you know what... look up the definition of our sport discipline in an encyclopaedia one day. There are reasons why this sport is called figure skating, not ice jumping...

'The truth is, the Champions' Club is a bunch of amateurs and professionals,' the young skater continued disrespectfully. 'Dancing classes and other strange experiments were included in the schedule so that all the mediocres could think for a moment that they're better than they are in reality. At Spartan, it's done differently. Here, it's all clear: you either keep up or you don't. If you want to be the club member, you have to prove you're worth it.'

'And you think that's right?' Yakov could've been wrong, but he felt like the journalist's voice was a little cold.

'Of course!' Max said without hesitation. 'Athlethes placing high in international rankings are the elite. And that's how they should be treated: like the elite. Mr. Feltsman's talking about how observation of skaters with other techniques helps you polish your own skills is just an archaic plug line that means next to nothing.'

That deprived Feltsman of any doubts. He's reciting, the man thought, shaking his head. It's impossible for a fourteen-year-old brat to use such words. Vronkov MUST'VE given him several lines to memorise.

'Let's take a look at my brother, for instance,' the teenager started to speak more lively. 'I'm sorry, but who was he supposed to learn from? From Rykov? Or maybe from Georgij Popovich... a kid who for some reason was practising in the same group as Ivanko, even though he has absolutely no talent and it's clear he won't achieve anything.'

'With respect, but... you can't know that,' the journalist pointed out carefully.

'Maybe I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I'm not blind either. You don't have to be a fortune-teller to foresee some things. Such as the fact that Georgij Popovich will never even smell the podium. Or that Mr. Feltsman will soon realise that his methods lead to nothing. I'm sorry to say that, but that's the sad truth: Yakov Feltsman is getting old. For over five years not a single skater from the Champions' Club has won a medal. Except from me. I hope that the fact that I've left will help Mr. Feltsman to make a decision he must have been considering for a very long time. He's my ex-coach and I wish him the best... and that's why I believe he will understand what is the best for both him and the club and will retire as soon as this season ends, so that he has time for his well-earned rest and fixing his life after the divorce...'

Something was stinking badly. But what was it, in the devil's name? Wait! It's the...

'FUCK!'

Yakov stormed towards the smoking iron. Shit! How could he forget about ironing?! He was running around the room like one of the characters in these dumb movies about losers.

'What a jerk...' he was mumbling to himself. 'What a bloody, fucking jerk!'

Well, at the very least he didn't have to deal with fire. But the trousers were a lost cause. So was the ironing board. Eh, and he'd managed to get it for such a good price at the flea market! He bought it from some Belarusian for half of its price. It lasted whole five days. Four days longer than the phone did.

RING! RING!

Speaking of the phone...

'The perfect timing, my arse!' Feltsman mumbled, throwing the iron into a steel bowl.

Damn, he didn't really know what was he supposed to be doing! Keep looking for the remote so he could turn the fuching interview off, clean up the burnt board and the messed up trousers, or maybe pick up the phone chirruping in another part of the flat?! Fuck! The continued ringing wasn't making the choice easier to make. Well, fuck it all!

Eventually Yakov ignored the board, threw the trousers into a sink, pulled the TV's cord out of a socket, cutting the annoying appliance out of the electricity (and pulling the socket out of the wall), and then he marched into the hall furiously.

'Yes?' he spluttered, picking up the phone.

Nobody answered. And the ringing hadn't stopped! What the hell was it supposed to mean?!

Only after a moment the fifty-year-old realised that the thing responsible for making the annoying noise was not the landline, but that new, strange invention called a 'cellphone'. Around a week ago Yakov's old flatmate, an ex-figure skater and not the manager of the Champions' Club, Igor Antonov brought a whole box of tiny devices and gave them to all skaters and coaches. Of course, he didn't bother to say how the said 'miracles' were supposed to be operated.

Frankly speaking, Feltman couldn't complain. He managed to figure out how to deal with the gizmo quite fast (much faster than all snot-nosed brats raised up together with new technologies) and the possibility of yelling at someone on the phone from any place in the Earth seemed to be very useful. Yes, that's right, Yakov didn't have any problems with the cell phone. But what a pity three landline phones had lost their lives because of the said cell phone.

WHAM!

Four landline phones.

Telling himself he would clear the remnants of the phone later, Yakov rushed to the living room. The ringing was coming from around the couch. Feltsman got the cell phone in his hands at the very last minute. Swiping sweat off his temple, he pressed the green button.

'Yes?'

'Yakov, are you sitting right now?' he heard Igor's worried voice.

The temperamental man raised his eyebrows. 'No, I'm standing, for fuck's sake,' he mumbled annoyingly. 'What's the matter?'

'I think you'd better sit down.' The manager swallowed a gulp.

Yakov's eyes were fixed on the TV. Eh, Igor must've been watching the unfortunate interview with Max as well.

If you want to let me know that my former student publicly grinds me down i the mud, you're a tiny bit late, Feltman muttered in his mind.

'Whatever it is, I'm going to be fine.' He closed his eyes and moved his hair from over his temple, leaning over the ironing board.

'The ice rink has been sold.'

'EXCUSE ME?! IS THAT A FUCKING JOKE?!!'

Yakov wasn't feeling tired anymore. The furious fifty-year-old banged his fist against the board's side. He had some bad luck, because the board struck back – her another end raised up, hitting Feltsman's head pretty hard.

'Yakov?' he heard Igor's worried voice on the phone. 'Yakov, are you alright? Are you alive?'

'Yes, somehow I am...'

With his hand over his temple, the mauled man went back to the couch.

'You've broken something again, haven't you?' The manager was most likely shaking his head. 'I told you to sit down.'

'It wouldn't have changed anything,' Yakov sighed. 'Hearing something like that I would break something anyway. And now, explain: what the fuck is going on here?'

'Erm... I've already told you? The ice rink has been sold.'

'Yes, I heard you the first time, for fuck's sake. I know that it's been sold. I'm asking you how in Earth has it happened, if it hadn't been put up for sale?!'

Igor stayed silent for a while.

'As far as I know, the whole transaction was conducted on the side,' he finally spoke up in a gloomy voice. 'Somebody must've had some kind of an agreement with the authorities. They were probably bribed.'

'But, how?' Feltsman's hand tightened around the cellphone. 'How could it happen? We're too clever for that shit. I am too clever for that shit! If there was any opportunity to work things out on the side, I would myself negotiate with the authorities and bribe them! I was preparing to do so ever since I've gathered the sum large enough to buy that damned rink. Our rink! Fuck, since they came out with the bloody perestroika and started to privatise everything I've been on my guard like fucking Vader around his Death Star! So please, be so kind to me and explain, what the holy FUCK happened around here?!'

Just as he asked that question he knew the answer deep inside. Or rather – the rough sketch of the answer. Because the solution of the mystery was rather simple... the whole world was ruler with this principle.

And the principle was, even though something might look like impracticable, abstract and totally beyond the capability of plain mortals, there was always some dick with enough money and connections who could find a gap in the system and fuck everything. Just as Han Solo and his comrades found a gap in the Emperor's indestructible destruction machine and fucked the entire mechanism up (Yakov was probably the only person in the cinema who cried after Vader's defeat).

The question was – which of the dicks? And how many connections did they have that they had managed to surpass even Yakov in that race?! Moreover – for what damn reason did they buy a facility in a desperate demand for renovation, housing an ice rink that was older than Feltsman himself?

The fifty-year-old coach took a moment to steady his breathing. After around ten seconds he decided he had no interest of the mysterious buyer's identity. Exactly – he didn't care about it at all! He didn't give a shit about who the guy was and what were his motifs. Frankly, Feltsman's only interest was the price. He wanted to know how many billions of rubles was the new owner hoping for and how fast was it possible to negotiate a deal with him.

For Yakov Feltsman the Champions' Club, called also the Champion, was of utmost importance. It was absolutely invaluable. If the wealthy, used to living in luxury fifty-year-old was told to get rid of all of his fortune and come back to the simple life he laid back in his youth, Yakov would go for it. He would do anything for the beloved Club.

Igor Antonov was perfectly aware of that matter.

'I'll do my best to find out something more,' he informed Yakov in a gentle voice. 'As soon as I know who the new owner is, I'll let you know.'

'Thanks,' Feltsman grunted. 'Does Pavlo know? Have you called him?'

'Not yet. He's at his daughter's in Switzerland. I don't want to interrupt his holiday. He'll be back in Petersburg in a few days. I'll tell him everything when he's back.'

'But don't put it off too much! You don't want him to come to work one day and find out he won't be let into his office, do you?'

Who knows when our mysterious buyer gets access to the building? Yakov thought with unease. We have to find that bloke and work things out as soon as possible...

'Actually...' Igor swallowed a gulp nervously. 'The physical therapy office wouldn't be our only problem. I went to the rink in the morning. The entrance was roped off with red tape.'

'WHAT?! YOU'RE MESSING WITH ME, AREN'T YOU?!'

Yakov stood up, hitting his knee on a coffee table. Squealing in pain, he sat down once again.

'Don't hurt yourself, Yakov,' the manager spoke up, worried. 'Try to calm yourself down a little...'

'How am I supposed to calm down when something like THAT is happening?!' Yakov roared, rubbing the bruise on his knee. 'For heaven's sake, we're basically residents in that building! There shouldn't have been any tapes for a month at least, or even longer than a month! What's an illegal sale is an illegal sale, but, damn it, there still are some rules of law! Even the communists weren't that much full of shit!'

'Well, you know... heheh... I would've argued whether they weren't, but...'

