'HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!'

The scream was so loud that several people turned their heads to glance at the table where three men were playing cards. Even the barman stopped polishing a glass and craned his neck to find out what was all the fuss about.

A slim brown-haired man, an unkempt blond and a nervous guy with broad shoulders and a ponytail were sitting nearby the bar counter, right next to a huge Star Wars poster. It was not the only image of Vader's threatening self – as the regular barflies knew, the venue's owner was a serious fantasy and science-fiction addict. And apparently, Sankt Petersburg got addicted to winter – despite it was May already, the city was still freezing. The wild snow storm outside perfectly complimented the face of the man sitting with his back turned towards the window.

'My mind is perfectly fine, thanks for asking,' Yakov said in a cold voice. 'You're taking a discard or from the stockpile?'

Igor Antonov did neither. Just as Pavlo Kapustin did, he kept staring at Feltsman. The shock they were in caused both the manager and the physiotherapist to drop their hands flat on the table, showing what both men had in their 'arsenals'.

'I can see your cards,' Yakov blurted out, nodding at their paper fans.

At the same time, he mumbled a swear word. His friends were ready to meld their cards – Igor and Pavlo had strong sequences with the Carol, the Dame and the Fag (how Feltsman used to call the King, the Queen and the Jack). And what Yakov was holding? Nearly all were Ducks, Butts or Boats! And not a single Royal... not a single one! He'd be lucky if he could collect fifty one points before the hand ends, it would be a fucking miracle!

'Stand down,' Pavlo said. 'Your situation is hopeless. You won't make it work.'

Yakov glared at him. 'So what am I supposed to do? Throw my cards? I've got no choice, I have to play with what I've got.'

'He wasn't talking about the Rummy,' Igor said with a sigh. 'He meant your bet with Vronkov.'

'I got what he was talking about,' Feltsman mumbled. 'And I said I'm not going to stand down. I will face that bald, henpecked moron. More importantly, you're delaying the game. Make up your mind, you're taking the Gay Club or not?' He tapped on the Jack of Clubs.

Antonov took the said card, melded and discarded a card... which was taken by Pavlo. He went for melding as well. As a result the manager and the physiotherapist were holding just a few cards in their hands, while Yakov still had all fourteen cards. Feltsman mumbled another swear word: his situation was hopeless INDEED.

Maybe I should get me some vodka? He wondered. On the other side... what if I get a stomach ache AGAIN?

The Champions' Club protector shrugged. Since the banquet, he'd had a horrible diarrhoea – the result of devouring fourty seven pierozhkis. Two more than Vronkov. After all, they had to celebrate 'the last showdown' somehow, and each other's rivals decided that a perfect way to do it... would be an another bet. This time, about who eats more pierozhkis. So they sat and ate.

They threw out the last ten ones. The rest thirty-something, they've been exuding for the next few days through 'the other side'. They even ran into each other in a pharmacy once – their fight for the last laxative was epic, they almost started a literal fight, but luckily the wise pharmacist prevented bloodshed just in time by telling them to resolve the dispute by playing rock-paper-scissors. Yakov won by a miracle. Not that it helped him in any way... The troubling stomach pains wouldn't go away no matter what he did! Maybe it was because... it wasn't the fault of pirozhkis?

Feltsman swallowed a gulp. He had a gut feeling that the real reason for the prolonging stomach ailments was not the amounts of food he'd eaten, but the stress. The awareness of the showdown coming. The awareness of the consequences tied with losing. The explosive combination of excitement, doubt and fear.

Yakov knew the horrible feeling had to disappear, sooner or later. It was always like that – he would do what he had to do and he'd forget about the stress. But the first reaction was always the adrenaline rush – heart pounding, butterflies in the stomach, the mind not as cool as usual... being more nervous and more vulnerable to annoyance-causing triggers.

Well... but at least, Feltsman wasn't on his own! At hard times like these, the presence of friends was incredibly important. People who'd always take your side, support you, chase your doubts away, tell you that you shouldn't fear and that what you do is the right thing to do...

'Yakov, that bet of yours is just mad! Stand down, until you've still got a chance!'

At least in theory.

'Maybe the bet is mad...' Yakov mumbled, 'but I'm not going to stand down. After all, the situation is not that hopeless.'

'But it is!' Igor moaned. 'You should've simply bought the ice rink from Vronkov!'

'Paid him and get this off your head!' Pavlo chimed.

'Retired!'

'Made someone you trust the new main coach!'

'Started spend your money on something else than bribes and injured skaters!'

'Gone to Canaries and chill out!'

The words mixed with the hum of cards moving on the table. Yakov's head was moving from one side to another, from Pavlo to Igor, and then to the Carol of Spades landing on the discard pile. Feltsman was trying to focus on the game and simultaneously not to go mad from his friends', babbling like enthusiastic ladies watching their favourite series. Fuck, so much stupidity surrounded him, that Yakov had no idea what to respond first:

'I'm not going to retire.'

'I don't have anyone whom I trust enough to make them the main coach.'

'What am I supposed to spend my money on?!'

'I can't chill out and I hate the Canary Islands!'

But, actually... why would he explain all of that to them?! He'd known these dumbbells for over thirty years, after all! If they didn't know such fundamental things about him, then... then...

Yakov shook his head. Stop. I shouldn't think bad of my friends. The last thing I need is trying to convince myself of some bullshit!

'I will retire only when I really want it,' he mumbled.

Under the pretext of not looking into his companions' eyes, he rearranged his cards. Oho? He managed to get the Dame and the Carol of the same suit. Just a little bit more and he would have a sequence!

If somehow I manage to get the blonde Fag, I will have a chance to win that unfair fight! He thought, getting a bit of his good mood back.

'I'm not going to dance for Vronkov,' he stated, reaching for a card.

'But YOU'RE ALREADY dancing for him!' Igor blurted out. 'You think why did he come up with that bet? He figured it all out to humiliate you even more.'

'Bollocks,' Yakov snorted lightly. 'Well... of course, he'd love to humiliate me, that goes without questioning... but he came up with the bet on the spot. He wasn't planning it.'

'How can you know?' Pavlo asked hesitantly.

''Cause I know the wanker better than you do.' Feltsman rolled his eyes. 'Maybe he is an arsehole, but he doesn't like to win by default. Like in nineteen sixty nine. When I got ill and couldn't start in the Worlds, he wasn't pleased... he was pissed off. He bought our rink because he thought that the finale of the whole fuss about Max made him the winner. And when he noticed the matters are quite different, his pride hurt him and he felt like having a real duel. In fact... I even tricked him a little to do so.'

'But WHAT FOR?' The manager looked at him like at a madman. 'Why couldn't you just buy the rink?'

'Because I didn't want to retire.'

'But you will retire anyway.'

The card Yakov was going to dispose was hung a few inches over the pile. 'I'm sorry?' Feltsman gave his friends a confused look.

'I will retire anyway'? He thought, completely baffled. What the hell is it supposed to mean?!

Igor and Pavlo had odd expressions. Like they'd been told to perform euthanasia. Or to procure abortion. Or to junk their beloved car! Yakov was very familiar with the last feeling – the most shitty one in the world (right after the divorce with Lilka and losing with Vronkov).

Five cards had to be disposed before the physiotherapist decided to break the silence: 'You know, Yakov... How do I put it into words...' He stopped speaking and stared at the table.

'You can't possibly think you can really win, can you?' Igor whispered.

Yakov almost disposed his precious Dime of Hearts in shock. He grabbed a worthless Duck of Spades at the last moment and tossed it on the pile. He couldn't believe it! For hell's sake... if only a statement like that had been said by a vicious dirtbag like Vronkov... but said by a long-time friend and the manager of his own Club?! Admittedly, he didn't say it with envy or anything, but still...! What was he thinking?! And why Pavlo seemed to have agreed with what he said?!

Yakov's spare hand fell on the table helplessly. 'You must be fucking joking?' he spluttered in an overwhelmed voice. 'The fight hasn't even begun yet... I have a bloody year to prepare a skater for the duel... and at the very beginning you two just assume I'm going to lose?! What sort of friends are you?!' They opened their mouths to answer, but he didn't let them. 'But fine, let's say we wouldn't have been friends...' he murmured, pressing his fingertips against his forehead, 'do you really think I'm that bad as a coach?!'

'NO!' Pavlo yelled, raising his hand to calm him down. 'Y-Yakov, come on, don't take it personally... of course we don't!'

'We don't think you're a bad coach at all!' Igor stated, sending his amped up friend an apologetic look. 'You're great, you really are!'

'We're not sweet talking you. We really think so! It's just... well... the format of this duel is quite poor itself. Well, come on... a rivalry of ten year olds?'

'It doesn't matter what kind of a coach you are. It's just that... you know... the rules of that bet aren't really advantageous for you.'

'I'd say they are very advantageous for me,' Yakov pointed out, tossing a card on the pile angrily. 'And that's what kind of coach I am is a huge matter.'

His colleagues tilted their heads simultaneously. They didn't understand what he meant. And they stopped playing for some reason. Damn, they're delaying it, the bloody...

Suddenly Feltsman noticed why the hand had been stopped – they simply had no cards on the piles. Sighing, Yakov put his fourteen cards aside, picked up a chaotic bunch of Hearts, Diamonds, Clubs and Spades and stacked all the paper rectangles on the table.

'It's going to be a duel of ten-year-olds,' he murmured, shuffling cards like a professional croupier. 'Little reeks. Not juniors, not seniors. Snotties. I've been working with it since I was still a competitor. I've been taking care of novices and juveniles much longer than Vronkov.'

'That's true, but...' Igor started saying.

'First years of learning are key for a competitor...' Feltsman didn't let his friend finish, 'it's when a skater is between five and twelve years old when so much depends on the coach. Children are the best material to work with. Yeah, right, I'm complaining about the little bastards every time I can... but I have to admit it's quite easy to teach them. Kids are more obedient than adults, they do what they're told without complaining and take each of their coach's word for the essence of truth. Of course, in every group there would be some bullies like Ivanko, but... do you get what I'm talking about? It's because of the bet revolving around ten-year-olds that I have a chance of winning. Unlike Vronkov, I know how to work with kids.'

To highlight his words, he slapped the shuffled deck on the table. Pavlo reached for it to split it into halves.

'Well, right, but you need to have something to work with,' the manager mumbled, taking a card.

Yakov, who'd just got excited by the fact of receiving his fifty-first point (oh fuck, finally!), lost his enthusiasm at a snap of fingers. 'What do you mean?' he asked slowly.

„Have something to work with" – why did that sound oddly familiar to him? It reminded him of something, but he couldn't remember what.

Or rather – he had an idea what it might've been, but he'd rather have been wrong... because if he was right, it wouldn't have been a good advertisement of Igor's beliefs.

'Vronkov is going to go with Ivanko, right?' the manager asked in a voice that sounded like he'd been speaking while entering a minefield. 'The younger brother of Max?'

'I rather think so.' Feltsman raised his eyebrows. 'He'd be dumb if he did otherwise.'

'And you're going to go with... Lyov Rykov?'

Before answering, the Champions' Club protector gave him a cold look. So he wasn't wrong.

'I intend to,' he answered with an expression saying I know what you're going to say and I really don't like it.

'And...' Pavlo added, 'I don't know... don't you have a feeling the result is already sealed?'

'So you think Lyov doesn't stand a chance?' Yakov tilted his head.

'And you think he does?'

Yes, I do, for fuck's sake. It's ME who is his coach and it's ME who knows what is he capable of, he'd have liked to say.

But he'd have sounded like a parent trying to protect his favourite child. Or like a brat trying to stop any further talk. And he didn't want to sound like that. Igor and Pavlo's opinion happened to be the one he GAVE a shit about...

These guys were not only people whom he'd been working with for many years. They were his friends, most importantly! They'd always been together. First as competitors, then as the lawful heirs of their predecessors: Yakov inheriting the mantel of the coach Novak, Igor as the manager's apprentice, Pavlo as the physiotherapist's Padawan. The Three Musketeers! Now and forever!

Yakov didn't intend to go to war with Vronkov without his guards. The first and the most important step before taking the effort should be convincing his best friends that he was right... that he could win.

