Looking at the skating rink in Novovladimirsk, there would be four adjectives of which one would think first: big, homey, unkempt and lovely. The red-brick building raising above the trees looked to Feltsman like an old market. The idea was brought to him by such things as the huge, divided with steel bars semicircle windows. If not for the „Snowy Neverland" inscription and an image of a bear wearing hockey gear, it would be a hard thing to guess it was possible to ice skate in the venue.

Yakov crawled out of his car. It looks better than I thought, he concluded. Well, let's see what's inside.

After crossing the glass door (being the only modern architectural element), he found a view of a plump receptionist, sitting with her feet at the tabletop and shoving a sandwich into her mouth. When she spotted Yakov, she instantly put her pink stillettos back on the floor. Smoothing her stained blouse with one hand and swiping her long, blond hair back with the other, she looked at the newcomer flirtatiously.

'We don't know each other yet, I suppose?' she murmured in a sensual voice. 'Are you here to enroll your son in the training session, hottie?'

'I've got an appointment with the rink's owner,' Feltsman replied dismissively.

'With Ol' Pete?' The woman reached out to grab a calendar.

Yakov raised his eyebrows. 'I was sure the bloke's name was Roman Petrov?'

'That's true,' the receptionist giggled. 'But ev'ryone calls him Ol' Pete. Little wonder, he's turning seventy next month, after all. Well, on the other hand... Niki came up with that nikname at least forty years ago.'

'Niki?'

The blonde's thumb pointed a black and white portrait hanging on the wall. The photo showed an about thirty-year-old man with light hair tied into a short ponytail. The mysterious fellow was horsing around, sticking his tongue out of his mouth and riding his hockey stick. The picture seemed oddly familiar to Feltsman. Yakov was sure he'd seen the man before, but he couldn't remember where. He felt like it had happened not a while ago... and many years ago at the same time? No, that didn't make sense...

'Ol' Pete will be here in two hours,' the receptionist said. 'You can wait for him with me... or go to the second floor, to a milk bar. I wouldn't reccomend strogonov, but pierogies are quite fine.'

The fifty-year-old's legs made their way towards the stairs by themselves. A flirty Barbie doll or pierogies? Of course the answer's pierogies! Or, to be specific, tea. Since the last banquet's bet Yakov had a bit of a trauma connected to pierogies. He also made a note to keep away from alcohol for the next month! Uh... after yesterday's Instant Sobering Up he lost any appetite for vodka.

Tea, he decided. Hot tea and a bit of silence. That's all I need!

Unfortunately, in the milk bar above the stands he found neither. The only drinks on the menu were soda and that horrific American invention, Coca Cola! For God's sake... Feltsman couldn't imagine how kids from his club could drink that black pitch! The good, old, communistic soda was one thing... but Cola?! It would be better to pour a bottle of chemicals into one's throat – same thing!

As it turned out, not only the Champions' Club kids fancied the drink from across the sea. The local youngsters longed for bad teeth as well. While the bored vendor was busy solving a crossword puzzle, a few young hockey players were having a heated discussion.

'We should buy bottled Cola!' said the brat standing the closest to the counter. 'We can play bowling later.'

'Bowling's for babies, you dork!' his friend snorted. 'Let's get canned! Cans are great to practice shooting.'

'Yeah, it's fun to shoot at them,' another kid agreed. 'Or, we can use them instead of pucks.'

'Good one!'

'I'll have Cola Light,' said a chubby boy devouring crisps. 'Mummy said that it has very little caloryes!'

'What's calorions?'

'It's something that makes your belly grow.'

'Hey, but let's get at least one bottled Cola,' the first brat quarreled. 'The coach said that if we can play with a bottle cap, then it's easier to control a puck.'

'Yeah, but no one can hit the cap!' the kid number two mumbled.

'You-Know-Who can,' the fatso cut in.

'Voldemort?'

'No, you dork. Rapunzel.'

'Aaaah! Then say you mean Rapunzel, instead of using some effing code!'

'And you say Rapunzel can hit a bottle cap?'

'Yup, he can. But not with a stick, only with a skate.'

'Uhh... just don't tell him we're playing football today! He'll want to go with us, or something...'

'Yup, and if he asks when the coach is around, we can't say „no".'

'Exactly! Go and buy that Cola quicly, cause if the coach sees...'

'HEY, YOU THERE!'

The group of kids whined at the same time. The voice was so similar to his own, that for a moment Yakov expected to see a copy of himself. But no – after looking at the ice, Feltsman saw a tall man with a beard and short, silver hair. The bloke was about thirty years old and... WAIT A MINUTE! Wasn't that the father of that kid from yesterday?!

That's him, Yakov decided after a moment. He's got the same red scarf. What was his name? Ah, Sasha.

'Are you drinkin' Cola before the training session?!' the man rumbled, keeping his hands on his hips. 'And what d'you think, that I'll be doin' breaks every five minutes to let someone go to the toilet?! On the ice!'

Influenced by the narrow, blue eyes' threatening look, the boys shivered in fear. 'We were just having a look at the prices, coach!'

'We're coming!'

Felstman whistled quietly. The efficiency Sasha made his students come to his leg with caused him to feel both admiration and jealousy. He got them to do what he said in less than three seconds, which makes it a whole second faster than me. I didn't believe it was even possible.

Really... the pups were trained masterfully! The small fatso rushed downstairs so quickly he forgot to take the crisps with him! At the moment, he was sitting on a bench and putting his ice skates on together with several other ones.

When the runts started to jump on the ice one by one, Sasha leant on the bord with his forearm and started moving his mouth soundlessly. He must've been counting. And apparently something was wrong about the count, as after a while he flinched and started turning his head in every direction. Yakov did the same. He had a perfect idea who to look for. If it was a training session for eight, ten-year-old kids, then somewhere around should loither that little, deviant...

'Why are you so grim, love?'

Oh, here he is! Bingo!

The search for the characteristic, silver ponytail didn't last long. Little Viktor was sitting on the bench and keeping his leg high in an elegant way, letting his mother tie his laces. Feltsman snorted quietly.

Half of my students at his age are embarrassed of even SHOWING themselves around their parents, let alone let their mummy or daddy tie their laces, he thought. If I was eight years old and something like that happened, I would wear a corton box on my head for at least a MONTH!

But the fair-haired little devil apparently had no problem with that. Or he didn't hear his friends' catty chuckles, or decided to ignore them. He looked like a real, little prince, caring not even a bit for the whole world. Eh, several hundred years ago he probably really would've been mistaken for a prince – or another noble child. He only lacked a crown and appropriate clothes. His mother, Anastasia, could pass for a princess as well. While Sasha could be a stable boy at best...

Yakov walked towards the railing and leaned his forearms on the metal bar. He'd seen the pixie and his parent the day before, but only today, in the bright day's light, he had a chance to get a batter look at them.

Apart from his silver hair and skates on his feet, Viktor barely had anything in commor with his fatcher. Starting with the beautiful hands and finishing on his sweet face, elegant chin and pretty, upturned nose, the boy was a perfect copy of his mother.

The mother who apparently was the town's belle, as every man's gathered on the stadium look was fixed on her. Even Feltsman had to admit she was pretty – and he'd seen many comely ladies in his life! Maybe if he wasn't completely unmoved by the charms of the fairer sex, and his sexual appetite wasn't focused on only one individual, namely his ex-wife, he could – just as the little hockey players' daddies – drool at the sight of the thick, blond hair, perfect silhoette and long eyelashes of Anastasia.

Luckily, he stayed unmoved... as everything indicated that having a meek crush on Viktor's mother could cost a life. Sasha's eyes fixed on the stands expressed no more and no less than a will to murder all of his wife's suitors. Most lovehawks wisely evacuated from the building.

'What's up with that sad face?' Anastasia talked to her son again. 'Come on, tell your mummy! What's bothering you, darling?'

'Anya hit my cheek today!' Viktor complained.

'Oh, really? But why?'

The boy shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know. I only told her a compliment! When she kissed me, I told her she is a much better kisser that Ira, Katya and Sveta. Instead of being happy I complimented her, she hit my face. How could she? I only tried to be nice!'

The man standing in the audience and the woman kneeling in front of her child both snorted. The difference was that Yakov laughed in resignation, while Anastasia – in awe.

'Girls get jealous very easy, My Gold,' she said while lifting the other skate. The hands crowned with manicured nails tied the laces with an outstanding grace.

'When kissing someone, every girl wants to feel special,' the boy's mother continued. 'You shouldn't have admitted you'd kissed someone else. At least not just after you've kissed her. Anya most likely thought that kissing someone is a game for you.'

'It's not a game, it's training!' Viktor said in an earnest voice. 'Granny said that if I don't practice, that then, when I meet the love of my life, I'll make myself look like a bumpkin.'