'THAT'S NOT WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, FOR FUCK'S SAKE! What am I supposed to tell the singles? What am I supposed to tell the novices? What am I supposed to tell EVERYONE?! Why all that hell must've happened right...'

Yakov kept yelling and yelling... he'd been yelling for some fifteen minutes at least! But his caller wasn't that much impressed by it. The manager said nothing, waiting patiently until the level of Feltsman's fury would move from 'dramatic' to 'normal'. At some point, the bad-tempered man needed to take a breath.

'Don't tell anybody for now,' Igor suggested in a calm voice. 'Maybe we'll be able to just figure it out quickly and there won't be a need for any more fuss? You'll see, we can do this! After all, you may lack some things, but money isn't one of them. Think positive, Yakov! Unless that guy is a special ops commander, a brother of the President, or... I don't know... the mother of some Mafia boss, everything will end up well.'

Feltsman snorted softly. The mother of the Mafia boss wouldn't be any problem. The said lady treated Yakov to her strogonov on a daily basis.

'All right,' the bad-tempered man mumbled at his phone. 'Okay, fine. I'll do my best to withstand it all. I'll tell the girls a few days after the banquet. I hope the press doesn't know about anything yet. Their questions about my divorce are going to be more than enough...'

The other end of the call fell silent.

'Hey, Igor, are you there?'

'Yakov, so you're... you're going to the banquet tonight?' the manager asked hesitantly.

Feltsman rolled his eyes. That's just shitty perfect, he thought in anger. Another dumbass with an overprotectiveness syndrome!

'Yeah, I am. Why wouldn't I?'

'Well, I don't know...' Igor sighed deeply. 'But you understand that you don't have to do it? The ladies are grown-up. You don't have to keep holding their hands. They would be all right even without you. Nothing would happen if you skipped one banquet. You could tell that you're ill or something...'

'I am not ill and I won't pretend to be ill,' Yakov declared in an ice-cold voice. 'The tradition and good manners demand the coach to accompany a competitor to a banquet and that's all I've got to say on that matter.'

'Why are you doing this to yourself?' His friend sighed once again. 'After all, Vronkov is going to be there, and...' another sigh, 'and Max.'

He could use a lollipop – Feltsman felt like smashing something with his teeth (preferably Vronkov's finger).

'That two are going to be at the banquets this year, the next year, and the year after that,' he said in a cold, confident voice. 'If I still want to be a part of the figure skating world, I have to get used to the fact that I'm going to run into them all the time. I've got four talented girls under my wings, and one of them is the Vice World Champion now. They may be a bunch of mad lunatics and damn witches with painted faces, but; holy hell, they have been working hard! They deserve their coach showing that he's proud of them, not to pretend he has a flu and cry hidden in a corner. I'm not going to hide in my house like a fucking coward only because the boy I've raised up sice he'd been wearing nappies is now coached by my greatest rival. Getting divorced doesn't make a man lose his nuts. And that's why I will go to the banquet and bite all the displeasure like a decent man would do. Got it?'

Igor sighed for the fourth time. 'As speaking of the divorce...' he started talking after a moment of silence. 'Have you unpacked all the boxes?'

Yakov huffed half-angrily, half-wearily.

'Yakov...' The manager's voice hinted a bit of resignation. 'Half a year has already passed.'

'I'll do everything in my own time,' Yakov mumbled, raising up from the couch.

He approached the photo he had taken out of the box earlier. His finger tips moved over its wooden surface as if they were moving on their own. With the image facing the tabletop, it resembled a defeated warrior. The divorcee's hand touched the turned up cardboard stand and pressed it down.

'You've sold your flat,' Igor pointed out in a sad voice. 'Both of you now have their own one. You've signed the papers. It's over. You have to get your things unpacked.'

The last sentence was about unpacking, but Yakov's mind heard something different. Something like:

'You have to accept the way things are.'

'You have to heal yourself of the feelings for your ex-wife.'

'You have to get yourself together.'

'And I will,' Feltsman stated, trying to sound like he wanted to feel like – that was optimistic and confident, not as in the reality: pessimistic and shitty.

He touched the edge of the frame hesitantly. How was it possible for a man who for a half of his life had been lifting women weighing over a hundred pounds couldn't find the strength to lift a tiny photo?

'I'm going to be all right.' He didn't know who was he trying to convince more" Igor or himself. 'You don't have to be bothered with me. I'll be fine. I'll get over with it, sooner or later.'

His fingers finally managed to grab the piece of wood. His big hand raised the photo to eye-level with difficulty. Even though the photo was black and white, Lilia's dress was stunning. Many days have passed since that day, but Yakov still remembered well the flowers being red. They perfectly complimented the bride's dark hair. Yakov imagined brushing Lilia's hair with his fingers. He remembered it was silk-soft and it smelled amazing.

'Have you taken off your wedding ring?'

'Yeah, I have.'

Yakov put the wedding photo in the drawer.

'And the signet ring?'

'I'm not taking it off,' a hint of fierceness appeared in Yakov's voice, 'it was a gift from my father-in-law. It would've been a dishonour of his memory.'

'You've divorced his daughter,' his colleague pointed out. 'What if Lilka sees you wearing this ring? What if she doesn't like it and she'll punch you in the face?'

'She'll punch me in the face, then.' Yakov shrugged his shoulders. 'I'm not taking the signet off. If you want to force me to do it, you will have to bite my finger off.'

'Stop reading Tolkien,' Igor chuckled.

'Fuck off. I'm reading what I want to read.'

'That's your right... Well, anyway, take care of yourself, will you? Try not to mess things up at the banquet. Best if you wouldn't talk to Max and Vronkov at all.'

'Yeah, 'f course,' Feltsman snorted, scouring the wardrobe in search for a pair of decent trousers. 'The problem is that if it was to be possible, they couldn't speak to me either. And I will bet all my money that at least one of them wouldn't miss an opportunity of fucking around with me tonight.'

'Erm... I don't want to go bankrupt, so I'm not taking the bet!' As an experienced gambler should, Antonov was rational on the matter.'

'So let's bet on what Vronkov's going to be scolded for by his wife tonight. The loser buys a bottle of vodka.'

'Oooh, and that's more like it!' Igor got more lively at an instant. 'Hum hum hum... is it just me or do you have your good mood back?'

'I have to boost it somehow,' Yakov sighed after getting the tenth piece of the wardrobe out on the floor. 'So what are you betting on? Clothes or manners?'

'Hmm... if he's got so many reasons to fuck around with you, then it should be about his manners?'

'I think she'll tell him off for dressing up badly. He'll probably wear that ridiculous tie with green stripes again...'

'And who's talking! It's not like you're an expert in fashion either.'

He got his point. After emptying a half of his wardrobe, Yakov decided he was done. He grabbed some random suit trousers and put it on his butt. He did that being perfectly aware that his girls would bully him for not matching the colours.

'I'm not going there to pose on the red carpet,' he mumbled at the phone. 'Banquet means war! The soldier doesn't have to be dressed well.'

'If you say so... Anyway, we'll see each other in a couple of days. When Pavlo comes back from Switzerland we'll go to our pub and play cards. And don't even think you're going to get out of it! Sitting at home is not serving you well. Don't let Vronkov get you and remember that we're on. See you, then!'

When Igor hanged up, Yakov glanced at the said 'home'. It would be more suitable to call it 'the place he existed in'. Boxes that were only half-emptied, burnt trousers, the pulled-out socket... the wedding photograph padlocked in a drawer together with the wedding ring hidden in a small, wooden box.

Okay – that was only the temporary state. The boxes were going to be unpacked, new trousers would replace the old ones, a lad from the neighbourhood would repair the socket... and maybe the photo and the ring would move out from the drawer and make themselves comfortable at a shelf. Yakov wasn't born yesterday and it wasn't the first time Yakov was having a crisis. He knew that sooner or later it had to be better.

The question was – what to do after that?

He would settle in the new flat and what next? He would but the rink and what next? There was only one thing he could do – teach other people. He'd been managing the Champions' Club for over ten years and as the main coach, he followed the rules that were left by Misha Novak. But what was he supposed to do when just several minutes earlier Max Levin, his own pupil, a boy he'd been coaching since he'd been little, publicly and in totally uninhibited fashion rubbed these rules in his arse?!

Eh, if only Yakov was still married... maybe he could give up being a coach? Maybe he could let himself and the woman he loved making all their dreams come true, for which they never had enough time? Maybe he would be able to do that? Admittedly, both him and Lilia were workaholics, but...

Feltsman shook his head. All the 'ifs' and 'whens' would never lead to anything. Instead of grieving over his divorce, he should've been planning on how to survive the banquet. Or rather, how not to end up in an asylum thanks to the four annoying wenches...

xXx

'Just one little kiss. Why do you care so much, honey?'

'I don't want to get my makeup damaged.'

'But what's the problem, baby? You're so pretty... I'm sure you'd look just as stunning without the lipstick. And besides, I'm sure your friend will help you get yourself cleaned up. Come on, don't be like that. If you spare some time for me, my friend and I will give you a lift for that very important party of yours. We have a beautiful, silver Merc...'

'I'm sorry, sweetie, but the part of our chauffeur is already taken.'

'Oh, really? And who is it taken by? Your overprotective daddy?'

The student's comment resulted in a burst of laughter amongst the dolled up young ladies. The young man didn't understand where their amuse came from... but at the same time he was happy that he managed to make his new crush laugh. After all – as his more experienced colleagues repeated wisely – once you get a smile from your chosen one, the way to her heart was child's play!