'I think the young Rykov has a pretty good chance,' he started to explain. 'First, he can jump the same jumps as Ivanko...'

'Except for the double Axel,' Igor interrupted him.

Feltsman clenched his teeth. 'Lyov can jump the double Axel.'

'That's the key word here. „He can jump",' Pavlo highlighted, 'but he can't land it.'

'He's going to start landing it,' Yakov hissed. 'He needs two months to learn that. And I have a whole year before the bet settles.'

'I'd like to remind you that young Levin is not going to stand in one place during this year,' the physiotherapist pointed out. 'Vronkov is definitely going to teach him the double Lutz.'

Igor nodded, blowing raspberries. 'Besides that, I heard a rumour that since he started skating at Spartan, the kid started to spring triple toes,' he claimed, rubbing his chin.

'Since he started skating at Spartan!' Yakov snorted, 'my arse! He'd been jumping them here as well... his brother taught him that without my chime.'

'WHAT?' Pavlo bawled his eyes out.

'And you're telling us Lyov and Ivan jump the same jumps?' Igor mustered in an overwhelmed voice. 'We knew about the Axel... and now it turns out that Levin's got the advantage in the triple toe loop as well?!'

'That advantage is a result of him skipping extra classes in order to practise with his hell a responsible brother,' Feltsman pointed out. 'When I caught them in the act, it turned out they were practising difficult elements without even a fucking warm-up. But never mind Maxik and his so-called brotherly love... skipping ballet classes got its revenge on Ivanko. He's not flexible and he's as graceful as a snow blower. Whereas Lyov who's always had a great ear and skated well to the music didn't skip dance classes, and therefore he brushed up his inborn skills even more. The components are something that's horribly difficult to catch up with... much more difficult than with jumps. Lyov has a chance of winning because except for the jumps he has the ability to show himself in an aesthetic way... and, of course, motivation.'

'By motivation you mean... revenge for the incident with beating up?' Pavlo asked hesitantly.

'Exactly.'

At the very thought of the said incident, Yakov felt like grabbing the younger of Levins, put him across his knee and give him a decent spank. He'd probably have done so in commie times. What a pity the times have changed...

'Ivanko's provocation turned Lyov's world on its head,' Feltsman said in a sad voice. 'Rykov is a good child... very calm and polite... but I know that deep inside he'd like to kick his old friend. And it that „revenge" was to happen on ice... on normal, fair terms... then I don't see any problems with that. I know what it means to have a rival. I'm not going to rip somebody off their opportunity to settle the score.'

Ha! That should've got these dumbbells thinking! After hearing that many convincing arguments that shivering coward Igor and that fragile masseur Pavlo should've finally chilled out and stop trying to get their friend to stand down!

Maybe the oncoming duel brought a little bit of risk with it (well, fine: a little more than „a little"!), but it brought a lot of excitement as well. Because... heck, all you have to do is to think about it in this way:

Two coaches – each others' arch rivals.

Two boys – their students. Each others' rivals as well.

Vronkov and Ivanko... Yakov and Lyov!

The Emperor and Darth Vader... Obi Wan Kenobi and Luke Skywalker!

Okay, I messed up this comparison a bit, Feltsman thought, scratching his head. I'd rather have been Vader, after all... eh, nevermind!

What he meant was that such opportunities come round only once in a life! God didn't happen too often to show the creativity of George Lucas and cause a situation where two young adepts would represent their masters in a duel to dea... erm... for all or nothing!

And if Yakov was to completely and irreversibly beat Vronkov... or be completely and irreversibly beaten by Vronkov, he wanted it to happen in circumstances exactly like these. On a huge arena, surrounded by a wild crowd roar! Between two evils, it was much better to be a skater-gladiator and take the risk than sign a few papers and let for being exiled from the skating world.

Do you agree, Anakin? Feltsman glanced at the „Star Wars" poster with a corner of an eye.

Before he had time to think of Vader's response, he heard Igor saying: 'It's nice you want to help that kid get his revenge and everything...' the manager melded three cards more with dried-up expression, 'but it's a pity you do it at your expense. And at or rink's expense.'

Yakov's fist banged on the table. 'Why are you SO SURE I'm going to lose?'

'Because Lyov has no chance of winning,' they answered at the same time.

'For fuck's sake... I've just proven that kid has A BUNCH of assets! He's better than that little bastard Levin in so many ways! Why are you so certain he will lose?!'

'Because he's too similar to...'

Pavlo bit his tongue at the last moment. But his statement had been finished – by the eyer glazing from under the fringe. These eyes told Feltsman everything.

'He's too similar to me?' Yakov finished in an ice-cold whisper.

That's the moment when someone should've said something like: „Nooo, come on! That's not what I've meant.'

But nobody said that. And Pavlo's apologetic look spoke for itself – that idiot really wanted to say that. And he did, in some way. And Igor thought the same – his face delivered the same message as the physiotherapist's mug: „Sorry, mate."

Yakov didn't feel like being forgiving: 'Wow, fuck, really...' he snapped, imagining kicking his friends' nuts, 'how fucking lovely was that, my arse! I'm sorry I didn't know that skating in a similar way that I do is a guarantee of losing!'

'Maybe not a guarantee, but...' Pavlo chuckled nervously.

'Yakov, we really don't want to be mean.' Igor looked at Feltsman in a pleading way. 'But simply... you know... you've bet on such a high stake that we have to be honest with you. You should be honest with yourself. So answer, but honestly... when it comes to skating, how many times did you win with Vronkov?'

Yakov's eyes narrowed. The Olympic Champion had never felt that much offended! He opened his mouth to list all the times he was the triumphant one while opposing the bald arsehole...

'Without Tatyana,' his friends added unexpectedly.

Feltsman's voice froze in his throat. Heck! Without that impulsive witch? Well...

'Not a single time,' he mumbled, turning his eyes away.

'Exactly.' Igor sighed deeply. 'And they'd been saying the same thing about you that you're saying about Rykov. Skating to the music and all of that... the motivation to surpass the arch rival... the grace and everything...'

'Honestly? I didn't have a bit of grace. And my components weren't exactly that good either.'

The only thing Yakov could do gracefully was punching people's faces. Or at least Lilia thought so. Once, she called the way her husband cracked down a group of six chavs as a „creative and outstandingly artistic, and even – ah! – even the bruises were placed symmetrically on both sides, and the sound of bones breaking was a true symphony, akin to Mozart's of Beethoven's, and after all the fuss the hooligans looked like they'd been taken out of Picasso's painting, honestly, Yakov, congratulations, you've made such a great show that your wife won't be able to show her face in public for a month; by the way, you sleep on the couch tonight". Such an amazing woman. Such amazing times.

'Maybe you weren't an Ice Swan, but others from our club were,' Pavlo's voice broke trough the beautiful memory. 'Let's take Mishkin. But it hadn't helped him in overcoming Vronkov.'

'It hadn't helped anyone.' Igor nodded. 'Do you know, why? Because Vronkov has always been a talented prick. And he's surrounding himself with such students. He had a reason to take Max and Ivanko from you.'

'And he took them, it should be pointed out, only after you'd managed to teach them everything,' the physiotherapist sang in a melodramatic voice. 'Well... maybe not everything, but certainly all the most important things. You've perfected their edges, you've taught them a great landing posture, you've got them in shape...'

'You gave out a finished product to your arch rival, and he's going to be very happy to sell that product under his own name... taking the credit for all your achievements!'

'Could you be so nice and stop saying the „product" word?' Yakov tossed a card on a pile, glancing angrily at the manager. 'I hate such comparisons! I don't treat my skaters like they'd been things.'

'Right, sorry.' Igor lifted carefully the discarded Black Maria and added it to his sequence. 'But you get what I'm talking about?'

Feltsman mumbled a swear word. The damn Spade Dame... how could he have not noticed she was a lay-off?! An idiot... he was a bloody, fucking idiot! A player as experienced as he was shouldn't make such mistakes.

'Yeah, I get it,' he mumbled.

'It's true that Lyov has some assets... but it stays true that he learns new thing two times slower than Ivanko,' Pavlo said, rubbing his chin with his thumb. 'And he's got weaker motor skills. Do you remember when all the kids from the Club were playing at the curbs? When they had a contest who would stand at one the longest?'

After his words, the physiotherapist melded three Sevens.

'Lyov fell as one of the firsts.' Igor blew some raspberries. 'Ivanek kept standing till the end. That's what an „inborn sense of balance" is.'

That's how Yakov was on the verge of losing twice. His best friends were beating him at the topic of Lyov and apparently they were going to beat him at rummy! They both had one card left – they only needed to get a layoff and it would be finished!

To think I made it easier for them myself, discarding the Spade Cunt! Feltsman thought in anger.

He regretted discarding that card. He regretted losing almost all his arguments. He regretted even starting the talk on the topic of the bet. Another moment and he would regret betting!

But it wasn't the time. Not that day! He hadn't reached the point when he would come to a conclusion that talking to Vronkov was a mistake and shout „what the hell have I done". If a situation like that was ever to happen, Yakov would lock himself at home, dig up in one of his old suitcases some little figurines of Father Christmas (bought from the same Belarusian he got the ironing board from) and start smashing the tiny motherfuckers with a hammer. He hoped it would never happen (as it meant a hell of horrible mess!).

It wasn't that bad yet. So far, Yakov could only agree that the probability of losing was a little bit higher than he was assuming. But he still wasn't getting hysterical about it.

'I'm not going to write anybody off only because he fell from a curb fast,' he mumbled in a voice of an injured soldier. 'Besides... well, I don't have to make up my mind straight away. The camp is starting soon. There will be plenty of talented kids there. Even if I don't end up picking Lyov, then... hey, what's up with your faces?'

For heaven's sake! Both the manager and the physiotherapists's face expressions said "I'm performing both euthanasia and abortion while tossing my favourite car away".

'You know, speaking of the camp...' Igor hid himself behind the cards.

Like he'd been trying to make a shield of these tiny rectangles. As if he'd been thinking that would protect him from his temperamental friend's anger. Pfff! A gullible fellow...

Fuck, now what? Feltsman thought in anger. What the hell I still don't know about? WHAT ELSE?!

It was the third time... the third fucking time when he was the last one to find out about things! First, he didn't know the ice rink had been sold... second, he didn't know Vronkov was the one who'd bought it... and now he didn't know... well, about the third thing. That was bloody humiliating! Yakov Feltsman, the best informed man in Russia, had something he did not know about. He hated not knowing about anythingg. Fuck, he felt like a lady who'd forgotten she had a period!

'Well, say that finally!' he barked at the manager.

'The sport complex we've always been using has been booked by someone else.'

'WHAT?!'

A few cards at the top of the pile moved a bit under the influence of Yakov's roar.

No, fuck, you've got to be joking! Feltsman wringed his hands in despair. If you tell me Vronkov's the one who's booked it...

'It's all because of that interview with Max,' Igor explained. 'You know... the one that was on TV recently. Since then someone's started to spread a rumour that you're retiring and you've resigned from holding the camp this year... and the owner of the complex has also heard it. When he was offered a deal from a smaller skating school, he was paid a part of the proce in advance and he dropped our reservation and...'

'BUT THAT'S A FUCKING SCANDAL! What an idiot is he to do such things after hearing some dumb rumours?!'

Skating school? Yakov thought, breathing sharply in anger. Some anonymous SKATING SCHOOL?! Fuck, that's EVEN MORE humiliating than Vronkov booking the bloody complex himself. So THAT'S what people think of me now? Thanks, Maxik... thank you hell a lot!

'Erm, excuse me?' A tall guy dressed in a pink apron and a black cap approached their table. 'You're shouting a bit too loud and other customers...'

'Fuck off!' the enraged coach splurted out without a second thought.

'Oh, mister Feltsman! I'm sorry, I haven't recognised you. I'll fuck off right away.'

That was when Yakov noticed Darth Vader's mask on the guy's t-shirt. 'Oh, that's you, Vanya,' he said to the pub's owner. 'Sorry, I haven't recognised you either. I didn't know you're waitering tonight. If I'd noticed that's you I wouldn't have been so rude.'