'When you love someone, you don't care if they're bumpkinish.' Anastasia's eyes started to look all dreamy. 'Your dad didn't even know how to French kiss when we started going out. And he was pretty angry when I told him that I'd „trained" with many boys before him. People tend to react like that.'

'If everyone's going to be angry at me, then I won't kiss anyone else!' the boy muttered, cocking up his nose angrily.

'Oh?' The woman tilted her head. 'So you won't play Kisses with your mummy anymore?'

A beam of excitement appeared in the child's eyes. 'If I guess everything right, will I get the Kissy Whirl?'

'Of course!' Anastasia winked at her son.

'Great, let's play then!'

'Okaaay... so, how do the French kiss to say hello?'

Just as a beret-wearing Froggy would, Viktor kissed her mother three times – on one cheek, and on the other.

'Excellent! And how do the Eskimo kiss?'

The boy stroked her mother's nose with his several times.

'Perfect! And how does a seal kiss?

Mimicking the sea mammal, the silverhaired creature pressed its lips against Anastasia's several times with a loud, smacking sound.

'Bravo! A Kissyyy Whiiirl!

The woman brethed out against her son's neck, making a loud, farting sound. Viktor giggled in awe. His happy face was a contrast to the gloomy visage of Sasha, who was watching the whole situation.

'Tasya!'

Hearing the husband's angry murmur, the blonde beauty moved away from her son. The man wrang his hands.

'For God's sake!' he hissed.

Yakov had no problem imagining what the guy was thinking. It must've been something like: Bloody hell, I'm to hold a training session in a moment, and you're putting on your kissing show; on top of that, while our son's friends are looking!

Sasha had his front turned away from the rink, but he surely was aware of the dismissive looks focused on the silverhaired boy. Experienced coaches always could see such things. Even without looking. And the weariness hidden in the man's eyes indicated that he indeed was an experienced coach. Feltsman had no doubts for that – he could regularly see those eyes in his own mirror.

The two culprits walked towards the rink board. The father treated his child to a cold look, with his eyebrows risen up. 'Viktor, how old are you?'

'Why are you asking?' The young boy tilted his head. 'I thought you've conceived me.'

'Don't talk back, answer me!' Sasha snapped.

'Eight and a half.'

'And? You can't tie your own laces?'

'I can, but mum does it better.'

The man's lips narrowed into a thin line. Viktor wondered for a second, and then patted his father's back with a carefree smile. 'She can tie yours as well,' he said happily. 'She's your wife. If you ask her nicely, she'll say yes for sure.'

In Yakov's opinion, the man should get a special award – only for not throwing the annoying sprig out of the window. If he were in his boots, Feltsman would be at the edge of a mental breakdown.

'Don't be so hysterical, Sasha,' Anastasia said flirtatiously. 'You should play with us instead of complaining.'

'No way!'

'Eh, and what am I to do, Vitya? Outside of the bedroom, you father is sooo shy...'

'FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I am not shy!' Sasha's cheeks were red as a torreador's rag. 'I've told you not to say such things in public! Go to the stands and don't interrupt the training. And you, Viktor, get on the ice!'

'Okay, dad.'

'Not „dad", but „coach"! How many times do I have to repeat that?! At this rink I'm not your father, but your coach. Is that clear?!'

'Yes, coach.' The boy rolled his eyes.

'Wear a helmet.'

'But I don't like the helmet.'

'I don't give a damn! Put the helmet on!'

'I don't want it.'

'Cos when I take the scissors...'

'Okay, I'll just take a helmet!'

'Oh, Sasha, but these helmets' colour is so ugly! Is there really no chance of you getting something prettier?'

While the family had a lovely time quarreling, Yakov wondered how it would've been if he and Lilia had decided for such future. For literally a minute – one, short minute – he let his imagination wander in areas he'd usually keep shielded with an iron wall.

A family – how would it have been to actually have it? A real, consisting of parents and children, family.

Me and Lilia would've kept fighting, Yakov figured out, over bollocks. Just like that bloke with his wifey.

But it wouldn't have been bad fights, just those... well... sweet, meaningless fights. Meaning little, and meaning everything all at once. These would've been... brick-fights that would make a happy home. The first one could've been about Yakov dressing badly, the another about Lilia leaving the car with light on and discharging the car's battery.

We used to fight over that, Feltsman remembered. Why had we stopped?

Maybe it was because after all the misfortunes had gotten to them, they hadn't had the third member of their family who would've treaten their relationship with some healthy servings of chaos and balance? They hadn't had a little creature who would've work like glue putting them back into one. In fact... their last „nice" quarrel as a married couple was related to that exact thing – the said creature's gender. The skates and the ballet shoes.

Yakov shook his head.

He just intended to go to the bar and ask the vendor if he had any alternative besides the poor strogonov and the good (but overrated) pierogies, but then, he saw a couple of youngsters leaning on the railing. They were sixteen, maybe seventeen years old. Whispering something between the two of them, they were watching a black-haired girl sitting in the audience. And there would've been nothing odd to that, if not for the fact that one of them was carelessly sipping vodka from a flask!

Feltsman felt an educational instinct waking up in him. 'YOU LITTLE SHIT!' he yelled at the punk without a word of warning. 'What the hell are you thinking?! You thought that if you drink in a place like that, no one's going to catch you?! I'll figure out who your father is and you'll get your arse whupped!'

A cap owner stopped talking to his friend with a crew cut and smiled to Yakov. 'Oh my, like I'd been listening to coach Sasha!' He winked at the fifty-year-old. 'Ease up. It's just tea.'

'Tea, you're saying?' Feltsman had hard time believing his words. 'And that's why you're drinking it out of a flask?'

'Dmitri's always having it like that,' the culprit's friend said with a grin. 'He pretends it's vodka to impress the ladies.'

'Come on, have a sip.' Dmitri passed the flask to Yakov.

Keeping his suspicious look fixed on the amused teens, the old coach first smelled the bottle, and then took a sip. Feeling a lukewarm liquid on his tongue, he flinched. 'It's too sweet,' he mumbled, giving the beverage back to its owner. 'I'm still watching you, brat! I'll walk over to the liquor store later and ask for you there!'

The youngsters exchanged looks, and after that they burst in laughter.

'You've heard that, Borya? He repeated coach Sasha's saying in exact. Word for word!'

'Are you two related?' Borya asked Yakov.

'No, we're not.'

'Eh, just when I thought...'

'You've got the same malicious face expression as our coach!'

'It's not malice, it's concern!' Feltsman snapped without giving it a second thought.

He expected a dissmissive eye rolling, but much to his surprise, he saw two mild smiles.

'Yeah, we know.' Dmitri sighed, peering at the warming-up kids in the corner of his eye. 'Coach Sasha is really concerned about everyone.'

'We keep complaining about him, but we know well he's only shouting at us for our own good,' Borya added. 'He's an amazing coach. I'd trust him with my life.'

Yakov's eyes widened. „I'd trust him with my life"! he thought, looking away. What sort of line is that? Like taken straight out of a sci-fi film! Or that book about that four-eyed idiot fighting Lord Vol-whatever! On the other hand...

'It was bloody nice,' he said out loud. 'Saying something like that about your own coach...'

'I was totally honest,' Borya said without a hint of lie. 'I really think that.'

'And so do I.' Dmitri nodded his head with a serious face expression. 'Coach Sasha is an amazing teacher and a great man. Each of his students would tell you the same. Even the kids like him. They give him birthday cards every year. Each one of them!'

Well, well, Yakov sighed in his mind. I get those only from the girls. Deviant, smelling of perfumes birthday cards. The damn snorts got this habit from Tatyana...

'The kids' parents also think highly of Mister Sasha,' the boy with the crew cut continued, rubbing his chin with his thumb. 'They don't even mind him yelling at their children. They know he knows what he's doing.'

Eh, it all started to sound like some Coaching El Dorado! And there really wasn't any catch hidden there?

'It's probably because it's a small town,' Feltsman mumbled more to himself that to the youngsters. 'Only one rink in the area... and everyone know each other... people in such places don't tend to have high expectations.'

'You'd be surprised.' A mysterious smile appeared on Dmitri's face. 'It's NOT the only rink in the area. There's a one called Winter Manor not far from here. Mister Pankin has a figure skating school there. It's a pretty good competition for the Snowy Neverland. And besides...'

'You'd never imagine, but coach Sasha got an offer to coach the Na-tio-nal Junior Team!' Borya sung with pride filling his voice.

Whaaat?

Feltsman could've just as well be hit with a thunder. The old coach glanced to where Sasha was. The bearded man was placing cones on the ice.

'He looks thirty, at most,' Yakov uttered.

'He's twenty-eight, to be exact,' the cap owner informed him happily.

'And a kid like that was supposed to coach the National Team?!'

Well, not exactly national, 'cause it was the Juniors, but STILL! The Champions' Club owner devoted almost his whole life to competitive sport and he knew that such situations simply DIDN'T HAPPEN!