Encouraged by his mini-success, Fyodor exchanged a knowing look with his mate and asked with an flirtatious smile, 'I see... are you a daughter of some mafioso?'

'More or less.' The blonde with a fancy bun wiped off a tear from a corner of her eye and sent a sugary smile toward the bloke.

Seeing a row of perfectly white teeth Fyodor's heart speeded up its beat excitedly. Ah, he loved mafia films! Just as much as he loved ladies with sense of humour. Damn, maybe he had a chance? Once he and Rudolph saw a flock of long-legged beauties, they tried not to get their hopes up. They started hitting on them full spontaneously, wearing ripped sandshoes and worn-off T-shirts while coming back to the dorm with bags full of beer cans. What chances did they have with ladies who looked like they'd been taken out of Vogue cover?

Well, apparently they had some...

'I thought that at some age, you get to old to be controlled by your parents?' Fyodor chatted up, winking at the chick.

'You'd be surprised.' The owner of the strange hairdo batted her eyes, smiling gently.

'Stop provoking him, Masha,' a dark-haired girl with red highlights said in a bored voice, keeping her eyes fixed at her fingernails. 'Do you want him to lose his life after flirting with you?'

'You're exaggerating, Sonechka,' a small blonde with a pony tail giggled. 'Papa isn't that much aggressive.'

'Of course he's not,' Sonya snorted with a mean grin. 'He's not aggressive at all. He's only... hmm... polite in a different way?'

'By the way, where is he?' the fourth girl, a brunette beauty with friendly, brown eyes was looking around their surroundings. 'He's late. He is never late.'

'Maybe he had a stroke?' Masha wondered worriedly.

'A stroke?' The girl with the ponytail shook her head. 'He? Oh, please... he's indestructible. He won't kick the bucket before he turns hundred!'

Rudolph took the opportunity instantly. 'Why trouble your father? We can give you a lift!'

'Exactly!' Fiodor nodded enthusiastically. 'Your tired and sick father definitely would rather lay down on a couch and...'

At the moment, they heard tires screeching. A white Honda appeared from behind a corner – and what a Honda was that! Only big shots drove cars like that...

The car stopped in front of the students. A window went down with a silent hum, showing a long-haired man in his fifties, wearing 'The Godfather' styled hat, dark glasses and a gold signet ring shimmering sinisterly, leaning his muscular forearm against the steering wheel and with his teeth looking like they'd been made to bite people's arteries.

Fyodor and Rudolf almost pissed themselves. Fuck, so the said daddy was a mafioso indeed?! Oh, holy God... oh, holy fuck!

The man took his glasses off, treating the young men to his ice cold, disdaining look.

'Go fuck yourselves, you little shits.'

Running away, the young men didn't feel any fear. They felt gratitude. Because the threatening boss let them go and fuck themselves in his generosity (instead of, for example, shooting them or having them castrated or doing something even worse).

Maria 'Masha' Berezina watched the escaping students sadly. 'You know what, coach?' she moaned, stomping her heel on the pavement, 'the one with a moustache was quite pretty!'

'And how are we supposed to find someone when the coach is following us like a furious Doberman?' sighing theatrically, Elena 'Lenka' Limonova slipped her long, blond ponytail back.

'We'll die as old maids,' Sonya Grankina mumbled, winding one of her red strands of hair around her finger.

'Why are you late, coach?' the only (according to Yakov) normal girl, Veronika Sokolova, asked. 'We were starting to get worried.'

'I was two fucking minutes late,' Feltsman mumbled, glancing at his wristwatch. 'It's not a reason for arranging my funeral, Verechka.'

'Oh, so we're not buying that shiny Father Christmas shaped tombstone?' Elena asked, whispering.

Yakov furrowed at her. 'Bloody amusing, Lenka, perfectly hilarious!' he snapped. 'And now put your skinny arses in the car or I'm going to leave without you!'

The last bark was a little half-hearted. Some part of him didn't want to let these dolled up witches in his car. The purses filled with cosmetics didn't bode well for the freshly vacuumed upholstery and polished surfaces. As someone who had spent the majority of his life dealing with women, Yakov knew that opposing nail polish barely anything could make it through – and the damn women wouldn't go anywhere without garbage like that! Or at least the ones right there.

Feltsman had a great shot. He'd barely started the engine when the car turned into a miniature beauty salon:

Masha, who loved strange hairdos since she'd been little, detangled her sophisticated bun and started to do it up again (the sight of blond hair falling down on the seat almost gave Yakov rabies).

Lenka – a champion of jumping on the ice, a compulsive gossip girl off ice – started chatting about her neighbour's latest romance, simultaneously applying lip gloss, waving her blonde hair and putting her leg on the driver's shoulder to buckle up her shoe better (the fucking heel hit Yakov's ear three times – after the fourth hit Feltsman threatened the girl he'd bite her leg off).

The humble, calm brunette, Verechka, decided that was the perfect time for brushing her teeth (if she wasn't the new Vice World Champion, Yakov would tell her to polish the whole car with a brush and paste – and only the brush would be for teeth).

While Sonya... aaah, Sonechka, that damn devil wearing skirt, that twenty-one-year-old evil incarnate with red highlights... that doll who only two days ago charmed the spectators with that filled with sex appeal free skating programme, now, at the very moment of sitting on the front seat, decided that it was a perfect moment for taking her dress off.

'Don't you think you should be a little fucking embarrassed?!' Yakov barked when he saw a pink bra in the corner of his eye. 'I'm still here, for fuck's sake!'

'A bloke who have been lacing up my skates when I was five years old is not in the „men" category,' she spurted out, continuing her fight with the nasty bra strap.

'Excuse me, but who am I supposed to be then?! A hermaphrodite?!'

And what do you mean saying 'when I was five years old'? he wanted to add. I still lace your skates up from time to time!

'Of course not, the coach is a real man.' Sonya treated him with a sweet smile. 'But not a man. I mean... well... you understand, coach? In front of my father, I walk around in my underwear as well.'

'Yeah, your daddy told me once how he took a spill down the stairs and ended up in a hospital after you'd come out of the bathroom half naked,' Yakov mumbled mockingly.

'Sonechka's dad isn't quite tough.' Grinning, Lenka lay in between the front seats and started applying eyeshadow. 'Unlike the coach... by the way, could you move the mirror a bit?'

'And what, slow down so that you could paint your face?!'

'That would be very nice...'

'No FUCKING way! And get your tits off the gear stick!'

When they stopped at traffic lights, a cyclist was crossing the street. Sadly for him, he glanced at the beautiful, white Honda. Seeing Sonya half naked and Lanka's generous neck cut, he got a bit too distracted and bumped into a somewhat around ninety-year-old lady. Yakov didn't know who should he sympathise with. At first he sympathised with the old lady... but when the old lady dusted herself off, got up on her feet, grabbed her cane and started to beat the young man and his bike, Feltsman started to sympathise with the monocycle's owner.

'See what you did?' he mumbled at Sonya. 'You caused an accident!'

Still being concerned about the bloody bra strip she didn't even notice him saying something.

The light changed from red to green, but the fight at the crossing was at its best. Drivers behind Yakov started honking, but Yakov ignored them, feeling that the old lady's vengeance was more important than the risk of getting one of Sankt Petersburg's largest streets jammed. In this way, he got stuck in the city centre, in one car with a bunch of ladies who didn't even notice what happened outside and kept babbling about some bullshit, leaving their hair on the seats and splashing the upholstery with nail polish.

Yakov's forehead and forearms slapped the steering wheel as he leaned against it. Women... he thought desperately. Why do they always have to be BLOODY women?! Why do I have to deal with women all my life? First my sisters, then Tatyana, and now these four monsters! I don't count Lilechka, her soul is a man and he has even more guts than I do... But, for fuck's sake, I'm done! I don't want to deal with wenches anymore! God, if you even exist, let me coach some MALE skater! Fuck, he can even be a poof and a crybaby and the most annoying person in the world, but, goddamn it, a guy! I'm not picky, I'm really not. My desperate 'me' will accept anyone without boobs.

Oh, if only he could gag these all made-up witches! If only there was some kind of a machine that would stop all the babbling! Yakov would buy it in bulk...

'Waaah, my makeup has smeared. Masha, help!'

'There, darling, show me how it looks like...'

'Oh no, I've torn my tights!'

'Coach, stop the car. We have to go to a kiosk.'

'How am I supposed to stop if we're NOT EVEN FUCKING MOVING!' Yakov yelled so loud that all the drivers behind them heard him. The honking stopped as if by magic.

But of coarse the granny's revenge couldn't last forever. The white Honda finally moved... but of course not to go straight to the banquet, but the damn kiosk, because the four moaners wouldn't leave their coach at peace and would bring his brain to explosion of listening to their constant whining about tights, straps and other bollocks! And apparently the Champions' Club was ruled by penguins, because just as in the world of the black and white flightless birds it was the male doing the dirty work and laying eggs, it was Yakov who marched towards the booth so that his vain students could peacefully finish 'doing themselves up'.

'But don't pick the first thing that comes to your hands, coach!' Masha leaned her head out through the car's window. 'I want some decent tights.'

'And don't forget about a bra, coach!' he heard Sonya's yell.

'We have to sew on Verechka's lace. Buy some thread as well, coach.'

'Oh! And as you're going there, buy Woman's Weekly*, coach.'

Feltsman hadn't managed to take two steps before Lenka squeezed next to Masha.

'AND PERIOD PADS!' she yelled, almost falling out of the car.