'But that's fine. Your tips are so high I'll be very happy to fuck off.'

Feltsman made a note to himself to leave a triple tip for Vanyushka tonight. He deserved for letting a certain temperamental man to yell in his pub for five years. Yell and throw objects. He had to compensate for all those customers who were running away so that they wouldn't get hit with an ashtray. Or with a shot glass. Or a cucumber. Or a shoe. Or a sock...

'Going back to the topic...' Yakov spoke up, rubbing his forehead, 'finding another ice rink will be bloody difficult. And we won't be able to use the Champion's, 'cause the men's showers will still be in renovation. Besides, for the time of the camp I'd like to leave the rink for the girls... they'll probably laze around anyway, but whatever. They should get on the ice at least once a day, that's important. Igor, have you checked other rinks in Petersburg?'

'Everything's already been booked.'

'Well, nothing to be shocked about, right? That's how the things are if you decide to find someplace for June in bloody May. Because the prick you've always been leasing the rink from had to hear a fucking rumour and cancel your reservation made in a half-a-year advance! But what else have we left to do? Eh, we have no choice... we've got to find a place outside of Petersburg.'

He waited for his friends to put some ideas forward. After all, they knew about the problem with the complex longer than he did. They had to start thinking of a plan B. Especially Igor had to. After all, all the organisation matters were his domain... he certainly had to be prepared for every circumstance!

And he was right - the manager spoke up. 'I've got a list of several ice rinks in a radius of sixty miles. We might check them, but...' and he went silent. Yakov wasn't prepared for that - for the "but".

'But what?' he mumbled.

He had a bad feeling about that. A very baaad feeling.

'Yakov, don't you think that we should... erm... give the camp up?'

'Give up?' Yakov repeated in a cold voice. 'Do you want me to tell fifty brats that have been invited something like "I'm sorry, but the party has been called off because we fucked up"?'

They heard Vanya's voice from behind the counter: 'That's genius! I have to note that down! We'll hang it at the pub's door when we don't have the vodka delivery on time!'

'Add "even though we promised" at the end," Feltsman barked.

'You're right! I will add it.'

'There's nothing worse than un unkept word,' Misha Novak's heir told his friends. 'Promising something and then taking the promise back is something even Vronkov wouldn't do.'

'Exactly.' Igor raised his finger in triumph. 'Vronkov won't step back. And you should! I mean... it would be good for you to step back from the bet when you still can do it.'

'Because when you organise the camp the deal will be done... won't it?' Pavlo rubbed the nape of his neck while swallowing a gulp. 'If you do it, you will show everyone that you don't intend to retire.'

'FOR FUCK'S SAKE, why are you so fixed on my bloody retirement?!' Yakov yelled so that all people in the pub could hear him. 'Since we've start playing, I hear the word "retirement, retired, retire" all the time. Why are you insisting on me to do so? You have to know that's not what I want to do yet. And even if I did... I wouldn't think of it, as you don't get prepared for picking your toys up. I can't leave you for your own, can I?'

Suddenly, the table got surrounded by very bad vibes. Pavlo and Igor didn't say a word. Their eyes, filled with guilt, were staring at their cards. The "Star Wars" soundtrack coming out of the speakers went silent, making the lack of any response even more difficult to handle. And suddenly, everything became clear.

'Guys, what are you... you can't be...?'

People who barely knew Yakov Feltsman assumed that whenever the situation got bad, he would react with a yell. But the reality was very different. It was true that that temperamental man loved swearing and hardly ever had a day without a lion-like roar... but even he had his limits. Everyone had their limits. The moment when your fate drops one bomb too much on you and you simply have no idea what to do.

For Yakov Feltsman, the bomb meant the realisation of the mistake in his thinking: It wouldn't be me leaving them for their own. It's THEM trying to tell me that...

'My daughter wants me to move to Switzerland,' Pavlo spoke up, looking at Feltsman sadly. 'There's a home for sale in her town.'

'I've been thinking about moving to Irkutsk.' Igor rubbed the nape of his neck while breathing out a sigh. 'My wife has been insisting for years that she wants to be closer to her grandchildren. And my son is going to have his second child this autumn...'

'You want to retire?' Yakov spluttered in disbelief. 'Both?'

'Maybe not necessarily retire,' the manager said carefully, 'Anya told Pavlo that he could have a surgery at home. It's very popular in Switzerland. And about me... hmm... I'd like to help my son in running his business. Borya has loads of great ideas, but he's too messy. He's probably going to complain that his old father is meddling in his affairs... but I'm sure that deep in his heart he wants me to give him some advice. And I want to take the kids ice skating. It's such a shame my grandchildren can't skate! It's high time I tought them how to do it. I'm going to take them to Baikal.'

Switzerland? Irkutsk? Baikal?!

What is that even supposed to mean? And why the most important question was still unanswered: 'Why are you telling me you want to leave all of the sudden?' Feltsman whispered. 'Why now?'

'Yakov, you have to know these aren't sudden decisions.' Igor sounded like he'd been speaking to a little child. 'I mean... it's true we've never talked about it, but you know that... really... you couldn't have been thinking we'd work for the Champions' Club until our days are over?'

That's the problem – that Yakov did think so, indeed.

'And what about our promise?' he stuttered, moving his eyes from one man to another. 'What about the famous „all for one, one for all"? What about the „Three Musketeers"?'

'We've been them for almost thirty years.' Pavlo smiled sadly. 'But, you know... everything has its end. Don't get me wrong, Yakov, the Champion means family to us, but... we have to think of our „regular" families as well.'

'But being the part of the Champions' Club is not standing in the way of having regular family,' Yakov said.

'Are you sure?' Igor raised his eyebrow. 'You got divorced with Lilka because of your workaholism...'

'Among of other things!' Feltsman hissed. 'You know perfectly it wasn't only about that! How could you, after all that happened over last couple of years, say that...'

'All right, all right, I'm sorry!' The manager raised his hand to calm him down. 'I didn't want to put salt on the wounds of yours. Or rather: on the wounds of both of you. I only wanted to say that you can't live for job itself. And the job of a coach is especially ungrateful... That Club is squeezing the life out of you, Yakov. Can't you see how it does? You're at the beck and call of your girls, and they're not giving anything in return. You support injured morons, and they're not giving anything in return. You help the kids' parents raise their sassy sprouts, and they're not giving anything in return.'

'You've always been like that, ever since you were a kid,' the physiotherapist added. 'You've been always giving way to others. Even when you have a day free, instead of taking some rest like a normal person would, you sit and worry if one of your students isn't trying to break their neck. Tell me... aren't you full of that?'

'No, I'm not,' Yakov barked. 'It's something I was born to do. I've been looking for it for my whole life. It's something I love and something I'm good at. And you're wrong saying that I'm not getting anything in return. What I get is...' his voice faded for a moment, 'the feeling that someone needs me.'

When he was saying that, he heard Max Levin's voice in his mind. A haughty, venomous voice: After the Final... let's end this. I don't need you anymore. After the Grand Prix Final I'm going to announce that my injury has been healed... and that I'm not working with you anymore.

Igor and Pavlo remembered the scene as well. He could see that on their faces.

'That feeling is an illusion, Yakov,' the manager said. 'You can't rely all your happiness on something that's an illusion. You are not Max Levin's father. As well as you're not and will not be the father of any of your students. That's painful, I know... but it's true. I'm sorry you haven't got your own children, because I can feel you'd really want to have, but on the other hand... you've made your choices. You've made choices together with Lilia. You agreed you didn't want to have children, and now... well, now it's too late for that. Devoting your life to young skaters won't compensate for that. Let's face it: if someone is good, they are going to be good even without a good coach. And if someone is a loser, unfortunately, they're always going to be a loser... That's why the feeling that someone needs you is an illusion. And, by the way...' Igor leaned forward and laid off a Jack of Hearts to one of his sequences. A blond dude with a dreamy smile whom Yakov had been waiting for for such a long time! '...I don't have any cards left. I win.'

Feltsman's hands shivered.

Actually, Yakov thought honesty was an amazing virtue. He valued people who could tell the truth straight to one's face... who weren't pussying around and would tell the truth right off the bat.

But...

There's one rule in the code of people-to-people contacts, written in tiny script: there are things that are not to be told. They are not! There are some delicate matters that shouldn't be spoken about out loud. Especially when you don't have the full records... particularly when you don't have the full fucking records!

You've made your choices. You've made choices together with Lilia. You agreed you didn't want to have children.

Right, they did agree on that matter. But in spite of that agreement... one day, they went shopping. They bought a certain pair of skates and a certain pair of ballet shoes. At the memory of these skates and these ballet shoes, Yakov felt a shooting pain in his chest.

With a loud smack, several thousand rubles were put next to the ashtray. Hearing a chair moving suddenly, all the chatter in the pub went silent for a moment. The gangster hat left the hook and was placed back at its owner's head. Igor and Pavlo bawled their eyes out.

'Yakov, where are you going?!' they asked both.

'Someplace where someone would believe in me,' Feltsman splurted out, putting his coat on. 'I will overcome that bearded motherfucker with or without you! And when I win, I will keep on teaching the „worthless" brats, so you'd better start looking for some people that could replace you. The Club can't go on without a manager and a physiotherapist.'

'WHAT?!' Igor raised up. 'Wait... hold on for a while! We were supposed to talk! Your bet...'

'You think I'm going to lose anyway, so there's no point in talking. I'm always telling my skaters to stay away from negative people. So I'm going to make use of my own advice and walk away.'

'We're not negative!' Pavlo stood up as well. 'We only want you to get your common sense back... for God's sake, just give up on Vronkov and his childish tricks!'

'We did all that was possible for that Club!' the manager said in a begging voice. 'Just buy the rink from the bloody baldman and we're going to retire together... just as we've always been planning! Why the hell are you so stubborn?!'

'BECAUSE I CARE, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!' Yakov yelled with one hand on the handle. 'You have your families. I understand that fucking perfectly. I'm not going to prevent you from moving to Switzerland, Irkutsk, or even to fucking Greenland... I'm not going to prevent you from sticking to you wives and children. Well, I would've never thought you would do so at the moment when I need you the most, but well, fuck it, I'm a big boy, I'll be fine... I'm not going to prevent you from sticking to your families. And for an exchange, you should fuck off and stop criticising me for fighting for my family! Because, for your information, the Champions' Club is the only family I've got at the moment. Bye!'

Slamming the door, he went out into a wild snow storm. But it wasn't the freezing cold outside that hit him. It was the cold he felt inside which was the harshest.

Breaking through the snowdrift, Yakov remembered of an Andersen's stories – „The Snow Queen". It was about that kid, Kai, who was hit with a piece of a mirrorglass. The eyesore made him see the worst aspects of all things. He became completely immune to any beauty. He became a bloody pessimist. Nay, the true King of Pessimists!

Yakov's fingers grabbed the edge of the hat and covered his face with it a little to protect his eyes from the snowflakes' pinching.

Who needs a dumb mirror? Feltsman thought bleakly. There are so many wonderful things in the world that can change a person into a sick pessimist! Parents' death, brothers' death, divorces, unloyal students, sneaky rivals... best friends leaving you alone in need...

Eh, not only Petersburg was looking forward to when spring would begin. The winter in Yakov's heart was at its best as well. The first snow had fallen at the day of signing the divorce papers. Since then, it was gradually turning only to worse – colder and colder, darker and darker... really, all that was left was going to the bathroom and slit wrists with dental floss!

The fifty-year-old man tucked himself with the coat. I want to go home and snug under the duvet! he thought, looking down at the pavement. I want to talk to someone who believes in me!

xXx

'The coach has gone mad!'

'Erm... maybe it's an April Fools' joke?'

'It's May, you idiot!'

'Ooh, right. So the coach has gone mad.'

Yakov felt a vain at his forehead bulging. He wasn't expecting such reaction. He would've never thought that his four students – his brilliant, lovely, annoying girls – would stand by the boards, as stiff as the said boards, staring at him like at a madman who escaped from an asylum.