His eyes were jumping between the one boy and the other, trying to see a sign... a lie... a signal indicating something like „we're pulling your leg". But Yakov found nothing. What's more, he remembered a rumour he heard from his friends from the Olympic Committee a while ago – that the Russian Ice Hockey Federation actually decided for a quite bold move and wanted to have some young guy coaching the Junior Team. So there atually was a grain of truth to those rumours?

'Coach Sasha may be young, but he knows hockey better than anyone,' Dmitri explained in a soft voice. 'He's been skating since he was a child. And he's got a good hand with children. He's grown up on the rink, and at the time he was fourteen, he became the coach's assistant.'

He started earlier than I did, Yakov realised, swallowing a gulp in his throat. Novak got me to babysit novices when I was already eighteen.

'His students are often found by the Moscow's and Petersburg's clubs. At least once a season someone gets an offer of a scholarship. It's probably hard to believe that in a place like this it's possible to create future hockey stars... but that's the truth. And all of that is thanks to our coach!'

'And, of course, there's his genealogy as well,' Borya finished with a smile. 'It would be hard for coach Sasha to stay unnoticed, considering who his father was.'

'And who was his father?'

'Viktor Fyodorovich Nikiforov!'

A realisation hit Yakov with its double force. No! With its triple force.

'Viktor Nikiforov?' Feltsman repeated in a voice full of disbelief. 'That Viktor Nikiforov? The Russian ice hockey's legend?!'

'Ohoho, so you've heard about him?'

Of course... it was all so fucking obvious now!

A man riding a hockey stick and sticking his tongue out.

The legendary gramps of the little Viktor.

And, most importantly...

'Have I heard of him?' Yakov hissed, pressing his hand against his head. 'I have fucking met him in person!'

'OH HECK, REALLY?!' two brats asked at the same time.

'It wasn't a long meeting. We've just exchanged three, maybe four sentences. He told me he got hit with a puck and his balls hurt. And he asked me if I knew where was it possible to get some condoms.'

Oh, how lovely the roles were swapped! Now these two lads had faces like they were wondering if Yakov was actually trying to fool them.

'He didn't know where to get condoms?' Dmitri scratched his head. 'So where exactly that meeting of yours was?'

'In the Olympic Village.'

'WOOOW! Really?!'

The fifty-year-old nodded. These Olympics were memorable... oooh, so memorable! Yakov felt like a complete idiot now. How come he hadn't figure out who the man was at first!

So that's where the strange feeling of deja vu came from – related both to the „recent" and „very unrecent" events. Viktor Nikiforov Senior, nicknamed „Niki" by his team – women's admirer and a horrible deviant. And his so very cute grandchild, Viktor Nikiforov Junior, a.k.a. bare-ass and Snegurochka – difficult words' admirer and a little deviant! It was hard to forget either of them. After only one encounter, they stayed in one's mind for long. Very long.

It wouldn't be too over-the-top to say that Yakov remembered the Grenoble Games mostly due to Viktor Senior's feats. The glorious ones were the spectacular goals, nimble dodges and other battles on the rink, causing ecstasy in case of at least half of the Russian winter sports' lovers. While less glorious, and more funny (stupid and fucked up?) feats of Niki were things such as regular drainpipe climbing (in order to conquer or leave the chamber of a chosen one), hitting the ladies' bathroom window with a puck (in order to scare naked women and „flush them" out of the shower cabin, yet every single time Niki would claim that „he was only practicing"), taking Russian team members out for binges (one of them ended up in grilling sausages on the Olympic Flame), playing the final match with his pants on his head („It's not like I wore them, I simply forgot to take them off" – Niki explained after taking the helmet off) and finally, Nikiforov's trademark, which is riding the hockey stick after a won match.

Feltsman's eyes lingered over Sasha once again. It was hard to believe that earnest twenty-eight-year-old had anything to go with the playful Russian ice hockey's legend. On the other hand... it matched the rumours that were spread about Viktor Senior. It was said that Niki raised up two children by himself – a son and a daughter. Raised up, but, to be honest, a bit because he was forced to (when his lovers declared they didn't intend to fulfill their parental duties). And as he was a spark seeing no world beyond ice hockey, the said kids never could count on their father and had to learn to be independent at a very young age. The rumours say that the girl was a spinster and a proffeseur at the Petersburgian Sports Academy, and her younger brother ended up being a coach somewhere in the middle of nowhere. And he was a good coach – if one was to believe Dmitri and Boris.

But wait! If Sasha was still there, does it mean that...

'Your coach declined the offer to coach the Junior Team?' Yakov asked in disbelief. 'Why?'

'Hm... most likely for the same reason why he declined the offer to be a player in a few pretty good teams,' the boy with the crew cut said. 'When I asked him about it, he said he didn't want to force himself into the professional league. He doesn't like the competitive sports' world.'

Feltsman wondered about the meaning of these words. 'But he played for some time, right?' he remembered. 'One of my friends told me Alexander Nikiforov was in the Petersburg's team for quite a while.'

'He was, indeed. But he resigned.'

'An injury?'

'Rather an understanding of his own potential. Coach Sasha didn't have his father's gift. He was often saying about himself being quite „average".'

I can understand that, Yakov thought sadly. A classic example of a fern. Eh, I can relate...

'Mister Nikiforov is quite good at teaching others, but if he would have to teach something to himself, he'd have to give it a sweat,' Dmitri summed up with a sigh.

'Unlike the kid,' Borya snapped in a half-voice.

Feltsman raised his eyebrows. The kid?

'VIKTOR!' he heard a furious yell from the downstairs. 'Stop messin' around and start skatin' normally! We're skatin' forewards in this exercise, you get it?!'

'But forewards is so boring and easy...'

'Shut up and do what I say!'

The kids were doing a slalom between the cones. Most had a lot of difficulties with the exercise and slowed down when turning. But little Vitya not only skated at full speed, but also backwards. In that way, he earned himself four extra laps around the rink. When he was done with the punishment, he got scolded off by his dad for an untied lace.

'And that's why you shouldn't have your mother gettin' things done for you!' Sasha looked at his son's skate dismissively. 'She's tyin' them into those so pretty bows that fall apart in the middle of a trainin' session! Get yourself together at once!'

What happened next made Yakov's jaw almost drop to the floor. The silverhaired boy lifted his foot to his head's height – to his fucking head's height! – and started tying his lace in that exact position. Holy fuck, how stretched he is! Feltsman had to rub his eyes out of astonishment.

Sasha wasn't as happy about that.

'THE BENCH!' he yelled. 'Go on the bloody bench, sit on it and tie your laces then! You'll fall down if you skate on one leg.'

'I won't.' Vitya raised his chin proudly. 'I've never fallen down when skating on one leg.'

'But one day you will and you'll crack your head!'

'Wearing this awful helmet, I think there's no chance for that...'

'ENOUGH! You're gettin' another punishment...'

The youngsters standing next to Yakov were watching the exchange between the father and the son with a mixture of amusement and resignation.

'Oho?' Borya rested his chin on his hand. 'Coach Sasha is training Vitenka again.'

'Eh, doesn't he understand that the more he's trying to pull a string, the more that little one drags it?' Dmitri shook his head.

Feltsman raised his eyebrows. He glanced towards the little demon once again, the one who a day before sold him an Ultra Quick Course of Sobering-up. It was strange to watch the kid now. And not even because he had an image of a wally swinging in the moonlight (which, indeed, he had in his memory, unfortunately very fucking bright).

No. It was rather that Viktor seemed... somehow... different. Since he entered the ice, he seemed very defiant. But not in the same way as the day before. The day before, it was pure wildness! A total chaos, zero rules and the fifty-year-old square's helplessness for the unlimited childish joy! And now...

The silverhaired rascal was not the same child who came up with onanists and penisists. He wasn't even the child who several minutes before was having little moments of love with his mother. The best word to describe how Viktor looked right at the moment was that metaphorical „puppy" that Dmitri mentioned. A gloomy, frustrated pup, maybe still barking happily, but also showing his resentment gently by pulling the leash regularly.

And Yakov had no idea what to think of that. Because... well, Sasha's methods were ones that he approved of and that he understood. And Sasha himself seemed to be someone who Feltsman could very well relate with. They both were „average competitors, who became good coaches". They both were „ferns".

Although... in the way that Alexander Nikiforov treated his son, something seemed very inappropriate to the fifty-year-old man. Yakov didn't know yet what it was, but he simply had a premonition... he felt that there's a whole different side of the coin to the whole situation... and that it's got something to do with the smile on Viktor's face. The smile that seemed terribly artifical.

'Do you know that kid well?' Feltsman asked the teen students of Sasha again.