With his hands in his pockets, Yakov marched towards the kiosk. He didn't even feel like making comments on that complete lack of discretion... he had not a bit of strength to call these spoilt ladies to order! Eh, he would better take care of that issue and head straight to the banquet...

There were two men standing by the booth. They didn't look like they intended to line up, so Feltsman shrugged his shoulders and approached the box. Throwing money onto the counter, he barked in a voice filled with fury:

'I'd like some tights, size M, ashy, the ones with the cat head logo, a bra, size thirty four C, white with wired cups, a navy thread, April's issue of Woman's Weekly and pads with wings, in that blue package, the one with a fucking bright pink sign. Oh, and a heart-shaped lollipop. You can keep the change!'

The shocked seller didn't move for a while, standing with his eyes large as bottle caps. Only when Yakov glared at him angrily, he hopped and rushed to pick the supplies. Praying for a soon return from the banquet, Feltsman rubbed his forehead. Someone started to pull his suit gently.

'Erm... excuse me, mister? I'd... like to... urm...'

The experienced coach fixed his eyes on the stranger. The youngster was probably a similar age as the snots who were trying to hit at the ladies – a skinny redhead with dark circles under his eyes, so characteristic of a student after an important exam.

'I'm sorry for interrupting you, mister...' the bloke started, 'but I was wondering... could you give me a hint on how to buy these... you know...'

'What?' Yakov raised his eyebrow. 'Period pads?'

The boy nodded energetically.

'It's hard to say it for you, right, mate?' Feltsman asked with understanding.

He got answered with even more energetic nodding. The bunch of skaters' caretaker sighed deeply.

'It's important they cost not less than twenty rubles and that they have wings. But when a woman tells you to buy a certain brand, you have to find it even if it means sweeping through a half of the city. If you fail to buy the right ones, at the very worst you can get beaten, and at the very best you have to listen to her moping for three hours. Oh, and one more thing: dark blue and bright blue are not the same. Got it?'

'And these...' the youngster hesitated, 'wings? What are they for?'

'You don't need to know that. The only thing you need to know is that a pad without wings is like a belt without a buckle.'

'Oh, God...'

The student's hands started squeezing his shirt's rim. The poor guy must've imagined a little too much and started to feel overwhelmed. Eh... information like these should be included in secondary school's programmes! It would've spared several blokes from embarrassing kiosk expeditions (and Yakov from giving them advice).

'Erm... excuse me...' another man spoke up unexpectedly, a tall, dark-haired one. 'I have to buy a bra for my sister and I was wondering if...'

'Do you have a photo of her?' Feltsman mumbled impatiently. 'How old is she?'

'Thirteen.' The man fished out an old photo out of his wallet. 'Our mother usually buys it, so I don't know what size she wears and...'

'Thirty two B.'

'Oh shit! Eee... really?'

'As for me, she must wear C at least,' the redhead commented humbly.

'Or even D!' The seller leaned out of the booth's window.

Yakov rolled his eyes. Pff, such naïve fools! 'She stuffs her bra,' he mumbled. 'Thirteen-year-old snotty girls hardly ever have tits larger than C. All you have to do is look at her waist. It's completely disproportionate to her chest. It must be tissues or a padded bra.'

'Oh, dear...'

All three: the redhead, the giant and the vendor were looking at Feltsman like the Jews were looking at Moses when he parted the sea.

Yakov didn't have time to continue educating some strangers in womanology, so he simply grabbed his stuff and walked towards the car.

'Is he some kind of a guru or what?' he heard behind him.

'A fucking specialist!'

At that same moment (still half-naked) Sonya leaned out of the car's window. 'Hey, what takes you so long? We're waiting!'

Other skaters started to rush their coach as well, moaning and pushing their cheeks against the glass. Feltsman's hand slapped his forehead, making a loud noise. Fucking perfect. He wondered what those three fools would think?

'Look who's waiting for him in the car!' the redhead student shrieked.

'Holy shit... he's managed to hook that many babes at his age?' the seller moaned, failing to hide his jealousy.

'Shit,' the giant's voice was a mix of disbelief and respect, 'and I didn't believe my mom when she told me that charm is something more than just the looks.'

Feltsman's fingers tore the lollipop wrapper in fury. The sticky heart disappeared in the mouth crooked from irritation. As it turned out – that wasn't the end of the show yet!

The white Honda hadn't managed to move more than a hundred yards when two of the four girls grabbed their heads.

'Oh, shit!' Sonya moaned.

'Heck, did you forget about the same thing I did?' Lenka gave her a knowing look.

'For sure. God damn it, how could we forget!'

'Coach, turn back, we forgot about the condoms.'

Yakov's feet pressed the brake pedal so hard that if it was not for the belt it must've ended with an accident. The surprised ladies squealed.

'ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?!' The yell was so load that even Feltsman got pain in his ears. 'You're not going to that banquet to sleep around!'

'Who talks about sleeping around!' Lenka rolled her eyes.

'Are we supposed to be nuns?' Sonya grunted softly.

'You have to be mental if you think I will come back for bloody condoms!' Yakov hit the horn several times, almost giving the driver in front of them a heart attack (the black golf's owner even pulled over to let the furious fifty-year-old through).

Pfff! Bloody snorties... Want to have sex? Where such a number of hormones come from? Maybe their practice sessions were not harsh enough? Ooh, then Feltsman would ensure to change things! Just wait till the end of the banquet!

I'll make them do intervals after which they will instantly forget about one-night stands! Yakov promised himself, biting the lollipop vengefully. One thing is for sure... I'm not coming back for bloody condoms! There's no way I'm appearing anywhere near that kiosk again!

'Whatever!' Sonya folded her arms, being offended. 'If I get pregnant, then it's the coach's fault!'

Fuck!

With a professional drifter's efficiency the man turned the car around. There was just one thing worse than skaters sleeping with whoever was near them: skaters bringing drooling babies to the ice rink (guess who changed their nappies when mummies were busy).

Therefore the trip to the booth repeated, Yakov bought the goddamn condoms (the students' and the seller's faces were priceless) and got back to the car. Listening to Joan Jett's song 'I love rock and roll' the team (fucking finally!) headed to the banquet.

'Do you want some, Verechka?' Masha asked when they opened the box together with Lenka and started to give out tiny wrappings to whomever was willing to get them.

The Vice World Champion stiffened. 'Erm... no... you know... no, thanks,' she spluttered, turning her blushed face to the window.

For Yakov, who was watching the scene in a rear-view mirror, it was quite a surprise. Well... sure, the youngest (only nineteen years old) sheep in his flock, Verechka, was a model of pure virtues and she was always very polite... but she never before refused to take . Not even because she actually wanted to use it. It was rather because of the fact she didn't want to listen to her colleagues' whining. And as it could've been foretold, they started bothering the poor girl again.

'Oh, come ooon, Verechka!'

'Take it with you, just in case!'

'Who knows who are you going to meet at the banquet?'

They kept talking and talking, but the young Vice World Champion stayed silent, keeping her hands folded on her knees.

Is she still grieving she hasn't won the gold? Yakov wondered. Or maybe she's just having a bad day? I'll have to ask her about it...

'In my day, women had respect for themselves and didn't sleep with whoever came round,' he mumbled to distract other skaters and give Verechka some space.

'And that one again.' Sonya rolled her eyes. 'You're always talking how it was „in your day" „in your times", coach!'

'It's not my fault you're easy. I'm just telling you that when I was young a statistic lady wouldn't be pleased with any guy she'd met. These days, you had to woo the girl. And now you don't even need to buy flowers.'

At the instant, Feltsman was surrounded with arms. Before the confused fifty-year-old had a chance to ask what the fuck was happening, the girls managed to squeeze all the condoms in his jacket pocket.

'HOLY FUCK!' he yelled, waving his hands around angrily (thankfully they'd stopped at a crossroad, so he could let go of the steering wheel). 'What the hell are you doing?!'

'We're giving it to you for safekeeping.' Masha winked at her coach. 'Nobody will say that we were easy.'

'If I find a man who really deserves to have me, I'll let you know, coach,' Lenka declared splendidly.

'ARE YOU MAD?!' Yakov was at the end of his tether. 'Excuse me, but who am I supposed to stand for at this banquet? A fucking CONDOM DISPATCH?! Maybe you'll give me a label signed „than guy has condoms, let him know if you need some"?'

'It wouldn't be that stupid,' Sonya stated, putting her thumb against her lower lip. 'You could registrate everyone and check if they're over eighteen.'

'YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING...'

The condom quarrel lasted throughout the whole drive. When they've arrived at the right place, Feltsman got out (or rather: rolled out) of his car having his forehead sweated and his throat dry from constant yelling. It wasn't strange of him that the first thing he did after passing the threshold of the generously decorated room was seeking a table with soft drinks and pouring a glass of whatever he got in his hands.

Oh, God, that's amazing, he thought, tasting the chilled orange juice. Finally, some peace!

He looked around. His titted flock managed to fan out in all directions. And thanks God for that! Of course, Yakov loved his skaters a lot – each one of them – but one more minute of listening to their chaotic gibberish could've ended fatally for him! Eh... if only Igor was with him.

Feltsman sighed deeply. He didn't understand why his friend was so biased against banquets. Well... okay, Antonov did have some kind of a trauma after 1981 when he got drunk with several glasses of champagne, what lead to him starting a dance off in which he included a striptease show... but why would he completely stop attending parties for a reason like that? Inconceivable!