But that's how it was. The eyes of the skaters sweating after the finished practice were huge and bawled, like the eyes of plastic dolls. Their mouths, usually moving as if they'd been possessed, had been shut. If they'd opened, then only to call (once again) their coach a madman.

'I assume you don't want me to coach you anymore?' Yakov raised his eyebrow. 'I should retire, right? I should give up, even though I've promised Sonya and Verechka I'm going to prepare them for the Olympics? Even though I promised all of you I'm going to take care of you until you decide you don't want to be skating anymore? I should simply just stop being a coach?'

'Of course not!' Masha shouted passionately.

'You can't give up!' Sonya stated with fire in her eyes.

'We need you, coach!' Lenka chimed.

Vera only swallowed a gulp in her throat and nodded with a strange, thoughtful facial expresion.

Feltsman breathed out slowly. He didn't even realise he'd been holding his breath up to then.

Thanks God! His good, loyal, little girls... his darling witches with painted-on faces! Maybe they did think he was a madman, but at least they accepted his decision. Jesus, how great that at the very least he had some support from them! Fuck, they couldn't have any idea how much it meant to him!

'Forget about this dump and find another venue to let!' Masha said, nodding.

Yakov, who'd been getting ready to say something like „I'm buying you a round, girls!" freezed with his mouth wide open.

What?!

'Or maybe you should buy an ice rink,' Sonya suggested. 'Or build.'

'Building a rink would take a while,' Lenka said with a sigh. 'It would be better to rent something for now. The Games are around the corner... you and Verechka can't let yourselves for any breaks. We can practise at a rental venue. And in the meantime, mister Antonov would take care of finding a permanent place.'

'That's a good plan,' Masha agreed. 'I hope the new venue will have prettier showers.'

'And bigger lockers,' Sonya said with a dreamy expression. 'My poor dresses always get creased when I took them out of my locker.'

'Ah! And it would be nice if there were some...'

'SHUT YOUR MOUTHS, RIGHT NOW!'

Three out of four girls stopped their gibberish and looked at the coach cautiously. The toepicks of Yakov's left blade were hitting on the ice surface angrily. His hands, clenched into fists, were shivering, and his green eyes glared from under his fringe furiously. Realising that he must've looked like a bull getting ready to charge, Feltsman made himself keep calm.

'Do you want me to leave the Champions' Club? So I should simply give up and let my arch rival level the place?'

'Well...' Masha said carefully, 'not that you had much of a choice.'

'If that bastard Vronkov won't sell you the rink...' Lenka shook her head.

'And what about the bet?' Yakov asked.

'That bet is a huge misunderstanding.' Sonya shivered. 'We know you like gambling, coach, but that went a little too far. It wouldn't be a competition as much as it would be simply a roulette.'

'Rou... let... te?' Feltsman stammered each one syllable, piercing the girl with his eyes.

'Of course! A rivalry of ten-year-olds is a roulette. Kids hadn't been skating for that long and they lack experience. Anything could happen at a competition like that. Someone could fall down, someone could lose his nerves...'

'Ah.' The fifty-year-old tilted his head. 'And it doesn't happen at senior competitions?'

'Well, it does, but...'

'You insult me and my work by calling that duel „a roulette", Sonya! It's like you'd have said that the coach has exactly the same role as any spectator. What the fuck is it even supposed to mean?! „A roulette"! Pff! Well, fuck, of course! Let's just assume that God is picking the winner! Right, fuck, brilliant! Even Verechka's silver medal was God's doing... right, Vera! Why the hell don't you say anything? Do you agree with your bloody sensible friends? Do you also think I'm out of my fucking mind and I have no chance of winning that bet?'

All eyes turned towards Sokolova, who was standing on the side. The nineteen-year-old kept looking away while she was pressing a bottle of water against her chest. Her shivering fingers kept closing the bottle and twisting it off – as if the Vice World Champion tried to calm down in that way.

If I think about it now... she looks more nervous than usual, Yakov realised.

When he told the girls about the bet, they all started to freak out, but Verechka... Verechka looked as if she would faint. Feltsman hadn't paid attention to it before, busy with taking care of the rest three, but when he did, he started to get a bit suspicious.

What the heck could her problem be? Was she so concerned they could lose the rink? Was she worried about the coach, or what? It would be very nice of her, of course, but on the other hand... well, something wasn't quite right!

'Verechka, look at me!' Yakov ordered, keeping his eyes on the girl.

She did what she was told to hesitantly. She was looking at her tutor with eyes of a child caught in the act.

'I-I think... I think you should stand down,' she stammered, wrestling the poor bottle's cap.

Her friends nodded in approval.

'And why is that?' Feltsman wouldn't take his eyes off Sokolova even for a moment. 'Despite the fact it's a fucking risky deal.'

Veronika hesitated. 'Y-you... love this ice rink, don't you, coach?' she asked, turning her eyes away again. 'I-if you could, you would've bought it... r-right?'

What the hell is her aim?

'Indeed. I love this ice rink. If only I could've bought it, I would not regret a single ruble.'

The Vice World Champion breathed in. 'Then you should buy it!' she exhaled in a painful voice. 'Y-you shouldn't pay regards to my opinion... OUR OPINION! I-I meant you shouldn't pay any regards to us!'

And then, even the other girls looked confused. Sonya approached Sokolova at once. 'Verechka, what do you...?' she stammered, putting her hand on her friend's shoulder. 'You want to go to the Games without the coach, without our Papa? Why in Earth...'

'I'd really want to go to the Games,' Vera whispered.

„I'd really want to"? Yakov wondered. You've already qualified! So why do you suggest something else in what you say? Damn, something's fishy here.

He skated forward and he stopped one yard in front of the girl. The Vice World Champion reacted with a nervous hop. It confused Feltsman even more – he got used to novices, juniors and adults from the semi-recreational group starting to shake in their boots. Everyone feared him. But not the girls. He'd basically raised each one of these skaters – every single one! These girls spent too much time with him to be afraid – they went through too many competitions together, fell asleep at his lap in the plane far too often, held his hand when they got their ankles set for too many times.

They knew he wouldn't have hurt them. They knew he wouldn't have done any harm to them. So why...

'Verechka... is there something I don't know?' Yakov asked slowly. 'Is everything allright? Are you worried about something?'

'No! I... I just have a lot on my mind recently.' She answered too quickly. And she still wouldn't look into his eyes. 'But that's fine,' she whispered. 'I just think you should think about yourlself. After all, becoming the rink's owner was you life-long dream! If we'd forced you to get into some horrible deal because of us... or putting the well-deserved retirement off... it would be simply unfair! You shouldn't put risk on yourself or get into an uncomfortable situation only because Sonya... and me... are goint to the Games. Don't you think, Sonya?'

Giving an undefined hum, Sonya leaned her back and forearms against the board. She'd been standing like that for a while, keeping her eyes at the ceiling, hitting the ice with the blade's edge rhythmically.

'To be honest...' she spoke up after a moment, 'to be honest, you're actually quite right. We've always been taking advantage of you, coach.'

'Yikes.' Lenka started to move her hands over the long, blond ponytail, giggling nervously. 'We're so egotistical.'

'Actually we've never even asked you if you want to keep taking care of us,' Masha noticed. 'We've been acting like you'd been a cart horse, and we've never even wondered if you'd like to retire.'

Yakov rolled his eyes. 'I am your cart horse willingly,' he mumbled, 'and I'm not going for a bloody retirement! Maybe I am a cold masochist...' he hesitated, and then he finished in a soft voice: 'but I'm pleased to be your coach.'

He instantly started to regret admitting that, as Sonya and Lenka shrieked in joy. 'Wow, it was sooo sweet!' The girl with a ponytail grabbed her cheeks.

'You've become so sentimental, coach,' Masha giggled. 'Maybe it's because of the divorce?'

'DON'T SPEAK ANOTHER WORD OF THE DIVORCE!' Feltsman yelled so that he could be heart in the whole venue.

'Okay.' Berezina pretended lacing her mouth up and throwing a key away. 'Not a single word about the divorce!'

'Ah, how good is it to know officially that you really like us after all,' Sonya chirruped. 'I was starting to think you just seek for an occasion to give us out to an asylum!'

'What sort of a fucking asylum?' Yakov slurred. 'An Asylum for Special Needs Skaters?!'

'What a great name.' Masha smacked her lips in recognition.

'We can call the new rink like that,' Sonya agreed. 'We're going to make a huge sign. If you love us so much and don't intend to give us out anywhere, we have to do our best to make the new place an example of oryginality and class!'

'You don't have to be so worried about our old man, Verechka!' Lenka embraced the Vice World Champion enthusiastically. 'The coach is a big boy! He's going to be fine, even with losing the Champions' Club... it goes without saying his students are more important to him than some old, communistic building!'

For an umpteenth time that day, Yakov's brow started to tremble. 'Are you fucking deaf?!' Feltsman roared, starting to hit the ice with his skate. 'Haven't you heard what I was saying?! I've agreed to the bet with Vronkov because I don't want to choose between the students and the ice rink! I want both!'

'Stop acting like a child, coach.' Masha waved her hand carelessly. 'You can't have everything.'

'For fuck's sake, just wait till I...'

'I can't believe you're so stubborn about that dumb bet.' Elena gived her tutor a punishing look, keeping her hand on her hip. 'You can't make your whole life dependent on your shenanigans with Vronkov.'

'I'm not making anything fucking dependant...'

'If only you had a chance of winning,' Sonya stated, shaking her head. 'But meddling into something when you know you're going to lose? It's plain stupidity!'

'Doziness!' Lenka added.

'Ma-so-chism,' Masha sang.

'A hardcore way of letting off the steam of the divorce!'

'It's just as dumb as two blokes arguing on whose penis is larger!'

'You can't let the Pants General to decide about everything... you have to be beyond that!'

'But don't try to get yourself a pair of tits! You sometimes act like you'd been brest-feeding all these brats!'

'Lyovochka is a cute boy, but you can't get yourself into a suicidal bet only to give him an opportunity for a revenge.'

'Besides... he's going to lose for sure and he will have a trauma.'

'After all, he will come back to you, crying.'

'And what do you need this for?'

'What for?'

'You may be unbeatable at rummy, bridge, hearts, mau mau, thousand and slapjack... but I doubt you'll win that game.'

'If you were to win that bet, you'd have to... erm... well... for example...'

'Write a letter to Father Christmas to give you as a Christmas present a little genius who would break world records and win the Grand Prix five times in a row!'

'Exactly! Well, but for the world record, they'd have to change the judging system.'

'Oh, right, it's impossible for now...'

'...ough.'

The three girls stopped babbling and looked at their tutor. Yakov stood like a statue, with hands hanging loose by his sides. His fringe covered his eyes completely. If they'd been in a comic, there would've been a gloomy, red glow behind him.

'Enough,' they heard a cold whisper from the man's mouth.

'Oh, God,' Masha shrieked. 'The B.B. is coming.'

'B.B.?' Sonya asked. 'What's a B.B.?'

'The Bomb Blast,' Elena explained, biting her nails. 'Or the Big Bang.'

'You and Verechka are too young to remember, Sonechka...' Masha swallowed a gulp. 'The coach got a B.B. only once! Me and Lenka were five years old at that time...'

In the enraged man's mind, a little spark running down the string was getting closer and closer to the black bomb. Or at least the three guilty girls imagined it so.

Yakov felt like he'd been a nuclear bomb. But he hadn't started to feel so immediately...

When he was compared to a kid making his life dependent on his bets with Vronkov and said to be trying to „let off the steam of the divorce in a hardcore way" – he was just simply a pissed off himself. A tiny, pissed off bomb.

When they moved the topic of dicks and tits, the bomb turned into a granade inflamed with wrath.

When the girls repeated the manager's and the physiotherapist's words claiming that Lyov had no chance of winning, Yakov started to resemble a bomber moving across the sky, ready to shower the neighbourhood with missiles filled with ire.

Yes, for fuck's sake! It all was still fucking acceptable! He could've lived it through... after all, a human is not a fucking animal! How Yoda would've put it – a person himself control must!

But that letter to Father Christmas... to the motherfucking Father Christmas! Nooo, that was it! An enraged nuclear bomb... An enraged Death Star... A Rageageddon!