'We know the whole Nikiforov family well,' Borya said. 'As you pointed out before, it's a small town. Everyone knows everyone. And coach Sasha and his wife are quite recognisable. She's an actress and she often acts in children plays. Even though she's flirting with everyone around, everybody knows she's helplessly in love with her husband. And ignoring the fact that she's sometimes... hm... eccentric and too enthusiastic... she's a really good woman. And she's an amazing cook! Every once in a while the coach invites all the students over for a strogonov. He might not look like that, but he's really caring and understands a person when there's a need... it happened many times that someone didn't have money for the training sessions, and despite that coach Sasha let them practice. Eh, that's probably one of the reasons why the rink has financial problems. Mister Pankin from the Winter Manor likes to call our coach a „volunteer". He does it every time when he comes to Ol' Pete with an offer to buy the rink. It's an arsehole. He's been trying to oust us for years.'

'And the youngster?' Yakov kept asking. 'You know... Viktor Junior.'

'Yup, everyone knows him as well,' Dmitri laughed. 'He's quite troublesome for people. He's not a rascal, rather a little, cuddly bomb that explodes every once in a while. Personally, I like him... he's cute in his own way. Sometimes the Nikiforovs get me to babysit him.'

Aaah, of course! Feltsman remembered. It's him the pixie was talking about yesterday! „Dmitri told me old people wear nappies".

'On the other hand... he can really get under your skin,' the cap owner kept talking. 'He's a good boy overall, but he's got these moments when it's really hard to remind him of the order of things. Even coach Sasha has problems with handling some of his shenanigans... and you can see yourself our coach is a true children's general!'

'I get the idea the brat does what he's told only when he's threatened with cutting his hair?' Yakov asked mockingly. 'Is he a fanboy of the Middle Earth's elves or what? Or maybe he just likes being mistaken for a girl?'

'Actually... he's got a mild trauma connected to scissors,' Borya said. 'Vitya often goes to the theatre with his mum. Not only to watch the shows, but also to... well, you know, to spend some time behind the stage. I can say that Missus Anastasia's colleagues brought him up to the same extent as his parents and grandpa.'

'Well, okay, but what's up with the hair?' Feltsman asked unpatiently.

'It was around three years ago, on the Senior's birthday.'

'The Senior... you mean Niki?'

'Mhm. As you probably can suppose, a lot of vodka was spilled. After a few hours, almost everyone were hammered. At some point, Vitya went to Missus Albina and asked her to shorten his hair a bit. He complained it was getting into his eyes and it was uncomfortable.'

Yakov felt a shiver on his spine. The experienced coach had a feeling how the whole situation reached its end.

'Missus Albina didn't do that on purpose,' Borya said, 'she was simply drunk. Other adults didn't prevent her from doing that, 'cause they were drunk as well. On top of that, Senior was telling a funny anecdote at the time and no one paid much attention to what Viktor the little was doing. I was there together with Dmitri. I remember laughing with everyone else... and then, I heard a scream. Like out of a film. I almost got a heart attack.'

'She cut the boy's head. Like that.' Dmitri took his cap off and showed what he meant, draggigng his finger across the top of his blonde-haired head.

'Fuck,' Yakov uttered.

'Yep,' Boris agreed. 'There was a hell of blood. He had five stitches.'

'Holy shit...'

'Right? And the doctor did a huge mistake. When he was finished with the stitches, he joked Vitya had nothing to worry about, but he shouldn't be surprised if he started getting bald at a very young age. And then everything began!'

'When they were putting the stitches, the Junior didn't even whimper. He acted tough in front of his father. He didn't shed a single tear. But when he heard about getting bald, he simply shattered!'

'He became so hysterical, you won't even believe!'

'He was yawling at the top of his lungs. Half of Russia must've heard him...'

'No one could calm him down. Neither the father, nor mother, nor the doctor... no one! Only the Senior took care of that somehow. He put the grandchild on his knees and started telling him, „come on, Vitenka, don't be so sad, grandpa had stitches on his head and he still has all of his hair. You definitely won't get bald! You may have a little messed up personality, but it's not a bad thing".'

'He gave it to him straight!' Yakov smiled. 'So typical of Niki.'

'Maybe it was said straight, but it was effective,' Dmitri sighed. 'The kid calmed down at last. Eventually it turned out the panick was for nothing. The cut healed beautifully. As far as I know, he doesn't even have a scar there. And his hair's growing like weeds!'

'Maybe he hasn't got a scar... but the trauma is there,' Borya pointed out.

A hint of cold appeared in Feltsman's eyes. 'If so, then why is his father threatening him with cutting his hair?' the fifty-year-old asked, not able to hide the trace of criticism in his voice. 'Not that I'm not a supporter of harsh upbringing, and no one died of a few bruises on the butt... but scaring the kid with scissors after what he'd been through? Isn't that a bit too much?'

The cap owner rolled his eyes. 'Don't worry about that. Coach Sasha isn't serious about these threats. He'd never cut his son's hair.'

'And even if he really was to do so, Missus Anastasia wouldn't let him,' the crew-cut boy added. 'The Junior knows it well. You can say „scissors" are the „key word" for him. When he hears anything about cutting his hair, he knows coach Sasha begins to get very, very angry at him. That's why he usually does what he's told to.'

'Usually, but not always. There are moments when he hears the word „scissors", but he doesn't care. Once he cared so little that he's gone too far. And then we found out there was a thing he's scared of even more than of getting his hair cut.'

'What thing?' Yakov was sincerely curious.

'Taking his skates away.'

It was another time that day when the fifty-year-old was actually shocked. 'What?' he asked in disbelief.

'Coach Sasha used that punishment only once. It was enough to make the kid act like a lamb for a month.'

Feltsman looked at Viktor. It was hard to imagine the silverhaired pixie doing nothing weird in thirty days.

'And what did he do to deserve such punishment, if I may ask?'

Did he call his teacher an onanist? Did he take his pants off in public?

'He was wearing a braid.'

'Excuse me?'

'Well... he was wearing a braid,' Borya repeated carefully. 'He braided his hair for the practice.'

'And it's a bad thing because...?

The teens looked at Feltsman as if he'd been an alien. 'Err, I don't know, because it's very... erm... ladylike?' Dmitri said, rubbing the nape of his neck. 'You know, boys usually don't wear braids.'

'Boys usually don't wear their hair waist-lenght!' Feltsman mumbled. 'His hair is so long it's basically a miracle he doesn't trip on them. If he wasn't beating his teammates on the mugs with a beaded hairband, I can't see any reason to forbid him braiding his hair. It should be better that nothing gets into his eyes, right?'

'On the mugs?' Dmitri wondered.

'A beaded hairband? Borya tilted his head.

'Nevermind.' Yakov shook his head. 'So you say your coach doesn't like guys wearing ladylike hair?' Saying that, he instinctively used his fingers to comb his own – at that point already fucking long – hair. 'Niki was wearing a ponytail as well,' he pointed out in a cold voice.

'A ponytail, not a braid,' the boy with the cap said. 'And... no matter what hairstyle he wore, he remained a huge, muscular guy. And Vitya... well...'

'Many people mistake him for a girl,' Boris saild. 'Coach Sasha gets furious about that.'

'Every time Viktor the little came to the practice wearing a braid, the father was coming to him, making a scene and unbraiding his hair. At the next practoce, Vitya would appear wearing a braid again, and coach Sasha would unbraid it again. The next training session – the same thing. The one after that – once more. The kid was braiding his hair, the father was unbraiding it and so on, every day, every time... The little stubborn probably hoped the old man would finally let it go. But it went the other way. One day coach Sasha took Viktor's skates, put them in a locker, locked it altogether and hid the key. Uh... what a fuss it was! Do you remember, Borya?'

'Come on... only looking at that child's face made a man feel like crying. He looked like he had half of his family killed!'

'The face was nothing. But the scenes he began to make after that!'

'There was a lot of crying.'

'Right, there was...'

'And following the father everywhere, and begging, and whining. A complete package.'

'I'm impressed that coach Sasha handled that wailing for a whole week.'

'But it was worth it. When he finally gave the skates back to him, Viktor never braided his hair again and started acting much less naugh... erm, why are you looking at us like that?'

'No reason,' Yakov snorted, looking away. 'It's just that in only a few seconds I've completely changed the opinion about my father.'

'Erm... your father?'

'Exactly. When I was little and I showed my middle finger to a militiamen, my father punished me by taking my skates away for three days. I called him a monster without a heart then. BUT now I see he treated me very mildly. Apparently, some boys have their skates taken away only for walking around wearing a wrong hairstyle.'

Feltsman gave the teens a drawn look. The positive opinion he had about Alexander Nikiforov after the first few minutes of the conversation started to crumble. Maybe that man wasn't that much similar to him after all?

'To an otsider, treating a child like that may seem cruel,' Dmitri said in a soft voice, 'but coach Sasha does it for Victor's good. Other boys are already making fun of the Junior. They don't want to play with him... they're whispering behind his back... they call him names... wearing a braid would be just another reason to mock him.'

'And criticising that braid is just giving the kids a proof that all the mocking is justified,' Yakov murmured. 'Usually the only factor that can make a horde of minors stop acting like pricks, intentionally or not, is an adult's behaviour. It's hard to teach those brats acceptance if no one gives them a proper example.'