I don't understand it at all! Yakov thought, shaking his head. After all I got hammered together with him and we were dancing to that fucking amazing Joan Jett's song 'Bad Reputation'. I've got tape with that lady's songs in my car for a reason... and after all, Vronkov was dancing as well and he got walloped! What a pity nobody was recording...

A corner of Feltsman's mouth raised at the memory... and it fell a few seconds later. The fifty-year-old coach remembered how the incident ended for Antonov – he got hit on his face by Ekaterina Vronkova. She was aiming for Alexei, but the sly, old prick ducked and Igor got hit instead of him. Poor guy...

By the way, he wondered who was going to win today's bet? Eh, the Prissy Wanker and his Hellish Empress were nowhere to see yet... Maybe they hadn't arrived yet? Maybe they weren't going to arrive at all? Ha-ha, yeah. Sure.

Each banquet differed from all the others in some way, but there were always three things to be sure of:

First – Vronkov and his wife always appear.

Second – Vronkov gets scolded by his wife.

Third – Yakov makes fun of how Vronkov got scolded and a heated argument starts.

Feltsman sighed again. All of that was so predictable it was almost boring. After decades of attending parties like that, Yakov realised nothing surprised him anymore. Before, he could at least spend some time in Lilia's company, but now... Really, it would've been so much more pleasant to stay at home! But what could he do?

Sighing even once more, the bored divorcee decided to spill some more juice and then he would go and find a good friend of his, Maria Beatriz Gonzales. The American-Guatemalan coach was a bit mean time to time, but her company offered many entertainments – such as calling the dancing snort-nosed kids off. It was better than nothing.

Reaching for the jug, Yakov's hand bumped against another hand. When he realised whose hand it was, the fifty-year-old man straightened up.

The goddamned Murphy's law... Yakov clenched his teeth. For fuck's sake!

Let's think for a while... who could he encounter by the table full of soft drinks? What age group could someone who picked orange juice over champagne be in?

'Mister Feltsman...' Max Levin, dressed in a stylish suit, nodded at his former coach politely. 'I didn't think you would come.'

The young skater's voice was just a little cold. A little. But even a little could hurt a lot.

Yakov could hide his emotion well. When he was pouring juice into a glass, his hands didn't shake a bit. Handling the glass in one hand and keeping the other one clenched into a fist in his pocket, he turned to Max.

'My girls placed high,' he said, trying not to express anything but pride and cold self-control. 'Verechka is a Vice World Champion. Of course I came. And, to be honest... I would've come even if all my skaters failed at the competition.'

'Right,' his ex-student said nastily. 'After all, the competitor's good results are just a secondary matter to you.'

Yakov didn't respond instantly. If it was someone else, he would've said something bitey, like: You've been skating for a too short time and you're too snotty to know what's a secondary matter to me.

But it wasn't just anyone. It was Max – a boy for whom only half a year ago Feltsman would buy a plane ticket to Japan so that he could watch the Olympic Games live. And saying that after all these years this boy spent at the Champions' Club he didn't know what really was a secondary matter to Feltsman... it would've been simply offensive.

Not given the answer from his former coach, the young skater said: 'I'm happy you've come after all. I hoped I would be able to talk to you. I'd like to tell you that... even though I'm still angry at what happened... I understand that we're going to see each other at banquets and competitions regularly, so it would be good if we were polite with each other. I don't intend to disrespect you in any way. I forgive you.'

The fact he said that in a voice of fucking Jesus granting absolution to Pilate was even more distressing and annoying.

You forgive me?! Yakov wanted to bark. WHAT are you supposed to forgive me? That I cared about you and about your health, that I thought of your career as a WHOLE and not only about the bloody World Championships, and that I made you to have that knee surgery? The surgery I paid for with my own money, although you don't know that because I didn't want you to feel like you owed me something so I left it unsaid!'

But he didn't say any of these. He didn't want to sink to the level of a self-righteous kid by getting dragged into a debate without any sense. He was too tired for that.

'Max...' he spoke up, putting his palm against his forehead, 'we've talked about that so many times that I'm starting to feel sick of that matter. I tried to explain you for a million times why you needed that surgery and you talked back a million times in the same way. I think that after all these quarrels we've both realised we're not going to work things out in that case, so for me there's no sense in making comments on your gracious statement that you „forgive me". And what's about „not disrespecting me"...' Yakov folded his arms and looked at Max meaningfully, 'I think that you've made that promise a little too late, don't you think? After all, you were talking rather a lot in your last interview.'

The boy bristled. He backed up a little as well. His posture reminded Yakov of defensive position of a frightened prey – he had no idea what to do, so he tried to look threatening.

'T-the communism you've been raised in belongs to the past!' he stated, raising his chin up with pride. 'There's freedom of speech now! I can say whatever I want.'

'Of course you can say whatever you want!' Yakov snorted. 'I don't intend to forbid you berating me publicly. I'm old, Max. It's not the first time someone says something unflattering about me. At some age, you start to understand than many displeasures are simply a part of the sport's world. I'm not going to slit my wrists because my student said a few unpleasant words about me. But, you know what...' Yakov narrowed his eyes, 'you could've spared naming Rykov and Popovich. I'm just one thing. But Georgi and Lyov are still children. The last thing they need is someone publicly calling them no-talents and delinquents. I understand you're still just a fourteen-year-old brat so you may lack savoir-faire, but I thought you would be at least a bit more decent.'

'That's you being not decent!' Levin hissed. 'My brother got beaten up brutally, and you...'

'Max,' the former coach interrupted him, 'I know you're loyal to Ivanko, I understand why, I had a brother myself and I loved him deeply as well... but please do both of us a favour and don't act like you're an idiot. Because all what you say imply you're either incredibly stupid or you pretend that you are. You know Ivanko is a foot taller than Lyov and that he's pretty experienced at beating the crap out of people. If he got punched by someone, then it was just because he let someone punch him. And he let that happen because he's intelligent, calculating and he's got a need of putting salt in the game of whoever endangers his status of the most powerful kid in the group. Turning a blind eye on his antics, both you and your mother hurt him. He knows that you'd buy every single one of his lies and find a reason for all of his stunts, so he feels he can get away with everything. Not like I'm blameless in that case... maybe if I was more harsh for him and remind him of the order of things more often all of that wouldn't've happened? Eh, nevermind that... we can only hope Ivanko will get pacified in the new club. Vronkov, out of all people, surely won't let him for the stunts.'

Max opened his mouth to talk him back, but he didn't have time for that, as someone standing next to them started clapping.

Oho, Yakov thought, speak of the devil.

Alexei Vronkov looked just as always – skinny, bald, with Lenin's style beard. He was walking around in a beige suit for two thousand rubles, but surprisely without the goofy tie with green stripes. He was patting his wrist with one hand, and holding a polished, black cane with a gold, diamond-shaped end in the other. The old prick didn't have a limp, so people were constantly wondering what the hell did he need a cane for... Some thought that Vronkov wanted to have something cooler than Yakov's gold signet ring. Others, that he was carrying it around so that he could have something to defend himself from his wife. Both versions seemed to be quite probable.

'Well said, Faltsman,' Vronkov sang, smiling teasingly.

'I'm glad you liked it,' Yakov responded in an ice-cold voice.

'Max, would you be so nice and accompany my granddaughter?' the bald arsehole spoke to Levin. 'She wanted you to dance with her very much. In the meantime, me and Felstan will have a nice talk like good, old friends. Well, come on! Flee, kid!'

Being called a 'kid', the boy flinched softly. Giving his former coach one more cold look, he walked towards the girl standing at the other side of the room. The rivals were finally alone.

Okay, Feltsman, calm down, Yakov told himself, taking a sip of his juice. That wanky arsehole is going to ask you about the divorce. Keep calm and answer like you didn't mind it at all.

Smirking, Vronkov spoke up: 'How's you divorce, Feltsman?'

Bingo!

Feltsman finished his juice without hurry, and then he answered mildly: 'Thanks for asking, very well. Everything has been handled a few months ago. And how's your happy marriage?' The bald man went red at his rival's ironic look. 'Or I'd rather say „mal-riage"?'

As if on cue, a shadow appeared behind Vronkov. A dark creature that walked out of the crowd had dark hair tied in a bun, a diamond ring shining on one of her clawy fingers, a pair of threatening diamond earrings and a pair of even more threatening brown eyes.

'Alexei...' Katya Vronkova's voice sounded like the voice of the devil himself. And the world himself should be emphasized! Her voice was low, deep and so frightening, that it would have no trouble ruling the whole Russian Army.

Hearing his own name said by his beloved spouse, Vronkov started to sweat. With eyeballs moving all the way round, he turned stiffly to face Katerina. When he saw her razor-sharp fingernails on her hips and the tense muscles reaching out from the dress's sleeves, he tightened fingers around the crane nervously.

'Y-yes, honey?' he squealed.

Yuh-uh! Yakov was as excited as it was possible. He's going to get scolded! The question is, what for: the clothing or the behaviour? Ooh, I can't wait...

'Alexei,' Katerina roared, 'zip up your fly immediately! If I see you once more walking around at the banquet with your fly down, I will ensure you won't have anything to hide in your trousers anymore. Do you understand me?'

'O-of course, honey! I'm sorry!'

While the bald arsehole's fingers tried to deal with the little zip, Feltsman scratched his head.

God damn it! The Champions' Club runner was completely confused. What category is an unzipped fly in, the clothing or the behaviour?! For fuck's sake, woman... couldn't you be more PRECISE?! Now I can't decide on who's won the bet!

'Your skater won silver, Feltsman.' Katya nodded at Yakov. 'Congratulations.'