The girls covered their ears. Not that it would help them...

'YOU MOTHERFUCKING, UNLOYAL WHORES, I'VE BEEN TYING YOUR SKATES MYSELF, I'VE BEEN BRAIDING YOUR HAIR AND I'VE WIPED YOUR FUCKING NOSES MORE TIMES THAN YOUR OWN FUCKING MOTHERS DID! IT'S FUCKING SCANDALOUS THAT I CANNOT RECEIVE ANY FUCKING SUPPORT IN MY OWN FUCKING HOME – RIGHT, THIS FUCKING RINK IS MY HOME! AND AFTER ALL YOUR FUCKING UNREALISTIC PLANS, YOUR TRIPLE AXELS, YOUR BIELLMAN SPINS AND OTHER FUCKING ELEMENTS NOBODY ELSE BELIEVED YOU WOULD FUCKING MANAGE TO DO WHICH I FUCKING BELIEVED YOU WOULD, LIKE MARY MAGDALENE BELIEVED IN THE RESURRECTION OF JESUS, NOW YOU DON'T WANT TO BELIEVE THAT I CAN...'

'Oh snap, he's gone wild,' Lenka whispered to Sonya in between his screams. 'I think he's beaten his own record.'

'Well... last time he had his B.B. he called us „Bloody Calculating Snort-Noses" at the very best. And I think he was yelling he'd been changing our nappies.'

The Rageageddon lasted for at least five minutes! If someone had thought of looking through the window, it would've turned out the yells could be heard even outside and they gained the attention of the passers-by. A few women with prams were interrupted in their idyllic strolls – when hearing the noice coming from the ice rink, the babies covered with layers of blankets woke up and – just like Feltsman did – started screaming like they'd been paranoid. Oh, yes... one thing's for sure – the whole street suffered from one Russian coach losing his temper.

When Yakov shouted everything that was to be shouted (to be sure he repeted each of his charges five times), he turned around and stepped off the ice.

'For your information, I am OFFENDED!' he snapped and then hurt his hand when putting his blade guards on too aggressively. 'Who said only women are allowed to be moody? I am offended and that's way I won't be talking to you until the camp for kids and you're going to practise on your own, and when I come back you're going to practise the compulsory figures for a WEEK!' He wondered for a while and then added with a sick satisfaction: 'And by the way, you've got CELLULITE!

A moan of fear spread through the ice rink. The last things Feltsman had seen before he left the hall were deadly pale faces of the panicked girls, who started to grope their own butts, shrieking hysterically.

It serves them right! He thought, heading to the locker room. They deserved for what they did, these traitorous hussies! They can get paranoid, start counting each calorie they eat, walk around with scales in their purses and look how everyone except from them devours ice cream! Uh... bloody snorties... how the fuck could they? Eh, and I've been raising that band myself... I've been taking care of these wenches for that many years and they don't care to give me a tiny bit of fucking gratitude!

He remembered Igor and Pavlo's words:

„The job of a coach is especially ungrateful..."
„That Club is squeezing the life out of you, Yakov. Can't you see how it does?"
„Tell me... aren't you full of that?"

What if it really was like that? What if he actually was full?

When he was having a shower several minutes later, he heard Vronkov's voice in his head: „Do you know what is your real problem, Feltsman? It's how you get attached. The coachie Novak got you to think that it's possible to make a family out of that pile of bricks called the Champions' Club."

What if only Yakov saw it that way? What if nobody else needed that... artifical family? Did he really enjoy the feeling that was only an illusion?

Feltsman shook his head. For fuck's sake... he felt like he'd go mad in a moment! He had to do something... he had to run away! Go somewhere... somewhere as far from all of that as possible! Distance himself for a bit... cut himself off from the Champions' Club, from Petersburg, from people he was close with... from people who didn't believe in him.

A thought came across his mind.

When he was all clean, dressed up and smelling good, instead of going to his car, he went to the lobby. Hanna, a young secretary, stopped sorting papers and sent him a shy smile.

'M-mister Feltsman! Good morning. Was your practice with the girls plea...'

Seeing his expression, she thought it would be better not to finish the sentence. Wise girl.

'As far as I know, Igor left here a list of potential ice rinks for the camp, didn't he?' Yakov tried to sound rather calm. He didn't want an innocent woman to get hit with the remnants of his rage.

'Igor, you mean... mister Antonov? Y-yes, I think he's left that list here. Oh, here it is.'

'Great. Then, I have a task for you. I want you to take a map and mark each one rink from the list. Oh, and by the way, find out if there are any places we could sleep in near these venues... some inns or something like that... I don't need high standards, today I'm exceptionally not picky. Find anything, but find it quickly. I'm going to my office to take some extra stuff. When I'm back, I want everything to be done.'

Hanna bawled her eyes. 'O-of course, I'll take care of that at once, but... I-I don't want to be nosy, mister Feltsman... but didn't mister Antonov say he was going to have someone take a look at these rinks?'

'Yes, he did,' Yakov mumbled. 'That's why you're going to call him and tell that he doesn't have to look for anyone. I will take care of that myself.'

He turned around and walked towards the office.

'And... and if mister Antonov asked why you've decided so?' the secretary called with a phone in her hand. 'What do you want me to tell him?'

Feltsman stopped. With his eyes fixed on the floor he was trying to think of an answer. He took a deep sigh after a while.

xXx

'Tell him I want to be alone. That I have to think.'

The trip outside the city wasn't as relaxing as Yakov assumed it would be. In fact, it wasn't relaxing at all. Despite that, it was doing its job well.

Feltsman didn't regret having to drive in absolutely dicky weather with the wipers barely managing to catch up with the snow hitting on the windshield, with tyres slipping on the road covered with ice, and with dickheads violating the right of way, whom were given their driving licence by some idiot, for who knows what reason. He didn't regret having to deal with a map and finding some village forgotten by the rest of the world, having only shitty markings and politeness of people from petrol stations to his use. He didn't regret leaving on a trip impulsively, with an empty stomach, but without a tooth brush. He didn't regret that he was going to sleep in a place with less than three stars for the first time in twenty years, and that after he wakes up the next day he would have three sets of creased clothes to choose from at the very best, which he'd found in the dark depths of his own office.

He really, really didn't regret that. He didn't... because of two things he'd rather be pissed off by the road signs, dumb drivers and discomfort than by anything Feltsman had to listen to throughout the whole week. Especially during past fouty eight hours.

'The spring is just around the corner!' the bloke from the radio chirrupped. 'I know, my dear listeners that you doubt in the natural way of things, but don't worry, as Mother Nature will soon treat you with a reasonable dose of warmth. The thaw is coming tomorrow!'

'Fuck off,' Yakov mumbled, 'you've been promising that since the beginning of March.'

Exactly! It was so much easier to get pissed off by that bloke. He didn't have any face at the very least – he was only an anonymous voice, not something dear to Feltsman. He wasn't saying all these things because he tried to be mean. His only violation was that he sounded like a complete idiot and believed in the spring that was never to come! Anyway... he was probably paid for being a complete idiot. It wasn't Yakov to judge him. One had to earn a living in some way.

Speaking of earning money... what would Feltsman do for life in case he'd lost the bet? Well... his stocks were bringing him quite a lot of money anyway, so it wasn't like he'd need a job, but... wait! He was not to think about that!

The road, Yakov told himself. Think about the road. I have to make it to Novovladimirsk! That's my destination... I have to focus on the aim!

Right – the aim. Ah, the aim. What was Feltsman's aim? Not the current one, but the more... general? What was his life aim? Ah, right, becoming the owner of the Champions' Club. Earning the rink!

If Yakov lost the bet, his aim would go and fuck itself.

On the other hand, if he won... his aim would go and fuck itself as well.

The fifty-year-old thought about his new conclusion for a while. Such a way of thinking was damn sad, but also... logical. After all, reaching one's aim meant that the aim is gone. When you reach the place you've chosen, you don't see the road in front of you anymore. And when there's no road, it means you're slowly getting to your death.

Each person needs an aim to live. To stay sane.

Did Yakov have any aim aside from earning the rink? Did he have any dreams?

When I've become a coach and when I married Lilia, I had only three wishes, he remembered, smiling bitterly. I asked God to help me reach my three aims. First, I wanted to buy the rink. Second, I wanted to train an Olympic Champion. Third...

He saw the skates and ballet shoes in his mind. And one second later he had to hit the brakes, because he saw a sign in front of him. The car skidded.

'FUCK!'

A long experience of sitting behind the steering wheel prevented Yakov from getting the beloved Honda stuck in a ditch. Eventually both the car and the driver got out of the skid unscratched. The car stopped on the roadside, just a few inches in front of the sign.

Great! Feltsman snapped in his mind. I left the city to stop thinking about the problems... and the said problems almost costed me a bumper! Holy fucking shit!

For a good thing, there was almost no traffic in that hellhole. Yakov grabbed the map with a sigh. Hmm... if he drove past Krasivice a few minutes before, shouldn't he be...?

The sign that almost kissed his Honda a few moments before was completely covered with snow. Everything said that under the mantle of snow, there was a name of a village. The fifty-year-old crawled out of his car and started to clean the sign, mumbling swear words. After some time it turned out he was right.

„Novovladimirsk."

Well, fine, so I'm here. Yakov looked around. But where's the bloody rink? I can't see any buildings yet... only fucking trees everywhere! Eh, what a dumpsite. I hope I won't get lo...

WHAM!

He couldn't have finished his thought, as his head hit something hard. The mysterious attacker turned out to be a road sign. Apparently, it had been placed there quite recently. It wasn't made of metal, but of wood and it was a few yards – fuck, only a few yards – away from the sign indicating the starting point of Novovladimirsk. The inscription on the plaque that attacked Feltsman said: „CAUTION! Slippery road"

'And you're saying it NOW?!'

Yakov's leg gave the sign a vengeful kick. The wooden pole broke into two. The broken sign fell... directly onto the pissed off fifty-year-old! Feltsman got hit on his head once again. And then he slipped and fell straight into a huge snowdrift.

When hy was lying like that, flapping his legs angrily and scaring squirrels off with his loud fuckling, he heard a motor's growl in the distance. After a moment, a motorcycle appeared from behind the corner. The madman driving the two-wheel damn thing was wearing a leather jacket with studs (It's opened! Isn't he fucking cold?! Yakov thought) and a faggy black helmet with heart pattern. He finished the final straight in no time, and then he stopped by Feltsman in a truly spectacular way. Of course, he had to shower the already pissed off coach with another layer of snow.

'FUCK!' Yakov yelled, treating the bastard with a look foreshadowing an inevitable death. 'Go make noise somewhere else, you fucking organ donor! And don't you dare to chuckle, 'cause...'

'Cause what?' he heard a question said in a cheerful voice from under the helmet. 'Are you going to spank me again?'

Yakov's eyes widened. A black shoe with a thick, black heel fell onto a muddy ground with a quiet smack. When Feltsman looked up he realised that the biker's silhouette was very slim and certainly feminine. Her leather gloves didn't have fingers, so he could see the nails with pink nail polish. A shirt saying „Sexy Witch" covered her at least D-cup bust.

But Yakov didn't need such hints, as at the moment when he heard the reference to the spank he knew who he was dealing with. The woman took her helmet off. Whether it was possible or not, Feltsman's eyes widened even more.

'W... where the fuck has your hair gone?!' were the first words he said (or rather: shouted) to Tatyana Lubicheva-MacKenzie. 'You haven't got your hair!'

Giggling, she slided her dark glasses off her face.

'You're exagerrating.' She winked at her former skating partner. 'I still have some. Ooh, Jackie, is this for real... what's with that sad face? Ah, I know! After all, you've been fantasising about cutting my hair off for years! You threatened me so many times that you'd strip me of my beautiful braid. Oh, you poor boy, what are you going to scare me with now?'

The fury on the man's face faded a bit. Yakov couldn't help a soft smile.

She was right... oh, she was so, so right! What would he threaten her with now?

Groaning, he raised up to sitting position and gave himself a moment to have a better look at his chosen sister. Eh... as always, the fate was too light on her. She looked young. Damn young. Like she'd been at least fifteen years younger than she actually was.