He wanted to add that instead of taking the skates away of his son, Sasha should rather teach his son how to beat other's faces. The eleven-year-old Yakov was wearing a braid as well, but no one uttered a word about that. I wonder why?

Uncomfortable silence fell between the fifty-year-old and the teens. Instead of trying to loosen up the atmosphere, Feltsman looked towards the ice. Nikiforov's students were having a mini-match. Viktor was with the puck.

'Pass!' some boy shouted.

His plea was ignored. Or rather – as Yakov realised after a moment – unheard.

The figure dashing through the ice with hair sticking out from under the helmet seemed to be in its own world. It looked a bit like a scene out of a computer game that someone has silenced. With his eyes fixed on the goal, Viktor was nicely skipping the roadblocks. Roadblocks, as in teammates. Both from his own and from the opponent's team. It didn't seem much a difference to him, who or what he should skip.

„Just don't think about it too much, just score the goal as fast as you can and be over with that," was what the nimble pixie's face expression said.

'Here!' the fatso that Yakov remembered from earlier shouted.

'Free here!'

'Pass the puck, I'm next to the goal!'

'VIKTOR, PASS THE PUCK!' Sasha roared.

No effects. Viktor stayed in his joyous trance. With a dreamy face he jumped over a stick one of his teammates put at his feet and skated on. If there were additional points in hockey for the style, he'd get awarded generously!

Eh, the thing was, it wasn't a „dance" hockey, but just simple ice hockey. Feltsman wasn't a great specialist in all the sticks and pucks, but he'd seen several matches in his life and had an idea how it was supposed to look like – not like that.

The legendar Niki not only was a brilliant skater. He could cooperate as well. He scored goals for the team, because he had a full image of the rink in his head and at every part of the game he could tell where his teammates were. The puck was shot like a bullet, between one player and another, and it was stopped only by the goal.

Viktor Junior had no idea about cooperation. He could only skate well. Skate very well. Bloody well. Fucking well. At least ten times better than his teammates, and thanks to that he shot the puck towards the goal and scored with no effort.

A few kids on the bench clapped, but without any enthusiasm. There was no enthusiasm on Sasha's face either.

'Eh, and the coach's got the dillema again,' Dmitri broke the silence. 'He wants to whip the kid's skin for not passing the puck, but he shouldn't, 'cause the team scored a goal.'

'Poor Vitya.' Borya was looking at the boy with compassion. 'When he's got the puck, he gets to the goal with no effort, but when he hasn't, he's skating in circles and doesn't know what is he supposed to do. If he looked more closely, he would notice he doesn't need the puck to win at all.'

'If someone here needs to look more closely, it's his father,' Yakov blurted out. 'Meybe he'd notice that his son needs neither the puck, nor the stick.'

When the teens' heads turned towards him, Feltsman figured out that he didn't feel like engaging into a quarrel. After all, he was still bloody tired.

'I'm sorry,' he mumbled. 'I didn't want to criticise your coach. That's none of my business why is he forcing his son to play ice hockey.'

He used the word „forcing" for a reason. He'd been watching the unfortunate practise for long enough time to get an idea that little Viktor wasn't participating in it of his own will. The kid's face was a proof enough.

'No, that's fine!' Dmitri raised his hand in a soothing gesture. 'You're not the only one who thinks that.'

Yakov slowly turned towards the boy. 'And what does your coach think?'

'That hockey is a good thing for Viktor. The boy feels amazing on the ice. It would be a pity to waste that.'

'There are other sports in which you need ice to practice,' the fifty-year-old pointed out carefully.

'If you want to say „figure skating",' Borya swallowed a lump in his throat and looked around, 'then first, you should ensure you're in a soundproofed room. And that coach Sasha's not anywhere around.'

The figure skater raised his eyebrows.

Well, well! The yesterday's „that boy will probably never wear figure skates" got a whole new meaning to itself. The riddle's solution was very close.

'So Mister Nikiforov doesn't like figure skaters,' Yakov said, tilting his head. 'Does he have any legitimate reason to that, or is that a situation from the „I don't like vegetables" or „I don't like blue" genre?'

Asking that question, he had some premonitions. The experience taught him something about what were the categories where blokes who criticised children for wearing braids belonged.

'Well... I'd say it's both.' Borya scratched his ear. 'The coach prefers team sports overall. And he considers figure skating a very ladylike thing...'

Bingo! Yakov thought.

'... but he's biased against „skaters in tights" mostly because of his university colleague. That arsehole we told you about. Mister Daniel Pankin.'

'The man who's trying to oust you?'

The boy nodded.

'And does the guy skate as a proffessional, or is that only an amateur?' Feltsman kept asking. 'I don't recognise anyone with that name.

'Hm... I think he's an amateur, but I think he took part in some of the local competitions?' Dmitri wondered outloud. 'I'm not sure. Anyway, he was studying on the same year as coach Sasha. And now he's got that skating school of his in a town next to this one. He's built a huge skating rink, with windows all shiny and shit. He's built a cool gym and a ballet room. No one has any idea where he got money for all that.'

Hm... speaking of that, wasn't that Pankin's rink at the Igor's checklist? Yakov made a note to himself to had a better look at the mysterious rival of Sasha.

'And speaking of figure skaters, the Senior didn't think highly of them either,' Borya said after a while.

'Really?' Feltsman was surprised. 'When I talked to him, I had the opposite impression. He seemed to be a great fan of figure skating.'

'Umm... but would you tell me... at which Olympics have you met? In Grenoble or in Sapporo?'

'Grenoble.'

Well, technically they've met at both, but they've talked to each other only the first time.

'Aaah... then everything's clear.' Dmitri nodded with a sigh. 'After all, it was then when he met HER.'

'Her?'

'Coach Sasha's mother. A friend from the Russian team. A figure skater. They say he was a huge fan of her... or rather a fan of „her absolutely perfect and symmetrical bottom", if I may cite him. I don't know if that was only a boast or a real story, but supposedly they had a one-night thing in Grenoble and they got themselves a child. And when the girl figured out she didn't want to get her career ruined by some kid, she dropped him off at Senior's place. So... well... thanks to that woman, the Senior stopped liking figure skaters.'

'And the son joined him?'

'And the son joined him,' Dmitri confirmed. 'Plus the incident from Sapporo.'

Yakov scratched his head. What significant could've happent in Sapporo? Wait... was it...

'They say some Asian men's skater caused a scandal by sleeping with one of the judges. One of the male judges. When the thing leaked out, they've stripped him of his bronze medal.'

Remembering the scandal, Feltsman shivered. Yup, he remembered now. He remembered the Chinese, or maybe Korean wiseass, who decided to raise his artistic score by giving one of the judges a blow job. Unfortunately, during the incident they were seen by a cleaning lady. Even more unfortunately, she said what she'd seen only AFTER the Games. The ISU was backed into a corner and in a world of trouble – if the thing leaked out further, the whole competition could've been cancelled. Eventually they've managed to cover the whole case up – the judge got a sack, and the official reason for stripping the culprit of his medal were drugs. The honour was saved, the problem was solved. Miraculously they've somehow managed to do that without causing an international scandal.

But the people from the Olympic Village could've heard something on the grapevine.

'Due to that incident, our coach formed an opinion that figure skaters like to climb up the ladder using the bed's headboards.' Dmitri smiled apologetically.

Yakov shrugged. 'It's not an opinion, it's a fact,' he said dismissively. 'But I ensure you, boy, that hockey players, speed skaters, skiiers and ski jumpers like to climb that ladded just as often and as enthusiastically. Every sport has its black sheep. Or rather... „horny sheep", as my friends would call them. The Asian guy wasn't special because he was a figure skater. He was special because he was caught.'

'Eh, you're probably right...'

Of course I fucking am!

'Anyway, your coach is a true record holder,' Feltsman pointed out in a bitey voice. 'I've never seen a man who had...' he did a quick count, '... at least five reasons to dislike figure skates.'

A ladylike sport, the university rival, the skating school being a competition, a subconscious grudge against his mother, the stereotype of a gay blow jobber dancing on the ice.

For a moment I felt fucking embarrased how much I love this sport! Yakov snorted in his mind.

'Coach Sasha dislikes figure skaters so much that Senior had to hide from him the fact that...' Borya started, but he bit his tongue.

Feltsman's curiosity raised at instant. 'He had to hide from him the fact that... what?'

'Erm... nevermind! Let's just forget about that!'

The boy was rubbing his hands against each other energetically. Ah! Yakov recognized the gesture with ease – it was the one that was very characteristical to talkative ladies who'd piss themselves out of happiness if they only could repeat the secret they've heard, but they're too afraid that someone blames them of spreading rumours! The fifty-year-old coach knew perfectly which buttons to push.