'Thanks.'

Feltsman raised his glass in a polite gesture. He knew that unlike his wanky husband, Vronkova would compliment him frankly, without any hidden agenda.

'Her free programme was quite eye-pleasing,' she stated, moving her manicured finger on her lower lip. 'Although... I think the Axel wasn't fully rotated?'

'It wasn't,' Yakov admitted with a sigh. 'The judges must've been generous and didn't call it. Vera wasn't doing her best, but she executed most of her jumps well. She deserved high technical score.'

'What for, I'm wondering?' Vronkov mumbled.

'No one asked you for an opinion, Alexei,' Katerina barked.

'Sorry, honey.'

The conceited patsy shut his mouth meekly... but started to move his feet impatiently. Most probably he couldn't wait until his wife would go mind her own business so that he can speak to his rival alone. Eh... Yakov always wondered how Katerina had Alexei marry her. She must've blackmailed him. There was no way any sane man would get himself in marriage like that all willingly.

'Yet her Biellmann position was perfect,' Vronkova continued in a thoughtful voice. 'Your student's split is quite impressive, Feltsman. When I look at her, I can't help but think of your former partner, Tatyana Lubicheva. Her name is McKenzie now, am I right?'

'It's Lubicheva-McKenzie,' Yakov corrected her. 'She married an American. She lives with her husband in California.'

'What a pity she's not at the banquet. I heard she's in Europe right now.'

'She's got family in Lithuania. Her cousin had a baby recently and Tatyana came for the christening. When we spoke last time on the phone, she told me she wouldn't come to Russia, because she's got an ice show in San Francisco. Once she gets everything in Lithuania done, she's coming back to the States right away.'

'Could we stop speaking about that bleached-out witch?' Vronkov mumbled, scratching the tip of his cane angrily.

'So now you're going to tell me what can I talk about, Alexei?' Katerina looked at her husband like a devil would look at a sinner.

'N-no!' The bald man started waving his hands in panic. 'K-Katya, honey, of course not! H-how in Earth could I... ahem... really, honey, where did that idea come from?'

'And, by the way, Tatyana is a natural blonde, Alexei,' Yakov emphasized the world, smirking teasingly.

'I think Alexei's mind is blonde as well,' Vronkova claimed. 'After all, all these reserves of stupidity didn't come from nowhere. Oh, I see they've brought the caviar snacks! I'll get some for myself before everything best gets taken away. You'd better not fuck around when I'm gone, Alexei. If you embarrass my beloved granddaughter, you're going to regret that. It was nice to see you, Feltsman.'

After the Ice Empress left, the bearded wanker got seemingly more comfortable. He started to glare at Yakov intensely as well. Actually... he always glared at him intensely – intensely and quite teasingly... but now he was staring at him even more intensively. As if he'd been excited by something. What could've stood behind that?

Feltsman came to the conclusion that he didn't want to know. 'I'll go and grab something to eat as well,' he said, putting his glass on the table. 'As your wife pointed out, we should hurry up before the best treats disappear from plates.'

'You're leaving so fast?' Vronkov blew a raspberry. 'I thought we could talk a little.'

'Waht are we supposed to talk about? Do you think I'm going to stay here and listen to your quips like an obedient dog? I'm sorry, Vronkov, but you're wrong. If you wanted to bully me, I'm afraid you will have to wait untill the next banquet when I can get hammered and more eager for arguments. Today I've got a car, a shitty mood and four girls to tkae care of. And I don't really feel like having the conversation about Max and the divorce for the fuckteenth time.'

'Oh, and who said we would talk about Max or about your divorce?' the bald prick chirruped with a grin on his face. 'I thought we could talk about something else. Can't I get you motivated to stay in some way? Don't you want to... ask me about something?'

'Ask you?' Feltsman raised his eyebrow. 'About what?'

'For example... how much do I want for the rink.'

Yakov needed whole ten seconds to realise what these words meant. When he did, his heart stopped for a moment. At least it felt like it did, if the piercing pain in the chest was some kind of a mark. Count an unpleasantly dry throat and a bit of dizziness as well.

No. For fuck's sake, no... it is NOT happening.

It was impossible... there was no chance that out of all scenarios about the rink's buyer that Yakov predicted, the worst and the most improbable one was the one that was true! Holy heavens! God couldn't be that malicious. Where were these famous reserves of mercy that the Creator was supposed to give out right and left?! If Father in Heaven was so great and merciful, why was he so mean to Yakov Feltsman, destroying his relationship with the beloved woman, placing his most precious student under the protection of the worst knave walking this Earth and finally giving Yakov's beloved ice rink out to that very same knave?!

If only it was a dream... a nightmare that he would wake up from! But it wasn't. Yakov was perfectly sure that the wild satisfaction pictured on Vronkov's face was utterly genuine. What was worse... Feltsman was perfectly sure that on his own face there was only despair and terror. No self-respecting warrior would face his opponent with an expression like that. Despite that, the cornered man didn't try to wear a mask of calm and self-control. It was the first time in his life when he was not able to do so. He was trapped.

Having the Champions' Club in his hand, Vronkov might as well hold a knife against Lilka's throat. Both situations would have the same meaning for Yakov. No matter how much it would hurt him... no matter how much his pride would be screaming in pain, Feltsman had no other choice than letting his opponent whip him.

Taking a deep breath, he let himself have some time to calm down and instead of asking his rival for his demands, he went for something easier... something more neutral.

'So you have bought my ice rink... how did you manage to do that? Of course, you have your connections, but they're not that huge.'

He was shocked by his own voice. He didn't expect himself to sound so peaceful in a situation like that.

'I wed my youngest daughter with the special ops commander,' Vronkov said proudly.

Yakov wondered. 'Your youngest daughter? Do you mean the one who never admits you're her father and calls you a deceitful dickhead whenever an opportunity comes?'

Vronkov went red. 'Maybe Polinechka doesn't like me that much, but my son-in-law is eating out of my hand!' he burst out, turning his eyes away from Yakov and scratching the nape of his neck. 'There's one thing you have to keep in mind, Feltsman: you may have some conflicts with your favourite child, but you always have to get your in-laws on side. But...' he smirked at Yakov, 'not that you're going to need that advice anytime soon. You don't have your own children, after all. You don't even have any chance of having children. And, after all... they say your wife was of no use, anyway.'

The fear and distress escaped Feltsman's mind at the speed of light. 'You'd better not offend Lilia when I am around,' Yakov warned him.

'Oh, so it was your fault, after all?' Vronkov giggled. 'So you're impotent?'

'As if it mattered for you. Anyway, I warn you, if you offend Lilia one more time I will recall all the incidents you could get whipped for by Katerina and I will announce them to the world even today. What kind of flowers would you like to have at you funeral? Do you prefer roses or tulips? What about lilies, so that everyone would know the reason why you kicked the bucket?'

Baranovskaya's ex-husband was a man of his word, indeed. He wouldn't have any chances against his greatest rival, if after all these years of being at each other's throats he didn't have any little hooks in the bearded dickhead. They both knew perfectly what were these hooks. And talking about lilies at the funeral was at most a tiny exaggeration.

The bald wanker came to his senses and stopped offending Lilia. Whilst Yakov got himself calm enough to finally ask about the certain matter.

'Getting back to the rink... how much do you want? Or rather... what do you want? I don't really think you'd like me to become a bankrupt. Your motifs tend to be nastier and more sophisticated.'

'You're right. I don't want you to become a bankrupt.'

'So whatt do you want me to do, then? Am I supposed to beg you? Do you want me to get down on my knees?'

Fuck, even if he was to throw his guts up of anger, he would do that! His ego would die a natural death, but whatever! For the Champions' Club, Yakov could do everything. Including dressing up as Father Christmas and giving out lollipops to spoilt brats. And kissing Stalin on his arse, if the wanker had been alive.

'I don't want to see you on your knees,' Vronkov stated with his cold calm. 'It's your career I want to see on its knees.'

Feltsman couldn't help a snort. 'My career?' He treated his rival to a bitterly amused look. 'Don't you think it's a little too late for that, Vronkov? My career, as well as I, isn't at its preliminary level, but rather middle-aged... or I could say even, retired. All that I could've ever achieved is already in the past. My sport achievements include several silver and bronze medals as well as the Olympic gold. You can't change the past, so you can't strip me of any of these achievements. So, excuse me, but how do you intend to bring my career to its knees?'

'I wasn't speaking about your athletic career. I was thinking of you as a coach.'

'There's even less to talk about on that matter. Even though you've got more titles to your name than I have, our achievements as coaches are rather comparable. We had both bronze and silver medalists amongst our senior ladies and men as well as juniors. But none of them was ever a World Champion or an Olympic Champion. So we can agree we're head-to-head.'

'Are you really sure we're going head-to-head?'

You didn't need to be a genius to notice what that wanker was going for. To handle the words to be said better – the ones he could already feel floating in the air, like thunders sounding in the distance – Yakov poured himself another glass of juice. Consuming the cool drink should – partially, at least – draw his attention back from the pain.

'Your best student finished working with you and started to skate with me.' Vronkov was speaking slowly, as if he wanted to ensure each one of the words he said could be perfectly heard by the rival. 'It's probably the greatest offence to a coach. You had a golden egg, Feltsman... but the egg decided you won't be able to hatch it. If Max stayed with you, he wouldn't have hatched. Do you know why? Because I do.'

Feltsman was trying his best to focus on the taste of the oranges rather that on these horrible claims. The claims he had heard so many times before – on radio, on television... said by so many people...