Except for a few wrinkles, Tatyana's face was still a face of the girl who used to attack Feltsman with her beaded hairband regularly. Her large, blue eyes with thick lashes had the same shine like in the old, communistic days. And the round, golden earrings (which Yakov liked to call „gypsy") and blond short cut hair emphasised the effect, giving Lubicheva-McKenzie one more spark of youth.

Tatyana hadn't changed a bit: she was still mischevious, joyful and wild. And slim. And pretty. In a comparison, Yakov ranked poorly.

Twenty pounds more and less and less hair on the head, he thought in disgust. Needless to say... I'll get myself a cane and I could stand for her father!

'What are you doing here, anyway?' he mumbled, digging the snow out from behing his collar. 'You were supposed to be in Lithuania! If I remember well, you have a flight to San Francisco today! And where did you get the motorcycle from?! Why are you driving something like that in a weather like this?! Are you trying to kill yourself?!'

'A bad thing never dies,' she answered, leaning on the handlebars flippantly. 'You said that yourself. I've stolen the motorcycle from a gangster, and I'm coming back to States on a broomstick. I'm a witch after all, don't you remember?'

Yakov raised his brow. Tatyana laughed.

'For real,' she started, fixing her eyes on her nails, 'I've borrowed the motorbike from one very nice Kazakh man. I arrived to Krasavice with a cab, but the cabby said he wouldn't take me any further. I thought I wouldn't find you, but then mister Altin came to the aid. He agreed to borrow his baby to me for my „pretty eyes".'

'Have you got a driving licence for that thing?'

She didn't answer.

'So you haven't!' Feltsman raised his arms to the sky. 'How the hell did you manage to live to the age of fifty and still not have a bit of common sense! I've got no idea what the fuck is wrong with you!'

'Don't get hysterical.' Tatyana rolled her eyes. 'My hubby taught me to drive.'

'He taught you, my arse!' Yakov splurted out, trying to free his foot of the grip of a lump of iced snow. 'I guess that henpecked man of yours as always didn't dare to say no when you told him to let you drive!'

'Steve's not henpecked. He's just a cute, lovely teddy bear.'

'Cute or not cute, if I say he's henpecked, then he's henpecked! You haven't answered my question: what about your flight?'

'I've changed my ticket. I'm flying tonight from Petersburg.'

Feltsman freezed for a while, shook. 'You changed it and... you're flying from Petersburg?' he mumbled, observing the face of his chosen sister. 'Why?'

'What do you think?' She treated him with a gentle smile.

It took Yakov long five seconds to understand. Oh, he thought, feeling his cheeks getting red.

'How could I simply come back to America when my dear brother challenged his arch rival for a mortal combat?'

Tatyana rested her chin on her hand. Her blue eyes glanced at Yakov with a mix of affection and amusement.

'And you travelled so many miles... only to speak to me?' Yakov uttered in disbelief.

He did a quick calculation. She could've found out about the bet only from Pavlo or Igor... and they knew since yesterday. A travel by train from Vilnius to Petersburg took over eighteen hours. It would be a bit quicker to hitchhike – ten hours. That's still hell a lot of time! In other words, if Tatyana could stand next to Yakov now, then she must have... most likely... she most likely left for Petersburg straight after hearing the news. Knowing her, she didn't hesitate for a second.

Feltsman turned his head away.

'Are you going to cry?' He heard his former partner giggle.

'For fuck's sake, I'm not! Better tell me how you've managed to find me.'

'I've found out where you'd gone from your secretary. She told me I was only several minutes late. Really, Jackie... such spontaneous trips are so unlike you! Although...' Tatyana's face expression got more serious, 'contemplating all by yourself is so much like you. Back in the old days, you would do that before competitions nonstop... and it never brought anything good.'

Ehh, that's true...

'Luckily, you cured me in that regard,' Yakov murmured. 'I can't recall you ever getting stressed over something... even during the competition, you would flap your mouth until the last moment before getting on the ice. Your gibberish was so annoying that I have no conditions for contemplating! Getting pissed off by you was getting my attention away from the problems quite successfully.'

'Well, the custom must be served.' Grinning, Tatyana patted the seat behind her. 'Get yourself on the motorbike.'

'ARE YOU NUTS?! I'm not going to ride on that bloody anihilation machine, in the temperature of minus thirty degrees*, on top of that with a woman who doesn't even have the fucking driving licence for the damn thing!'

'Hmm... I think you have no other choice.'

Smacking her lips, the woman pointed at the Honda's back. The car got a flat tyre.

'Fuck!' Yakov hissed. So the skid had some consequences to it, after all. Damn it! 'I've got a spare tyre,' Feltsman mumbled, raising up from the snowdrift.

'Come on... do you really want to change a tyre in a weather like this? I'm not going to help you, that's for sure! I could've broken a nail. The inn where mister Altin stays is only about a mile away from here. We'll go there, you'll warm up and you'll pay some brat to take care of your precious Hondie's tyre. Nobody would steal your car in a hellhole like this. Come ooon, Jackie... let's get hammered, it's going to be nice!'

And that thing again. The blonde witch was trying to get Yakov to the dark side as always! For past thirty years, always the same...

„Let's have a bath in a fountain, it's going to be nice!"
„Let's skate in our underwear only, it's going to be nice!"
„Let's buy a bunny costume for Lilechka and send it to her for her birthday anonymously, it's going to be nice!"

Not that Feltsman didn't have any good memories of any of these suggestions. And getting hammered sounded very tempting. Fuck it! If he got killed on that two-wheel garbage, he wouldn't have to care about losing the bet anymore.

'But don't give me a helmet.' He sat behind Tatyana with a dose of hesitation. 'I don't want to end up as a bloody plant. If something happens, I want to die instantly.'

'As you wish.' The former skater put her black head protector back on. 'But hold on tightly, all right? Ah, and don't open your mouth for your own good.'

Yakov didn't have a chance to ask about the reason for that strance instruction – the machine launched with a loud roar of the motor! Cursing during the drive finished in Feltsman having his teeth frozen. Aha. So that's why he should've kept his mouth closed. Well, fuck, brilliant!

The extreme experience didn't last for long, luckily. They stopped in front of the inn before they knew it. Smiling, Tatyana gave the motorcycle back to a short old man with a beard.

'Where will you go now, mister Altin?'

'Back to Kazakhstan,' the man said, putting his backpack in the luggage carrier. 'I'm going to beg my son to give me a grandchild at last! When the little guy is born, I'll get a kids' chair for the motorcycle.'

Dear Lord, watch over that child! Yakov thought, putting his hands on his knees. Fuck, not a single more of these bloody two-wheels ever again! The only time when I was more frightened was at the time of the posters incident...

'Thank you for your help once again.' Tatyana kissed Altin's cheek. 'Bon voyage!'

The old man, now all red on his face, stuttered a quick „thank you" and hopped on his motorcycle. A few moments later he was already riding off into the sunset.

'Oh, come on, Jackie, don't pretend you're feeling sick!' The blonde witch patted her brother's back dashingly. 'Move on, vodka is waiting!'

'I wish I'd got drunk before the fucking ride!' Yakov answered with an angry look.

'I wish I had a camera. When you were getting off the motorcycle, your expression was priceless.'

'If you'd taken a photo of me, you'd have had to run away to the edge of the world.'

'You mean another galaxy... your mafia is everywhere.'

'I don't have any connections with mafia!'

'Of course you don't. Oh, can you hear what I hear? Some people are speaking French. Let's get in! We'll show the lightheaded Frogs how to drink in Russian!'

Right. They had to show the delicate foreigners what country they were in.

Shoulder to shoulder, Tatyana and Yakov walked into the tavern! They sat by the bar and then, pretending they haven't seen the guys in berets sitting in the corner, they ordered three bottles of clear vodka. Listening to exited whispers in French, they filled their glasses (not shot glasses – regular ones!) with the spirit and raising their wrists proffessionally, they poured the vodka into their throats. All the vodka at once. To the last drop. They repeated the ritual five times. Only then they agreed their need to impress „the foreign weaklings" had been filled and they could get to the point.

'So...' Yakov started carefully.

He put the glass to his mouth for the sixth time, but this time he just took a sip. The spirit's bitterness was burning his throat nicely.

'Mhm... sooo...' Tatyana sang.

She dipped her finger in the drink, and then put it into her mouth while raising her light eyebrows playfully. Feltsman didn't let himself to get fooled. He knew that his sister wasn't drunk. She was just making a spectacle out of herself.

Lubicheva McKenzie's ability to hold her drinks was almost legendary in the Russian Skating Federation. Besides... as Tatyana was running wild quite a lot being sober, at most times it was simply impossible to tell whether she was under the influence of alcohol or whether she just was „being herself".

It was quite similar with Yakov – he could be filling himself with unearthly amounts of booze and he still stayed the reasonable, surely nervous man that he was. The occassions when he got drunk enough to get silly-minded could be counted on fingers of one hand. And frankly speaking, he had no idea if these occassions really happened, as he didn't remember them himself, only heard this and that in others' stories. He wasn't sure where his boundary was either... but if he ever got close to it, then only in the company of his sister of choice. Amongst his relatives and friends, only she was tough enough to keep up with him at drinking. It was also the reason why he liked getting hammered with her so much. Igor and Pavlo usually would fall off after the second bottle.

Tatyana started to fiddle with her glass with a smirk. 'So...' she repeated for the third time, 'it finally happened. You and Vronkov. The final showdown. The arena. The fireworks! Yippie! That's going to be quite a show. I want a first row ticket.'

Her blue eyes were just a little serious. Just as serious as the eyes of a kid cheering for their favourite character while watching a cartoon. Someone could've taken it for lack of respect... but Yakov – after two days of watching wide open mouths and deadly serious looks – was relieved. And positively shocked.

'So you haven't come here to tell me I must've gone mad and I should stand down?' he asked.

'Well, Igoryok actually told me to do so...' Tatyana started waving her arms around and mimicking Antonov: '"Aaah, you're the only hope left! Oh God, oh no, you infected Yakov with your recklessness and he's gone mad! Stalin, Lenin, the Apocalypse! Tanya, I beg you, I beseech you, now, immediately, call him and tell him he needs a psychic!"'

Feltsman's mouth formed a nasty smirk. 'You hate doing what you're told to do,' he stated, taking another gulp. 'He should've taken that into account.'

'That's true.' The former skater took a long sigh. 'But, you know... if I really thought you've gone mad, I wouldn't care whether someone was telling me what to do.'

'What would I have to do for you to start thinking I'd gone mad?'

'Decline Vronkov's challenge.'

The man almost dropped his glass in shock. Inhaling sharply, he raised his head, looking with his shook eyes at Tatyana. The blonde witch was sitting with her elbow on the counter and her hand put to her chin. The woman's lips formed a goofy smile.

'You're joking, aren't you?' Yakov uttered, overwhelmed. 'You're just a malignant vixen and you're messing with me as always...'

Lubicheva-McKenzie rolled her eyes. 'Why would I be joking? What's there to hesitate about? If you win, you get the rink for free. Do you have an idea how much is it worth? Only a fool wouldn't take an opportunity like that.'

Feltsman blinked several times... and then he giggled. A cactus, he thought, shaking his head. Only a cactus could say something like that. Only a cactus would think that bet is a wonderful idea, not taking the possibility of losing into consideration at all and not giving a shit about the potential consequences.

'You've always been different than others,' he said, pouring more alcohol to both glasses. 'Since the very first time I saw you, I knew you're fucked up...' He poured the contents of the glass into his throat, and then finished in a soft voice: 'I never thought I would ever be so happy because of that.'

The woman raised her eyebrows, indicating a question.

'You have no idea how much I needed someone... even just one person who would tell me that my decision isn't complete madness,' he explained in a sad voice. 'And even though I know this bet isn't as fantastic as you were saying, 'cause it's in fact really risky and actually I've probably really gone mad when accepting it... even though I know it all, I feel a bit better thanks to you.'

The corner of Tatyana's lips raised a little. 'You're afraid, aren't you?' she asked, with her half-closed eyes fixed on the glass. 'You're shaking in your boots at the thought of losing?'