'If you don't want to, don't tell me,' he said, pretending to be uninterested. 'But to be honest, I've got no idea what you're worried about. Niki is dead, so he won't be mad that you revealed his secret. And it's not like I'm going to be a close friend of your coach.'

The gossip boy bursted. 'Okay, I'll tell you!'

'Pfft, you were restraining yourself for so long!' Dmitri made a comment with an amusement.

'Piss off. You've already told that four people, so you have no right to rag on me. And that man isn't even from here. On the other hand, just in case...' Boria leaned over Yakov's ear and asked in an excited whisper: 'You can't tell that anyone, okay? And if you happen to spill the beans, it's not me who told you, fine?'

'And why would it be you who'd have told me?' Yakov snorted. 'I don't even know you.'

Hearing these words, the kid got even more excited. 'Well! And that's more like it! You get my drift!'

Of course I fucking get your drift! Feltsman thought mockingly. You know who are you trying to teach secrecy? Man, I have mafia connections!

„But no, I'm serious, don't spread it around,' Dmitri whispered. 'If coach Sasha found out, Vitya would have some real trouble.'

'What trouble could he possibly have if he's dead?'

'Not THAT Vitya.'

Yakov glanced towards the silverhaired boy sitting on the bench. While other kids were cheering on their playing friends, young Nikiforov was resting his chin on his hands and apparently fighting with himself to avoid falling asleep. He squeezed his eyes closed and yawned.'

'You mean that little devil?' Yakov asked. 'And what has he got to do with all that?'

'Everything,' Dmitri said.

'You know...' Borya whispered, 'Niki thought the world of his grandchild. He didn't have time to raise his son, because of the hockey and all that... but he gave his every free second to little Viktor. He could afford that, 'cause he was retired and he didn't have anything better to do. And he was living with his son and his daughter-in-law. And because both coach Sasha and Missus Anastasia worked full time, they always were happy to get some help. Viktor the little didn't complain either... he loved his grandpa with his whole heart. He even called him his „guru" quite often. They were very close. And that shouldn't surprise anyone, 'cause... hehe!'

Feltsman gave the boy a questioning look. 'What?'

'Aaah, right. You don't know, of course. What do you think, why the boy was named after his grandpa?'

'Because his father wanted him to follow the Senior's steps?' Yakov guessed. 'To be a legendary athlete, just like his grandfather?'

'Definitely not!' The boy with the crew-cut shook his head. 'We've already told you that coach Sasha doesn't like the world of competitive sports. He surely wouldn't want his son to follow his grandpa's lead. No, the reason why those two share the same name is far more pragmatic. The Senior was the first person to hold Viktor Junior in his arms.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean what I say. The Senior delivered the baby.'

The fifty-year-old opened his mouth in surprise.

'You're face now is priceless,' Dmitri laughed.

'When they were taking Missus Anastasia to the hospital, the car broke in the middle of a forest,' said Borya, grinning. 'Imagine that... the middle of a forest, complete darkness, no living soul within ten miles, no phones, no contact with the whole world and a woman giving birth. Coach Sasha passed out... BUT DON'T YOU TELL HIM I'VE TOLD YOU THAT 'CAUSE HE'S GOING TO FUCKING KILL ME!'

Yakov didtn't intend to tell that story to anyone. Least likely to Alexander Nikiforov.

'Coach Sasha passed out, and the Senior rolled his sleeves up and did what needed to be done. He knew ladies quite well, after all...'

'Oh, he did...' Dmitri confirmed with an awe pictured on his face. 'He'd have passed a gyneacology exam even without proper studies!'

'He delivered the kid neatly and he even took care of the birth cord! The nurses at the hospital praised him later! They say they'd been gloating over him for at least fifteen minutes.'

'But they stopped after he asked if instead of a Midwife Certificate he could get a blow job? Poor fella...'

'Missus Anastasia kissed his blackeye later and said that her son will be named after him. Coach Sasha was still unconscious then, so all of that happened without him being present. But the funniest thing happened at the Christening, when...'

'Let's leave the Christening,' Feltsman interrupted the boy's sentence. 'What was Niki trying to hide from his son?'

'The thing he did before he passed away.'

'And what was that?'

Borya looked around once again to ensure no one was around. 'You said little Vitya needs neither the puck, nor the stick,' he said to the fifty-year-old in a conspirational whisper.

'I've got such impression,' Yakov confirmed slowly.

'So... the Senior had the same conclusion. He knew the little one better than his parents and he easily discovered what Mister Sasha and Missus Anastasia couldn't see.'

'The kid was watching figure skating in secret,' Dmitri explained quietly, 'and when he was in France at his grandma's, he went to an ice show, reportedly.'

'The Senior wasn't very happy about the fact, but the love for his grandchild was stronger than his bias. I'm telling you, he'd give a world to that child!'

'He was always on his side! Always! No matter what happened.'

'At first he was trying to suggest coach Sasha to take the little one to some skating lessons... but he only managed to have a fight with his son.'

'Coach Sasha said that Viktor didn't like such things, and even if he did, he wouldn't have been suitable.'

'The Senior couldn't spill a word about the ice show in France or the allnighters in front of the TV, 'cause he promised his grandson to keep his mouth shut. Eventually he tried to talk to his friends from the Olympic Committee. He asked them to ignite their contacts and inform the right people there was a kid in Novovladimirsk who is a great skater. Unfortunately, not long after that, the Senior died.'

'But the whole ball was already rolling. Around three months after the Senior's death, two men appeared here. A short one with a moustache and a yellow tie...'

Kozlovski from the Lenin! Yakov realised with a shock.

'... and a one with glasses and a huge briefcase.'

Smirnov. Vronkov's sidekick. Well, well... two greatest clubs in Russia! Niki really did a great job.

'And what did your coach say when he saw them?'

'Nothing, 'cause he wasn't here. Ol' Pete, whom the standing right here Dmitri has told everything,' Ditri snorted quietly at being mentioned, 'asked Mister Sasha to take a Zamboni for servicing. That's how he got time for us for the whole day. In fact, that was the original plan of the Senior. He wanted to present it as a fait accompli to his son. He thought that if Viktor was offered a scholarship or something like that, coach Sasha wouldn't dare to turn it down.'

'He'd always say that in that case... and only in that case his son would let the little one figure skate. So, we all gathered up and realised his... erm... master plan.'

'But something went wrong,' Yakov said.

'Erm... how do you know?' Borya asked in surprise.

'The kid is still here, right? So I guess something went wrong. What went wrong?'

'They didn't like him.'

The fifty-year-old didn't answer, instead just waiting patiently for the follow-up.

'The men in suits didn't like Vitya very much,' Dmitri explained with a sigh. 'He didn't even know they were here, in fact... and that's a good thing, I think, 'cause if he had known and heard he didn't make a good impression, he'd probably have cracked. You know... when it comes to skating, the little one wants to be the best at everything.'

'And did the two importants tell you something more?' Feltsman asked. 'Or did they just say „that's not what we're looking for" and simply leave?'

'No, they expained it in detail.' Borya started to count on his fingers. 'That he's too tall, which is apparently important when it comes to jumping... that he hasn't got enough grace... that he'd never skated, so they'd have to teach him everything from scratch... that both father and granfather had a pile of injuries, and the kid's got their genes... that...'

'And the grandmother?' Yakov interrupted.

'Erm... grandma? Luba Rozdestvenska?'

'No, his father's mother,' the fifty-year-old said in an unpatient voice. 'You said Niki hooked up with a figure skater. So I'm asking, what about her. Did she have many injuries?'

'Unfortunately, we don't know anything about her. The Senior never wanted to talk about her. As far as I know, he didn't even reveal her name to his son.'

Well, the choice was quite limited. All they needed was to check the list of skaters who participated in the Grenoble Games. Eh, what a pity Yakov didn't remember the names of his friends from the team. He'll have to call Tatyana later. She took part in some of Niki's secret binges, so she should know something.

'Nevermind. I've interrupted you... you were saying, there was another thing?'

Dmitri nodded. 'The one with a moustache listed two more reasons. And these were the ones that determined the case. The first one was the fact that he was disobedient and undisciplined.'

'Yeaaah... I can agree that in his case it's something what strikes one's eye,' Yakov mumbled. 'And the other one?'

'Lack of talent.'

After the statement, both teens burst in laughter. They seemed bloody amused.

'And on what grounds Kozlo... the one with a moustache came to such conclusion?' Feltsman asked.

He was getting more intrigued with every moment. As far as he could agree with another accusations more or less, then he had a COMPLETELY different opinion on his talent. A blind man could tell the kid skated amazingly.

On the other hand... only the ability to move effortlessly on the ice wasn't always enough. If it was, every speed skater or hockey player would be able to move to figure skating with no problems. But unfortunately... the case wasn't that simple.

'He got an assistant to get on the ice and show some moves to the kid,' Dmitri said. 'Some choreographic elements, or however he called them...'

'With or without music?'