'The case is, you're not gifted, Feltsman. And neither are your students. All of your competitors that achieved anything matched one scheme: a hard-working mediocre. Just as that old dumb Novak, you raised a bunch of artistic skaters putting their blood and sweat to every single programme, but never able to skate a clean one.'

'Watch what you say about Misha Novak,' Yakov warned him.

'I'm not offending him, I'm just telling the truth.' Vronkov shrugged his shoulders. 'All I had to do is to have a glance at that little star of yours, the Vice World Champion, Veronika Sokolova. The girl skates well, I have to admit that... but at her junior days, she was known best for poor edges and spoilt jumps. All that she's got now, she got not from the talent, but from years of hard work. Because the hard work is all you can work with. When you found Max, a great jumper with strong legs and perfect predisposition, you got lost and you didn't know what to do. You'd never been talented, so you have no idea how to teach the talented people. That's the law of nature, Feltsman. A pig won't train a good racehorse. That's not being nasty; that's the biology.'

Yakov's hand tightened around the glass. It was a surprise it didn't break.

I can't let him tell me such bullshit, Feltsman thought, determined. If I believe any of that wanker's words, it will make the whole ferns and cactuses lecture meaningless. By the way... I think Novak was saying something about horses and pigs as well? Eh, nevermind. Anyway, I can't let him make chewing gum of my head! I won't deny the theory I've been following throughout my whole life!

That was what he told himself... but still, a grain of insecurity has been sown in his heart. Vronkov might've been a wanked dickhead and a deceitful cocroach... but at leat one of his claims was quite logical, indeed.

Yakov's students really were usually called the hard-working mediocres. Well, it could've been connected with the fact the Champions' Club had difficulties getting young geniuses from the very beginning – the most talented ones were being caught by places like Spartan or Lenin at a very young age, and then selected following strict rules. Max had been ommitted, only because he was discovered at one of Yakov's camps. Not that the young boy hadn't been given any offers... Feltsman remembered perfectly well how several clubs would race each other to get Max. But the boy always was loyal to the Champion. Until once when he wasn't.

'Your teaching methods are a one thing,' Vronkov continued, rubbing his chin. 'But do you know what is your real problem, Feltsman? It's how you get attached. They say you're strict... that your circuit training brings hell to the Earth... but I know you and I know who you really are. The truth is, you can't grab the whip and get off your students everything they should be capable of. You look at skaters and you see family... because coachie Novak got you to think that it's possible to make a family out of that pile of bricks called the Champions' Club.'

'I think I've told you not to offend Novak when I am around?' Yakov barked out in an ice-cold voice.

The bald arsehole ignored the threat. 'You were able to control it until now... But you have to admit you got a bit carried off with Levin.' He smiled as if he'd been asking his rival to smash him in his face with a jug (Yakov refrained himself from doing it, mostly because of the juice). 'You cared about that boy a lot, didn't you? You cared about him more than about others. He was growing up without his father so you felt obliged to stand as one for him, and started to imagine who knows what sorts of things. He told me about that, you know? That he was full of your parental impulses. You don't have your own children and that's why...'

'Don't drain me with all that bullshit, Vronkov,' Yakov interrupted the smug bastard with a sigh. 'We haven't started that talk to analyse my 'parental impulses' or whatever you called it... I suppose you relieved your need of annoying me, so do me a favour and get to the point. What do you want me to do to get you to sell the rink to me?'

'I want you to admit that you've lost,' Vronkov hissed. 'Admit that I am a better coach, announce your retirement and move out from old Novak's office. Do it, and then I will sell your beloved rink to you for the price I've paid for it. Not a single ruble more, I swear it.'

Retirement? Actually... Feltsman had this word in his mind several times. Divorcees abandoned by their favourite students were quite vulnerable to a range of stupid ideas. Fortunately, hardship didn't make anyone lose their minds completely. Crises would come along and then leave, and Yakov would always give up the idea of retiring – first as a figure skater, and then as a coach.

But what could he do in a situation like that?! He still had a choice, but...

At the moment, Feltsman glanced at the skaters standing by the snack bar. Vera and Sonya – who had qualified for the Olympics – were being complimeted by Maria Gonzales. Blushing and smiling shyly, they were listening as the woman, said to be one of the most picky coaches, praised their Lutzes and spins. The sight moved Yakov a bit.

The heir of Misha Novak clenched his fists. He didn't know how the story would end like... but he knew very well how it couldn't end like!

'I believe you wouldn't trick me,' he said to Vronkov, 'but I decline your offer.'

The bearded arsehole's eyes widened. 'I'm shocked. I thought you loved that pile of bricks.'

'I do love it, indeed.'

As you said yourself, that 'pile of bricks' is something more than a building for me. It's family.

'So why do you decline?' Vronkov asked, raising his eyebrow.

'For three reasons. First, if I have retired now, everyone would think I did it because of Max. I would admit that he was right. It would look like atonement. And even if it wouldn't, people would think that brat got me broken... which would be even worse. Second, maybe you forgot about it, but two of my skaters are going to the Games. I've been coaching them since they were little and I won't let them down when they're preparing for the most important competition in their lives. And third...'

Yakov Feltsman treated his rival to the very same as in 1995, at the World Championships banquet as well. He looked at Alexei Vronkov in exactly the same way then. With eyes telling that neither a toilet seats breaking brat flooded with tears, nor a moulded by his live divorcee would let anyone look down on him.

'I won't put an end to my career only because a smug arsehole gave me an ultimatum. I will decide myself when I will pick up my toys and move out from my office. And it won't be when you will tell me to do it. You won't take that satisfaction, Vronkov.'

'And if I told you I would level the rink?'

Feltsman's heart got overwhelmed with fear for a moment... but the Champions' Club protector got rid of it, made himself hold his nerve and stated strongly: 'My answer would stay as a „no".'

I love that pile of bricks... he thought, swallowing a gulp, but when I think more deeply I can see that a pile of bricks is just what it looks like... a pile of bricks. We can move to another rink and practise there. Of course it will hurt... moving out from the place that smells of our sweat and blood HAS to be painful... but it's still better than following the will of a smug dickhead.

Speaking of smug dickheads, one thing couldn't leave Yakov's head. 'By the way, Vronkov... tell me, because I'm incredibly curious: why are you doing this?' he asked without a glimpse of nervousity, in a calm, even a little bit tired voice. 'What is the point? Of course we don't like each other and we've been rivals for years, but we've never been straight motherfuckers to each other. I admit, if there was a show focused on hanging you by your privates over a fire I would buy a first-row ticket... and still, when your Spartan was being privatised it didn't even cross my mind to spite you and buy it secretly. And to be honest... I wouldn't say you'd been a guy who'd have done something like that either. So tell me... why? Why now?'

'You ask me „why"?' Vronkov snorted. 'Because I got bored with our rivalry, Feltsman. We've been passing a ball for years, but none of us ever wins. I want the showdown! I want someone to announce, lo and behold, who is the winner. I hated ties since I was little. They piss me off, because they never let anyone to be in their own glory. Well... only a few years back our skirmishes were entertaining, but they're not anymore to me. Do you know why? Because you've become a divorced shadow of your old self, without his leading champion, with a few mediocre juniors... and with your favourite student, or rather a former student, who doesn't want to know you anymore. What is more, from all possible coaches to choose from, that student has chosen me, your greatest rival. You've lost, Feltsman. It's high time to admit it.'

'Maybe I am a shadow of my old self,' Yakov started, 'but at least I'm not a dirty coward. I may be a shadow of a man, but you're a scared lady, Vronkov. 'Cause only a dirty coward or a scared missy wins the fight by preventing the opponent from entering the ring... not even being enough of a man to put on the gloves and start the fight. And that's what buying the rink behind my back was. I must admit you've disappointed me. It wouldn't have crossed my mind you could get satisfied with a showdown without any show. I thought you could do better.'

After saying that, he felt there was nothing left to say. He turned around and walked towards the table with champagne. There was no point in prolonging the talk. What had to be told, had been told. All that was left to do was to get numbed out with a bit of alcohol, dance, pay some brat for driving, sleep off all the revelations of the evening, wake up with the hangover of the year and finally begin the slow and painful process of 'accepting one's fate'.

How am I going to tell the guys? Yakov wondered, pressing his palm against his forehead. Or the girls? Eh, that's going to be a drag...

'Wait,' he heard Vronkov's voice behind him.

The Champion's main coach stopped, waiting to hear another biting remark. How surprised he was when after turning around he saw his rival standing with a hand on his hip and deadly serious expression. More serious than ever.

'You know what, Feltsman? You're right. I don't want our noble rivalry to end like that. Let's end this thing by doing what we're best at. Let's bet.'

At the first moment, Yakov blinked. Then he tilted his head back and burst into laughter. 'Another bet? Don't you think we're a little too old for that? I thought we were past all these messed up bets. After the posters incident...'

'NOT A SINGLE WORD ABOUT THE POSTERS!' Vronkov's face was more red than the Red Army.

Yakov rolled his eyes. 'Why do you lash out? It was your idea.'

'Maybe it was mine, but...' The bearded fellow pulled out a handkerchief and wiped a drop of sweat off his bald, 'well, fuck, nevermind! I'm not talking about some teeny-tiny, little bet. I want it to be the final match between the two of us.'

'Oh. And for that „final battle", are we supposed to run around Peterburg together and slingshot policemen, spin on top of the Winter Palace, or maybe do something even more stupid? Vronkov... maybe you'd better go to a doctor and check if your wife hadn't hit your head a little too hard. We're fifty years old. Thanks, but I'll say no.'