Feltsman clenched his teeth. As every single man, he hated admitting such things. The contents of his trousers nearest to the fly demanded him keeping his mouth shut.

The thing was, if he wanted help, he had to swallow his pride in the first place.

'That's right,' Yakov mumbled reluctantly, 'I am afraid.'

'There's no need to be,' Tatyana said with no hesitation, 'you're going to win, for sure.'

Feltsman let out a snort out of his mouth. That's a cactus. That's so totally cactus...

'I appreciate that you want to cheer me up,' he begun in an irritated voice, 'but I'd rather you said me and Vronkov have an equal chance of winning. My darling friends' excessive sincerity pissed me off, but going to extremes is not good either way. And unjustified optimism won't help me in any way.'

'That's not being optimistic, that's only intuition and common sense.'

'Common sense? Do you even have an idea what that word means?'

'Of course I know! And my common sense is telling that chances of you and Reksio* are not equal.'

Hearing Vronkov's nick, Yakov almost choked on his vodka.

Yuh-uh... Reksio! No matter how many times he heard that name, it was always funny to him. Feltsman smirked. Ever since he could remember, Tatyana always tended to mispronounce names.

She was calling Yakov „Jackie".

She called Vronkov „Alexei" at first, but she decided it was „too long and too formal" and shortened his name to „Alexi". Some time after that she came to conclusion something was still wrong and the bald dick became „Lexi". But that was when Feltsman suggested the nickname was „not silly enough and not humiliating at all for the big-headed wanker he was", so Tatyana launched her long thought process, and finally she got struck with a bolt of lightning and came up with „Reksio".

(It was said that a Polish man named Lechoslaw heard that and created a cartoon about a playful canine, and the patch around the dog's eye was inspired by the fact that Vronkov wore a shiner from Katerina at the time... but, frankly speaking, no one ever confirmed whether the creator of „Reksio" actually liked figure skating.)

'Of course me and the bearded dick don't have equal chances,' Yakov murmured. 'He's got a self-confident little brat with two springs instead of legs, and I've got a cowardly ballet dancer.'

He barely managed to finish the sentence when he scolded himself in mind. Damn it, Igor and Pavlo's shittalk must've got where it was supposed to. A coach doubting the student he'd been so protective about the day before! That was a fucking scandal!

'Speaking of that...' Tatyana started opening the third bottle. 'Tell me something more about that whole scandal... you know, about these two brats, one of whom punched the other in his face, and that one turned him in later. I read something in the papers, but I didn't want to settle my opinion before hearing from you... tell me, how it really was?'

At the mere word said about the scandal, Feltsman shivered. 'Okay, then listen... Lyov is a little Jesus,' he started in a painful voice. 'He likes everyone, he doesn't bother anyone, he's polite to everybody and he's at peace with world and everything. I'd be shocked if someone told be that kid looked at someone the wrong way, let alone punch his mate in the face. So when I was informed about the fight, I instantly knew something was wrong.'

'Ivanko provoked him?'

Yakov nodded. 'Indeed. And that was not the first time. But it was the first time he succeeded.'

'Oh? So he'd been looking for trouble with Lyovochka on regular basis?'

'Ivanko's the type looking for trouble with everyone.' Snorting loudly, Levin's former coach poured next serving of the alcohol into his glass. 'I've already had students who liked to tease others. I can deal with characters like „if I don't nudge someone at least once a day, I can't sleep"... if that was the case, it would've been a child's play. You catch the deliquent in the act and have him go round the rink untill he sweats out all his aggression. Three punishments like that, and the brat doesn't feel like teasing anymore. The real problem is... when the fights don't happen on your watch.'

'I see. The boy was clever?'

'Annoyingly clever... it was bloody difficult to catch him red handed. Well... you know, I have my resources and I always get to find out who is pulling whose hair and who's taking whose brunch...'

'Sure.' Tatyana winked at him. 'After all, you know everything and you're better informed than mafia itself.'

'...so sooner or later I always found out about the little „shenanigans" of Ivanko,' Yakov finished with a long sigh. 'At first I thought it's a classic bully... but then I've noticed a certain pattern and understood there's more to the subject.'

'A pattern?'

'Ivanko didn't tease others for teasing itself... he was simply undermining his competitors. Anytime some kid did something better than him... spinned faster, or got more praised for edges... then he'd do everything to bully them in some way. He'd laugh at his mate's costume... or try to convince a younger one that if you have second hand skates, you shouldn't be trying more difficult elements.'

The former skater's eyes, usually cheerful, shone with a cold spark. 'Everything to be the best one in the team?'

'Exactly. So, you see... untill Ivanko was the number one, everything was well and kicking. But then Lyov appeared. A little hard worker with dreamy eyes. Not exceptionally talented, but good enough to be willing to watch him skating. And suddenly, out of the blue, the little motherfucker Levin realised that he not only had a competitor going head in head with him, but also the said competitor was deaf to all his insults, sheesh, he didn't even understand half of these insults, so he had no other choice to try and beat him with hard work... and it's worth saying Ivanko ISN'T a hard worker. Well... his talent compensates for it a lot, but... you know. Anyways, he'd been regularly provoking Lyov. Lyov wouldn't react. BUT, as we all know well, persistence is the key to success. If you throw yourself at the shield regularly, sooner or later you will hit the right point. So Ivanko did.'

'And what was that point? If I may ask...'

'I heard he called Lyov's mother a whore, and his father a loser.'

Tatiana shivered. 'A little bastard,' she mumbled. 'You were right to take Lyovochka's side.'

'Of course I was bloody right!' Yakov snorted. 'Even Vronkov knows it. And the fact he took advantage of the situation to take over Levin brothers is another case...'

He closed his eyes, counted to ten, opened his eyes and before he lost his courage, he added: 'I was relieved after I got rid of Ivanko... but losing Max hurt like hell! When the boy told me he didn't want to skate in my club anymore, I felt so dreadful you can't possibly imagine that! And not because he was a good skater, if you know what I mean.'

He wasn't sure if he did the right thing by saying something like that. Eh, it must've been the alcohol's fault... it would've been so better to save that embarrassing feeling to himself! And what if Tatyana would say same thing as Pavlo and Igor? Same thing as Vronkov? After all, it was the bald dick who dragged that weakness of Yakov out to the daylight.

Even Feltsman felt bad for being so emotionally connected to his students. The thought that others started to notice was not only embarrasing, but even frightening.

The knowledge of how much you care for someone is a weapon, Yakov thought, reaching for the bottle with his shivering hand. A weapon you shouldn't give to ANYONE. Especially to Vronkov.

Tatyana was silent for a long time. Sipping her vodka, she'd been keeping her eyes fixed on an undefined point. Finally, she put her glass aside and turned herself to Feltsman. 'Listen...'

It hardly ever happened for her to speak about something so quietly. And so earnestly. Yakov was all ears.

'...I've come here to tell you something. But before you can hear that, you should know that I'm not saying that because I love you like a brother and I wouldn't doubt in you even if you told me you'd bet on who'd swim across Atlantic Ocean faster... although it did matter when I changed my ticket and went hitchhiking to get to Petersburg.'

Aha, so she was hitchhiking after all, Feltsman laughed in his mind.

'What I'll tell you now,' Tatyana contunued, 'it's not an atempt in boosting your mood, but something I believe in with all my heart. I also know that despite it's a bloody obvious thing, you woudn't have thought of it yourself, especially when everyone around you is calling you a madman. I've come here to see you, because there are things you can see only when you're a fucked up weirdo.'

Her slim hand with pink nails reached for his forearm and squeezed it hard.

'You're going to win that bet not because you've got a better skater or that you know how to teach people. You're going to win because you look at skaters and you really see them... not their jumps, not spins, not the scores from the judges, but living people and what they are capable of doing. You're going to win because you can see a gold medal where nobody else can. Your skaters are the best proof of that.'

For a moment... for one short moment Feltsman wanted to believe his little sister. He wanted to nod and admit with a smile that she was right. But then, he remembered about something.

'Everything sounds nice and sweet...' he started with a bitter laugh, 'but you forgot about one tiny detail. Maybe I can see the gold, but whatever I do, I always end up with the silver. I've been imagining that bloody color all my live... at least all my coaching career. Not a single one of my students has ever been a World Champion. And probably... probably no one will.'

Tatyana pursed her lips. She made an angry face and pulled Yakov's wrist.

'What the fuck are you doing?!' he yelled, outraged.

'I'll read you palm.' She smiled at him sweetly. 'Have you forgotten about my gypsy ancestry?'

'Come on, you know I don't believe in bullshit like that! Leave my hand alone!'

'Hmm... let's see... mhm... I can see at least two World Champions in your career...'

'FUCK! I've told you to knock it off!'

Feltsman yanked his hand out from the grip of the witch's claws furiously. Tatyana puckered up and folded her arms, offended. 'You're so ungrateful,' she mumbled. 'I'm offering you fortune telling services for free, and you...'

'I simply hate everything that's imaginary, especially Father Christmas, you understand?! A man is geeting excited without need, and then it turns out he'd been fooled.'

'Okay, OKAY... Jesus, I'm sorry. I forgot you've got a trauma since instead of getting presents you got your arse beaten with a rod.'

'FOR FUCK'S SAKE! I haven't got a trauma, right?! If I was to have a trauma for some reason, it would be because I can't coach talented people!'

Almost instantly after he said the last word, he covered his mouth with his hands. Damn it, he must've overestimated his tolerance to vodka. What the fuck was it, an contest in pitying oneself? A competiton in admitting the most embarassing weaknesses?! Damn it... if it really was to happen, Yakov would rather not remember a single part the next day!'

'BARMAN!' he yelled.

The man wiping shot glasses almost got a stroke. 'Y-yes?'

'BRING TWO MORE BOTTLES!'

After the said bottles were brought to them, Yakov opened the closest one and started to drink straight from it.

'Eh, Jackie...' Shaking her head, Tatyana started to open the other bottle. 'If I'd known it was so bad, I would've come earlier. Why would you think you can't coach talented people?'

'Because the only exceptionally talented skater I had has left me for Vronkov.' After engulfing a full quart in one go, Yakov's chin fell to the counter.

The fifty-year-old, being at the edge of getting completely drunk, realised he looked like an idiot, but he decided to fuck it.

With a quiet smack, Tatyana's small lips glued off the bottle. The empty bottle. Lubicheva-McKenzie drank everything at once.

'The fact you haven't found a little genius yet,' she said, wiping the corner of her mouth with her wrist, 'doesn't mean you wouldn't know what to do with them. Stop listening to all the bullshit others try to convince you with. If you believe a good coach is a coach who keeps the distance, then you will lose the bet indeed. Don't change all your rules only because you didn't let one kid spoil your good health, and he's turned his butt at you in revenge. Don't give up on Lyovochka only because he can't jump the same jumps as Ivanko. And if you chose another kid for some reason, it shouldn't be because you believe that a natural talent is better than hard work... but because you feel so, and your intution is telling you that, and you trust yourself, and after working that job for twenty years you know you are right.'

'Thirty.' Still having his head on the counter, Yakov let himself for a smirk. 'I'd already been working with novices as a competitor. After working that job for thirty years, witch.'

Lubicheva-McKenzie noddded. 'Exactly. Thirty years – that's more than the age of your girls. That's even bigger experience than Novak had when he decided we should become partners. Do you remember how it was with him? Do you remember how everybody would call him a madman? How they would tell him that it wouldn't work out, that it was plain stupidity, that there were no chance for that combination to work...'

Even I was telling him that, Yakov remembered, feeling a wave of nostalgia upon him. The famous speech on cactuses and ferns.

'...everybody would tell him he'd gone mad, but coach Novak ignored everybody and did what he thought was the right thing. Sometimes that's just how it is, Jackie. Of course, it's a great feeling when you say something and the whole world is nodding and clapping and agrees with you and shouts: „congratulations, man, what a brilliant idea, you're right, do what you do". But sometimes... sometimes the whole world tells you you're a complete idiot. Then you have to decide if you'd rather turn your tail and do as the world wishes, or have guts, show them your middle finger and do everything in your own way.'

Tatyana catched her foster brother's hair and without having any delicacy in her mind, she pulled his head up. 'So how the fuck is it, Feltsman?!' she yelled with her face just a few inches in front of his. 'Have you got your fucking nuts or you fucking haven't?!'

Pressing his cheek on the counter angrily, Yakov mumbled: 'Of course I fucking have.'

The blonde witch cheered up. 'Great! Will you show me?'

'Fuck off. I'm not taking my pants off in front of you.'

'Erm... not literally. I meant that bet of yours.'

'Ah, okay. Then yes, fine. I will show you.'

'Excellent! Oh, poor boy... you must've drunk a bit too much, am I right?'

Feltsman's foggy eyes moved to look at the empty bottles. There were quite a lot. Enought to do some bowling...

Yakov with great concern realised he started to feel the first symptoms of his alcoholic silliness.

'Well then!' Tatyana slapped his cheeks. 'Now that we're ensured you still have your Y chromosome, I can go to the airport in calm!'

'You're leaving?' The weary man's head moved on the counter in search of a colder spot. 'So we're not going bowling?'

'Bowling?'

'You know... fuck, the... the... bottle kind!'

The blonde harpy finally got what he meant. 'Aah! Sorry, but no.' She gave him a teasing smirk. 'You're drunk, dear Jackie, and I won't be satisfied with an easy win.'

'Drunk?' Yakov mumbled. 'Who's drunk? Come on, I'll destroy you.'

'Next time, okay? I have my flight at two A.M. If I don't hurry, I'll be late.'

'What are you talking about? We still have got the day.'

'No, it's just the light in the pub. Outside it's dark as in Vronkov's brain.'

'Oh shit, really?'

'Yes, really. Come on, you'll walk me to the cab.'

Yakov raised up from the chair reluctantly. When several minutes later he watched Tatyana getting into the car, in his last act of reason he shouted: 'Wait!'

With one of her high heels in the car, she turned around and gave him a confused look.

'I never asked you...' he protected himself from the thick flakes of snow falling from the sky with his forearm, 'during our first practise together, when I spanked you... why did you tell me you liked me and you wanted to skate with me?'

She blinked. She was standing frozen for a while... and then, she smiled. 'What do you mean 'why'? Because I understood you are the first man who wouldn't let me hurt myself! Believe me or not, but before we started to skate together, I was very similar to that ex-student of yours, Max. But unlike him, I could appreciate someone taking care of me.'

Yakov opened his mouth in shock.

'Don't stop taking care for others!' Tatyana shouted. 'Don't take your love back from your skaters, okay?'

Hearing the word „love", Feltsman blushed and stumped his foot angrily. 'And... and y-you, don't throw your fucking sentimental bullshit at me!'

She laughed loud in answer. 'You said the same thing when I said you shouldn't hide with your love for Lilechka. I hope you'll keep my advice in heart this time as well. Take care!'

She winked at him for the last time, and then closed the cab's door and left for the airport.

Yakov was left alone. Exactly like he assumed he would be when he left for that trip. The thing he didn't foresee was that at the end of the day he would get hammered. And that being drunk as he was, he would end up in a place with no overnight accomodation. When the scared barman informed him about it, Feltsman mumbled a swear word. He considered taking a cab that would take him to Petersburg... but on the other hand he was afraid he wouldn't be able to find his car, abandoned in the wild. And it was needles to say he wasn't happy at the thought of losing his beloved Honda! A hellhole is a hellhole, but when you lived in Russia, the risk of getting robbed was always around the corner.

In the end Yakov decided it would be better to walk that one unfortunate mile and stay in the car overnight. In the boot, like in old, good, communistic times! His mind, foggy with alcohol, got excited at the idea instantly! Eh, right... there's nothing quite like sleeping in the boot!

As it turned out, not only drunk coaches would wander in a forest at night. Walking on the side of the road, Yakov passed a cyclist. Seeing Feltsman's open coat, the youngman dressed in layers raised his eyebrow.

'Ouch, you're quite immune to cold, mister... Isn't it a bit too late for a walk?'

'What about a bike ride?' the fifty-year-old mumbled angrily.

He was up to lecture the kid, but then he saw skates peeping out of his backpack. 'You're coming back from the practice?' he got interested.

'Mhm. I play hockey.'

Yakov's thoughts roared in triumph. Well, well! That dumbbell must've fallen from the sky!

'Could you tell me where the ice rink is? I'd like to skate a bit as well.'

'Sure thing. You have to turn right behind the bridge. Then you've got to drive... or rather walk straight on. You won't get lost for sure. But you won't be able to skate tonight... the coach closed the rink earlier. He had to go to the theatre to see his wife's show. But if it really matters to you, there's a frozen pond. You need to go down the hill next to the „Novovladimirsk" sign. But carefully, 'cause it's bloody slippery there. We put a warning sign there, but some vandal has broken it.'

Feltsman snorted loudly. He wanted to say that only a fucked up madman would skate on a frozen pond in the middle of a forest, but then the young man added: 'But if I were you, I would give it up. You've drunk so much that you won't keep the balance even for five seconds.'

When parents are warning their children of the devil, in reality they mean alcohol. Aah... 'cause alkohol is like devil indeed. It whispers bad thinsgs to humans' ears. Like now it did with Yakov's: How this kid dares to suggest you won't keep your balance on the ice! You've had five bottles of vodka – so what! You're Yakov Feltsman! The greatest coach in Russia and an Olympian! No brat from any hellhole can ever say you won't keep the balance on the ice!

'Exactly!' the drunk man yelled out loud. 'You're not going to be telling me... well... that... you know, that, what you've just said! I want to go skating, so I will go skating!'

'Erm... okay?'

'You don't believe me, do you?!'

'Uhh... well, no, I do, but... eh, damn it, I can't talk to drunk people. Whatever, have a nice evening! But be careful. That pond is haunted by a pixie.'

Yakov blinked. 'A pixie?' he shouted at the leaving boy, 'What fucking pixie are you talking about? And where the fuck do you see a drunk?!'

He wasn't given any answer. The cyclist's silhouette soon disappeared in the darkness of the night. Feltsman's hands made fists. A pixie... my arse! And what, maybe fucking Father Christmas as his companion? Of course!

He really must've had one bottle of vodka too much... really! He didn't know what had tempted him... but he really did what he said he'd do.

After coming to his car he really took his skates out of the boot. He really walked down the hill, of course tripping over on his way (it might've been connected to the fact that he should've put his skates on after reaching the pond, not by the car, but Yakov was too wasted to think about it more). He really found the frozen reservoir and started to skate.

'You see!' he shouted into the open air, 'I won't keep my balance for five seconds, right?! And what the fuck are you going to say now, lad?!'

Ah, that kid was already gone. He'd left. Good... but where the fuck was the pixie?

Yakov stopped in the middle of the pond to watch the surroundings for a while. Well, well, one was for sure – the place looked like it'd been taken out of a fairy tale, indeed. The trees were a satisfactory protection from the snowflakes falling from the sky, but he could see it between the spiky tops. The moonshine was reflected on the ice in a truly majestic way. Really, a true fairy tale atmosphere! But the pixie was nowhere to be found...

Breathing out a sigh, Feltsman started to go in cirles lazily. He'd finished three first phases of being drunk – joy, irrational ideas and rage – and he was entering the forth, most terrible phase.

Sadness.

Yakov moved over the frozen pond and thought how sad and unfair all of that was... and difficult, and weied, and so complicated! The reason why he and Lilia got the divorce... the reason why he turned Max Levin from him... the reason why he had to get himself into that bloody risky bet!

All of that was just too much... too much for one man! It must've been a high time to make a complaint.

Imagining that he was facing the God, Yakov looked up to the sky and yelled in a bittel voice: 'You know what? I'm fucking fed up with you! GIVE ME A FUCKING SIGN!'

And them, completery exhausted, he fell to the ground. At first, he started to wave with his arms and legs to make a snow angel, but then he remembered he was lying not on the snow, but on the ice. Freezing without a move, he closed his eyes.

I'm tired, he thought. I'm tired with having to deal with the whole world constantly! I'm not moving from here until Father in Heaven gives me a hint on what to do.

If he'd been sober he'd have known that he had no chance of getting a responce from high up there. I he'd been sober, he most likely wouldn't have believed in God. But as he stayed drunk all that time, he couldn't act rationally and believed in everything. Even in Father Christmas. Or pixies.

Eh, that dumb cyclist must've been messing with him... but wait! Wasn't that a sound of wheels? Could that guy possibly...?

Feltsman listened to the noise more carefully. No... no, that couldn't have been a bike! That wasn't the sound that wheels would make! A bike chain was more likely... no, not a bike chain! Blades. And if these were blades, then maybe...

Ice skates?

The creaking became more intensive all of the sudden, as if someone had speeded up. The noise was becoming louder and louder... and when it was right by Yakov's head, it stopped suddenly. The blades sprayed the fifty-year-old's face with little chips of ice when they stopped. Nothing was happening for some time. Feltsman started to think he only imagined all that, but then...

'Are you a tramp, Mister?'

Yakov opened his eyelids slowly... and in disappointment he figured out that pixies didn't look like he'd always been imagining them. The creature leaning over Feltsman didn't have green face, spiky ears or sharp teeth.

It had long, silver hair and large, blue eyes.

Reader, if you agree with Tatyana's words, leave a comment!

Reader, if you want to warm up Yakov's weary heart, click the heart button and leave kudos! <3

xXx

*minus thirty degrees – in Celcius. In Fahrenheit, it's about minus twenty degrees.

*Reksio (Rek as in wreck, sio as in show but with softer sh and without narrowing the o to the u sound... yeah, my explanations of how to pronounce words are rubbish) is a character from a Polish animated TV series for kids. He's a dog and the series is about the adventures he has. 

https://youtu.be/4bqK-RDOxVI

[Author's Note]

I'm sorry you had to wait for this chapter so long [TN: that applies to me as well, sorry]. First I went to a convention, and then I've gone on a holiday! Quite a large part of this chapter has been written by the Polish sea ;) And of course more conventions are coming, so I have my hands full of work at all times. Although I am sure next parts are going to be published regularly [TN: not so sure about that part on my side].

Why am I so certain about it?

Because... we're entering a REALLY interesting phase of the story. ;)

The appearance of the mysterious pixie will turn Yakov's world upside down.

You have time until the next chapter... to equip yourself with an oxygen tube. You're going to need it ^^

[Technical note]

Yakov, Pavlo and Igor love rummy. As I found out that several people know different variations of the game, I'll list the rules Feltsman and his frands play with: everyone has 14 cards (15 after taking a card from a pile), you need a sequence and 51 points in order to lay off, and if you want to take a card that had been discarded by the person sitting on your right, you have to meet the conditions for laying off and lay off immediately after taking the card. That's how my granpa taught me to play :D (and it's worth saying he used to play for money)

That's it. As a dessert, you get a picture of Tanya :3

As usually, I'm sorry for any mistakes.

See you next week! [TN: or later]

[Translator's Note]

'Two (and a half) weeks,' she said... 'I can do it that quickly, I don't have THAT much work,' she said... Well, you must've noticed I was lying. I'm so, so sorry! The only explanation I can give you is that it's a very difficult year for me and I had very much to do in past few weeks... But I will try to speed up a little!

I have a huge difficulty with the 'BB' words. Can I just turn Yakov's rage into a Beauty Blender? Or Beauty Balm? They can be dangerous, especially these ones called 'light' that come in the shade of Nutella... Please tell me what do you think of the one I've come up with.

Translating this chapter was SO MUCH fun. I've learnt how to play rummy (more or less), I found out the cards' names are much more complicated than I thought, and also I used three of my Most Favourite Words (earnest, shenanigans and pond) (don't ask me why do I have a list of Most Favourite Words).

I'm right off to translating the next chapter (spoilers: it's going to be amazing!) and crying over my poor exams' results! I really hope I'll manage to finish the next chapter faster (it's a bit shorter, if I remember well...), but this time... no promises I wouldn't be able to keep. Let me know of any mistakes!