'Without. Viktor didn't really feel like repeating all of these, 'cause he was in the middle of trying to jump over the cones... but the assistant kept on pushing and pushing, said it was an order of the rink's owner, an order of the coach and so on... eh, we should've warned him of saying such things. Tell him to bribe the kid with a lollipop, or something like that. But, well... he finally agreed to repeat the moves.'

'He didn't remember the first half, and he did errors in the second,' Borya chuckled. 'Ah, and after that he asked the man what colour the hair over his dick was. You know, that bloke had highlights on his hair and Vitya was confused.'

Yakov snorted loudly. 'Of course, he'd fucking have die if he hadn't asked that!' Feltsman said, looking at Viktor cutting through the ice with a corner of his eye. 'That's probably why he couldn't repeat all these moves. He must've been thinking about that all the time.'

Dmitri and Borya's eyes almost popped out of the sockets. 'HOW DO YOU KNOW?' the guy with the cap uttered.

'That's exactly what he said after we asked him why he didn't remember the moves!' the one with the crew cut added. 'Are you a medium, or what?'

Yakov wasn't a medium. Actually, he was just as surprised as his conversation partners. His statement was supposed to be a mean joke... he wouldn't have thought it would be proven to be the TRUTH.

He couldn't focus because he couldn't stop thinking about some man's PUBES?! It's impossible, isn't it?

After remembering all what happened the night before, Feltsman realised it was actually very possible! Pfft, of course! That little deviant creature had a very serious ability to do that – if he was trying to take some stranger's trousers off and when the very same stranger was watching him, he took his own pants off, then why wouldn't he get curious about the contents of some bleached guy's pants?

'The guy probably fleed like he'd been running for his life,' Yakov mumbled.

'Yup, he joined the one with a moustache at once,' Borya cackled. 'He didn't tell him about the encounter's details, he just kept wiping his forehead with a handkerchief nervously. We were having a really good time thanks to him.'

'We were having a good time, but also... we were sad,' Dmitri added after a moment. 'You know, because of Viktor. The kid lost his last chance to show what he's capable of. On the other hand... maybe it's better like that? In Moscow or in Petersburg he'd have to train really hard. And if he really is prone to injuries, he could end up like his grandpa... you know, the Senior had some serious issues with his knees. During the last year of his life, he was barely able to walk. I'm not sure if that was the exact cause, I don't know anything about medicine, but lack of activity had a bad impact on his heart... the doctor explained later that a professional athlete's heart beats a little different compared to a regular one.'

That's true, Yakov agreed in his mind. If I did my cardiography at anyone else's than my dear doctor, I'd probably get forced into an ambulance and taken to a hospital instantly.

'The Senior had a heart attack,' the cap owned said in a sad voice. 'And he was only in his sixties. It happened so suddenly. Especially coach Sasha had a hard time after that. He could've complained about his father, but he really loved him. Viktor, obviously, also did. Even Missus Anastasia couldn't gather up after losing her father-in-law.'

So familiar... eh, it all sounded do familiar! Feltsman was in much pain as well after the death of his wife's parents. He missed them just as much as he missed his own. Especially the father-in-law.

The man's hand started to play with the signet ring on instinct. The pain was still very much present.

'And coming back to the kid...' Yakov decided to bring the conversation back to a less sad topic, 'the men in suits said he has no talent. But you don't agree with them?'

The teens didn't answer straightaway. They glanced at Viktor – their faces indicating they were looking for something that would make the answer easier. Dmitri took a sip from his flask.

'You know... it's not that easy when it comes to Vitenka's talent,' he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the boy. 'Suppose you're an art teacher. You have a group of students draw a picture of a person, using only geometrical figures.'

'A textbook lesson of good proportions, right?' Yakov murmured.

'Exactly. So... you show how to do everything on the blackboard, you explain everything, clarify how to do this and that, and then all the students do their drawings. No one has any problems with the task. Except for just one guy, who does it without any care and completely fucks up any proportions. What do you think then?'

'He doesn't have a talent for drawing.'

'Mhm... it's just a natural conclusion. BUT then you leave the classroom and there's an interesting situation. The same bloke's sitting in a park and is drawing a portrait of some person. Perfect proportions, beautiful style, great colours, excellent mapping of the real picture... in other words, a guy who you've called a no-talent only an hour ago, is now casually drawing a piece of art that could be shown in the Louvre, and you're watching.'

'That's impossible.'

'Wrong. It IS possible.'

Dmitri's thumb pointed towards young Nikiforov. Yakov furrowed.

'I think I don't understand.'

'Most kids are trying to do every exercise as well as they can,' Borya said with his ear rested on his hand. 'Kids can be obedient or disobedient, good or naughty, but when they decide to follow a coach's orders, they usually give their best. It DOESN'T work like that in Viktor's case.'

'Vitenka is the type who can do absolutely everything,' Dmitri highlighted, 'given that he wants to do that.'

Yakov gave himself a moment to digest these words. 'I see,' he mumbled.

'No, you don't see,' the boy with a cap sighed. 'Look into my eyes. When I said everything, I meant Everything. Everything with a capital „E". You get it? You can come up with the most difficult task in the world that no eight-year-old child can do. But Viktor will do that.'

'Given that he wants to?'

'Given that he wants to.'

'And that's where the hurdles start,' Boris sung.

'Exactly,' Dmitri sighed even louder. 'You see... outsiders who don't know Viktor have great problems with telling what that boy is actually capable of doing. His results in various exercises are bloody tricky... Basing on them, many people assume that the kid can't do anything. While in reality, almost at all times, Viktor's problem isn't lack of ability, but lack of motivation. That kid has been skating since he's learnt how to walk. Most exercises that his peers struggle with, he does with his hands tied behind his back. But having those loads of talent has its own price... the boy loses his interest quickly and hates exercises that are too easy.'

'If he has it in for something, then with or without help, sooner or later, he will learn how to do that. But if he thinks something is stupid and uninteresting and boring, he'll dig the heels in and no force will make him do that. Trying to get him to do it anyway usually makes it worse. I mean... sure, when his fathers roars at him, then he'll finally move his butt, but he won't put much effort into it. And if he can weasel his way out, he will.'

Just like someone else who I know, Yakov realised.

It was funny how that child's characteristics resembled the ones of Tatyana from some years ago.

'Coach Sasha says his son is lazy,' Dmitri said with a deep-thinking face, rubbing his chin. 'And actually, during the practice sessions the little one seems to be lazy... but if you think more deeply into that, which lazy boy spends the whole winter on a frozen pond, skating until someone drags him back home by his ear?'

A whistle tune went off at the rink. Watching little hockey players standing abreast, Feltsman thought that the conclusion he reached earlier was proven – that coin really had two sides.

'So as you can see, the situation isn't that simple.' Borya stopped leaning on the railing. 'That was a nice chat, but we've got to go. We're starting our practice in a moment.'

'Yup.' The boy in a cap stretched. 'We have to get mentally prepared. The coach threatened he'll do a circuit.'

'If we don't get changed quicly, we're getting five laps for sure.'

'Teen. FifTEEN laps.'

'Uh... I'm getting tired from just thinking about that. Goodbye then!'

Yakov looked at the shavers politely. They were by the stairs when they suddenly turned around and looked at the fifty-year-old again.

'Actually... we forgot to ask... you were in the Olympic Village, right? You're muscular. Did you play hockey too?'

'No, I was a figure skater. Or, as your coach would say, the lowert form of an athlete.'

Earlier it was them who had a chance to watch his „priceless face expression". He had to give it back to them, didn't he? Ah, those eyes rolled back in their heads and mouths agape...

'Better get to the locker room,' Feltsman suggested mockingly. 'If it was up to me, you'd get fifteen laps for every minute being late.'

The speed they fled in made his day a hell happier. He wondered if they'd tell their coach who they've met?

Yakov glanced at a clock hanging over the bar. The ice rink's owner probably wasn't back yet? Having no much better things to do, the fifty-year-old coach desided to check out what the silverhaired little devil and his father were doing.

The ice was almost empty. The kids crammed at the bench were taking their hockey skates off, chirping about some meaningless bullshit. Some of them were joined by their parents holding their backpacks. Viktor was picking up the cones standing around the goals (as punishment, probably?), and Sasha was standing by the board and quarreling with his wife. Feltsman opened up his ears.

'... and don't play that stupid kissin' game with him! How many times have I told you that! You don't have a daughter, but a son!'

'You're overreacting.' Anastasia shrugged. 'A bit of affection never hurt anyone.'

'It's not 'bout bein' affectionate, but 'bout encouragin' him to do weird things.' The boy's father pressed his fingers against his forehead with an annoyed face. 'He's already different. His friends call him a weirdo and they're right! For hell's sake! I've told you not to let him meet your mother...' he uttered the last sentence through clenched teeth.