Shaking his head, Feltsman turned to walk away. Really... he thought it was only him going mad for his old age.

'If you win, I will give you the damn ice rink for free!'

Yakov stopped. He thought he overheard. 'I'm sorry?'

'I said you will get it.' The bearded man's eyes were cold and fierce. 'The ice rink. For free. If you win.'

'Vronkov, I wasn't joking about the doctor. Well, not that I would mind a deal like that... but don't you think it would be a little too much? You want to bet on the rink?'

Vronkov wondered for a while. 'It wasn't that expensive,' he said, scratching his head. 'Or... well, no, it was quite expensive, actually. I had to give up on buying an amazing jumbo-jet to get it.'

'You had to give up on buying a plane?' Yakov blurted out. 'How traumatizing it must've been.'

'I'm confident enough to bet on your beloved dump. Let's put an end to it once and for all, Feltsman. Let's state who is the better coach.'

'And how do you want to do it? Get some boffins sitting around a table and compare our achievements?'

'Of course not. It would be damn boring.'

'So how you see it?'

Grumping in annoyance, the bald arsehole folded his arms and stared at the ceiling. He was thinking intensively for at least a minute before he spoke up again, 'you don't have any men skater at the moment. I don't have any ladies. We both have some juniors... but I think we both agree that nobody younger than sixteen would be able to compete with Max, right?'

'That's right,' Yakov admitted reluctantly, 'I must agree.'

'So let's sort it out with a duel of kids. Each of us will pick a child no older than eleven.'

Feltsman hesitated. The voice of reason was telling him: 'Oh, come on, you old man... are you mad? A children's duel? It's idiotic! Seriously, you even consider it?', but the other, more important voice, tempting as the snake from the Book of Genesis kept saying: 'The ice rink for free, the ice rink for free, the ice rink for free, the ice rink for free, oh, and if Vronkov loses he's going to feel so bummed and blue and dicky...'

'Any rules?' Yakov asked finally. 'Music? The programme's length? Jumps allowed?'

'Free-for-all. It won't be an official competition, so we don't have to limit ourselves. And we shouldn't get any professional judges involved. It would be pointless. We'll ask five coaches who we know well and who won't get bribed... say that old witch, Gonzales. There will be no points, no technical score, no artistic score. The jury will simply take notes and vote on either my or your student. You've always been moping the judging system is not fair, right? You won't have anything to fuss about.'

'Okay, and when do you want to do it? Remember that whoever we're going to as will have their own plans. It won't be easy to get five hard-working people to come to Petersburg at the same time.'

'You know anything about the Ice Palace?'

Ice Palace... Ice Palace... where have I... aah! Of course!

'That huge hockey rink they've been building? Yeah, I've heard of it.'

It was hard not to, taking into account how often the Governor Yakovlev was praising it on TV.

'They're planning to finish it before the Hockey World Championships...' Vronkov said, 'BUT a little bird told me that someone miscalculated their budget and they may need a few more rubles to finish up some small but important details. And what should the authorities do in such case? Resign from holding the Championships? Or maybe get a little cash infusion, inviting to the beautiful arena skaters who don't need so many conveniences as hockey players?'

It rang a bell in Feltsman's mind. 'Ah, yes. I heard they want to organise an Ice Show before the official opening. I heard some birds speaking as well.'

'That's right. They're going to hold a show there in a year. Right after the Worlds.'

Yakov was thrown off the track. 'A year of time?' he repeated in unbelief. 'You want to want one year to settle our bet?'

'You can't say it's a bad idea.' His rival raised his eyebrow. 'The Olympics are just round the corner, so we both have our hands full. We'd better wait until all the fuss about the Games blows over. And also... you need time to get a ten-year-old to skate a decent programme. I will get the tapes off that falling apart dump of yours, so that our chances are equal. Until the bet is settled, you can practise just as you did before. I won't take any money from you. You only have to figure out all the water and electricity bills. As I told you before, it's not one of our childish fights, so we're going to write down all the rules the way the good Lord intended, in writing, with a solicitor... and with my wife so that you can be sure that in case I didn't keep my end of the bargain, I would end up beaten up to death and you could get some lilies for my grave.'

Riiight, the last point was quite convincing. If that henpecked bastard decided to implicate his sadistic wife in the case, then he had no other choice than playing fair.

'All's clear and fair, Feltsman,' Vronkov highlighted. 'You've got your own stable, and I've got mine. We both have got a young horse, and we're both starting in a race next year.'

'And if I win, I get the rink?'

'The rink and everything that surrounds it, counting each fallen tree. If you win.'

Yakov imagined that: becoming the owner of the Champions' Club. He couldn't remember for how long he wanted to become one. He'd probably got it from his own coach? Novak would always sigh and say how much he could do if only the Champion wasn't state owned... if it was owned by someone who cared.

'But,' Vronkov's cold voice broke through the perfect dream, 'if you lose, you will stop being a figure skating coach. You won't coach anyone. Anyone, ever. And I will reduce your beloved Champion to rubble.'

And again; Yakov imagined himself: this time losing the bet. Becoming a sad loser with no job and with no rink. A scenario like that would strike others as well. All skaters in the club would be affected by his loss. It would be a catastrophe. The game over. From more than one point of view.

'Of course, my last offer is still up-to-date.' The bearded wanker was smirking at his rival, stroking the edge of the cane. 'You can always forget about the bet and simply buy the rink. Just as I said, I will sell it, provided that you retire immediately.'

A waiter happened to be passing them. He was holding two plates: both with pirozhkis. One of them on the table in his left hand had been sliced in half. It was stuffed with meat. Yakov hated meat pirozhkis.

It was hard to tell anything about pirozhkis on the plate in waiter's right hand. They could be with anything. Maybe with delicious potatoes, cream cheese and fried onions... or with fucking spinach. Feltsman felt like throwing up for the mere thought of the damn weed.

The Champions' Club main coach wondered if he would pick the table on the right if he couldn't ask the waiter what the pirozhkis were stuffed with? And could he take the risk when it wasn't a matter of pirozhkis, but something much more important? His career? A place dear to his heart just like home?

Or maybe he should listen to the voice of reason and pick the meat stuffing – the one he didn't like, but at least he was sure he wouldn't throw up after eating it? Wasn't swallowing his pride and simply buying the damn rink the best option of all – for everyone?

A polished cane stopped the waiter from moving any further. The boy was so surprised he almost dropped the plates. Yakov and Vronkov stared at each other's eyes.

'So what will you do?' The bearded wanker tilted his head mockingly. 'Are you picking up your toys and making the deal...'

He went silent, letting Yakov feel the smell of pirozhkis surrounding them, and then he finished in an ice-cold whisper: '...or are you playing va banque?'

xXx

*Woman's Weekly – a British women's magazine; not the most popular one, but still very popular and with quite obvious name (unlike Take a Break, for example). In the original, there's a title of a popular Polish women's magazine.

xXx

Trivia:

* The Mayor of Sankt Petersburg (it took me some time to check who had that authority in the Russian city...) in 1996-2003 was Vladimir Yakovlev.

* The Ice Palace, or the Lodovy Dvorets is an actual sport venue in Sankt Petersburg, built for the Hockey World Championships. It was finished in 2000, but for the story I've speeded things up, so shhh. I'm wondering how many of you thought of the Ice Castle Hasetsu while reading ^^?

* Yakov's favourite skater, Denise Biellmann (whom the famous spinning position was named after) really danced samba. You can watch it here: 

https://youtu.be/3QhrykT8ags

* For those who don't know, I'd like to remind that in 1997 the old judging system was still present, known as the 6.0 system.

* Yakov and Vronkov were talking about the Olympic Games in Nagano, held in February, 1998.

* My grandfather had a white Honda. A wonderful car :)

* Joan Jett's song Bad Reputation to which Yakov, Igor and Vronkov were dancing in 1981 is the same song that is heard when Shrek beats up Farquad's (have I spelled it correctly?) knights. Here's that song:

https://youtu.be/pRu5wxl5frk

And here's I love Rock and Roll:

https://youtu.be/yFHg0uRAyVs

[Author's Note] - Story by: Jora_Calltrise

I suppose most of you are asking yourselves – where the heck is Viktor?! And who are these Maxes, Lyovs, Ivankos when Yakov was coaching Viktor?! You can stay calm – Vitenka will appear in Yakov's life quite soon and he's going to make some noise ;) And when he gets in the shot, he won't leave it for quite a while – that's just how he's like, after all :P

Be patient, because you will be able to watch your beloved Viktor quite soon, and what's more, you will watch him in... him... a quite interesting right-year-old version :)

I am wondering... do you have any ideas who the fellows in the kiosk scene were ^^?

[Translator's Note]

I'm glad I've managed to translate this chapter so quickly! But you have to be patient; I have no idea when I manage to translate the next one, I hope it won't take me more than two (and a half) weeks...

I'm sorry if there are more mistakes in this chapter, but I've been translating majority in the middle of the night and I had some HUGE spelling errors, so I could've just overseen some.

I've made some tiny, little corrections of names in the previous chapter – if I remember well, the only issue I had was with Lilia's name (and Maria's in this chapter); I couldn't figure out if I should spell it with '-ia' or with '-ya'. But after I took a look at Russian Cyrillic spelling, it's become quite clear :D I also moved the 'trivia' to the chapter box, so that I could add links to videos.

By the way, Lyov Rykov (or Lev Rykov; both spellings are correct as far as I know, but I prefer the first one) means 'Lion's Roar' in Russian.