Pretending to be very appalled, the woman dusted a blond lock off her shoulder. 'Don't blame everything that's wrong in the world on my mummy,' she sung in a melodramatic voice. 'I know you don't like each other, but you're still family.'

'I'm not blamin' all that's wrong on her. But it's a fact that after ev'ry time he visits Paris, Viktor is gettin' more and more wild.'

'It's not my mummy's fault! Maybe she is a bit... eccentric, but it's not her who Viktor has learnt all the weird things from. Your dad...'

Seeing her husbands' eyes widen, the woman dropped the sentence. For a fraction of second, sadness appeared in Alexander Nikiforov's sad eyes. But the man quickly hid it behind another frown. Anastasia placed her hand on the partner's shoulder.

'I'm sorry, love... I didn't think properly when I said that.'

He slowly let the air out and shook his head. 'What time will you be back home?' he asked in a tired voice. 'Viktor's comin' back with you, right?'

'No, he's going to school. He's got dance classes.'

Sasha's murmur was full of loathe and disapproval. It sounded like he'd been trying to stop vomit. 'He hasn't quit that yet? Great! Another ladies' thing...'

'Don't forget what you've promised him, love,' Anastasia sung, wagging her pointing finger. 'You've told him you'll agree for every pastime you won't have to pay for. The PE teacher gives dance lessons for free. I'm happy Viktor's taking those classes. At least I'll have someone to dance with at wedding parties. It's not like I can count on my husband in that matter... And besides that, it's a great, all-round activity. Vitya will get some muscles thanks to it.'

'He'll get muscles, but not friends,' Sasha mumbled. 'Only girls go to these classes. Viktor is the only boy there. But what fuckin' difference it makes if ev'ryone take him for a girl no matter what! All thanks to that bloody hair... it's drivin' me crazy! Let's just give him some sedatives and drag him to hairdresser's!'

'Speak for yourself. I love his pretty hair.'

'Thanks to that pretty hair his teacher chose him to play a girl in the school play! He's goin' to play Snegurochka... can you imagine that?! And if it wasn't enough, he's got to kiss A BOY!'

Anastasia giggled. 'You know, Sasha... in that matter, you have nothing to worry about.' She winked at her husband. 'Vitya kissed at least twelve girls by now. It's about ten more than you have kissed in your whole life.'

'T-t-that's true, but...' Sasha uttered with a beetroot flush on his cheeks, 'but it's not 'bout that!'

'Oh, my dear, I'm jealous! When I kiss other men in the theatre, you're not even half as angry as you're now.'

'It's your job. I'm not angry 'cause I know you don't feel anything when doin' that. But Viktor does. I perfectly remember his face when he told us he has to kiss a boy. He was excited.'

'With the play,' Anastasia pointed out, 'not with the fact of kissing his friend. It's the first time he's acting in a school play. It's just natural he's feeling happy.'

She grabbed her husband by both cheeks and looked straight into his angry, blue eyes. 'Don't be so harsh on him, darling,' she asked in a tender, affectionate voice. 'Since your dad has died, you're too strict for both him and yourself. I know it's hard, but... you've got to let go a little. Our son is only eight years old. We've got loads of time to unlearn him all these weird things. I know what you're most afraid of, but remember you don't raise him on your own... you've got me. We're both on the same wagon and that's why we'll manage to reach our destination. Everything is going to be all right. Not all problems need to be solved with rigour. Try to give Viktor a little more freedom. I'm sure he will appreciate that. Okay?'

Sasha took her wife's hands off his cheeks very slowly. But instead of letting go of her slim fingers, he put them on the board and squeezed them hard. The tough man's thumb stroke his partner's wedding ring.

'Okay.' Alexander Nikiforov sounded like a beaten soldier. 'Okay, I'll do my best.'

Anastasia's face shined. 'I'm happy with that!'

She gave her significant other a quick and affectionate kiss. They've barely broken the contact, when a joyous chirrup went off behind Sasha's back. 'Daddy, daddy! Look what I can do!'

Yakov, who was watching the situation from up above, welcomed Viktor's scream with great relief. The tenderness between the husband and wife made him remember things he didn't want to think about at the moment at all. At least not so shortly after the divorce.

The young Nikiforov got rid of his helmet a long time ago. With his silver ponytail waving around, he tried to mimic a sit spin that he watched Feltsman doing the day before. It was a bit mishandled... but it still was a sit spin! The fifty-year-old coach couldn't stop the feeling of awe. He also started to wonder if anyone... ever taught that child how to do spins. If not, it would mean he'd learnt the element completely on his own! With absolutely no knowledge of the theory!

The thought was unprobable, but exciting.

'And what? And what?' Viktor chirruped to his parents.

Anastasia clapped enthusiastically. 'Bravo!' she exclaimed, hopping like a five-year-old. 'That was amazing, love!'

Sasha remained unimpressed. 'It's great you can spin in circles without a point and all that, but tell me... why are you doin' that?' he asked, raising his eyebrow. 'What's the purpose?'

A shy blush appeared at the boy's face. There was no doubt the kid expected a whole different reaction. Discouraged by his father's words, he put his hands behind his back and fixed his eyes on the ice.

'Because...' he started, looking at his dad shyly, 'because it's cool. And that great sir from yesterday did that, but he was spinning very fast, and it was so cool, and...'

'Get off the ice. The juniors are startin' the practice in a moment.'

Sasha turned to his wife again. He was opening his mouth to say something, but the son called him again. 'But daddy, daddy! Look again! I can do this as well!'

Viktor jumped a single Axel.

'And how was that? How was that?'

Fucking great, but you've got to tense your butt and stretch your leg out, thought Yakov, standing in the audience. But wait, you didn't ask me!

'That sir did that yesterday as well!' the boy said with a joyous smile. 'Great, isn't it?'

Feltsman ducked on instinct. Squatting, he was watching the ice through a space between the bars. The last thing he needed was that kid noticing him here!

Just like the previous time, Anastasia clapped. And Sasha repeated, like a scratched CD: 'Get off the ice. The juniors are startin' the practice in a moment.'

The silverhaired child's lips narrowed into a thin line. A spark of bitterness appeared in Viktor's eyes. The little hands clenched into fists.

'So watch this!'

The boy rushed around the rink's side, accelerating with every yard. Yakov started to have bad feelings. Sasha apparently did as well, as he gave up trying to talk to his wife and turned around to look at his son. 'Viktor, what are you doing?' he called with a hint of warning in his voice.

The kid didn't answer. Instead, he turned half way around. Skating backwards, he speeded up even more. Sasha's hand, rested on the board, shivered a little. 'Viktor, stop!'

Without paying enough attention, it was easy to miss – a small amount of fear that was present in the very last sound.

The boy ignored his father.

Oh, fuck, Yakov thought, frightened. He can't be trying to...

But he bloody was! For hell's sake, of course he was! For fuck's sake, that damn, little stuntman... what is he thinking, doing such things while having absolutely no idea about jumping?! That idiot never even had figure skates on his legs! He's fucking insane! He was speeding backwards, going for broke, and then he turned, preparing for a fucking double Axel!

Yakov Feltsman and Alexander Nikiforov yelled at the same time: 'STOOOP!'

But it was too late. Vitya took off.

xXx

Trivia:

* Hockey player Viktor Nikiforov is a real figure! You can read about him on Wikipedia ;) But of course, for the sake of this story, I've modified his biography.

* As it comes to proffessional athlete's hearts and the fact that they beat differently than regular people's ones – I didn't make that up. It's true. Three of my family members (who were proffessional volleyball players) got heart attack before they turned seventy. And my ninety-year-old grandma, who was a volleyball player as well, had EKG recently and they wanted to take her straight to the hospital. She'd been explaining for fifteen minutes that her heart rate was like that for several decades. But I can't remember if it is faster or slower – if someone knows that, please let me know. [Translator's Note: the phenomenom is called bradycardia, and it means that one's heart rate is below 60 bpm, therefore it's lower than a normal heart's – a normal thing for athletes]

* Grenoble (1968) and Sapporo (1972) are real locations of the Winter Olympic Games, but I've made up the incident in Sapporo.

* If you want to see how riding a hockey stick looks like, watch Happy Gilmore. Or have a look at , at 2:20 :P

xXx

[Author's Notes] - story by Jora_Calltrise

Uwaaah! You've been waiting for the chapter for so long!

I really want to thank you for your understanding and patience.

Also, I'm sorry there's no picture for this chapter. I've got the sketch done (of Viktor's parents :3), but I didn't have enough time to colour it. I gave it up to... finish the next chapter instead :) Of the two, I'd rather wait for a picture than for a chapter, right? The fifth chapter is quite short, so I wish it'll be finished shortly...

I hope you had fun reading!

[Translator's Notes]

Uwaaah! You've been waiting for the chapter for so long!

I'm sorry for that. Again. And I'll do my best to translate the next one more quickly... :D I've got a motivation – I can't finish Jora's new story untill I translate the next chapter!

xXx

Progress of translating the next chapter: