It was three o'clock in the morning and the phone hadn't stopped ringing for at least ten minutes. A woman furiously covered her head with a pillow.

'Darling?' she heard her husband's voice.

She pretended she didn't hear anything.

'Darling,' the man repeated with a sigh. 'Yakov is calling.'

That drew the woman's attention. 'Who is calling?' she stammered with a sleepy voice.

'Um... Yakov Feltsman. You know, the guy who was your pair skating partner. Also, your so-called brother and...'

'Yeah, right, you don't have to say that. I know who he is. But why is he calling me at this time?'

'Maybe he forgot that it's a middle of the night in the States?'

The former figure skater snorted loudly. Yakov forgetting about such an important detail? Yakov forgetting about anything, basically? Yeah, of course. Maybe in some parallel universe!

If one was to believe rumours spread in the Champions' Club at times, Yakov Feltsman forgot about something only once in his entire life. In 1952. About Comrade Stalin's birthday. It is said that on the day of sixth December five-year-old Yakov, asked by a nursery teacher: 'Feltsman, what day is it today?' answered with a jolly child's smile, 'Father Christmas' birthday!' and therefore earned himself a close encounter with a rod. It is also said that a few hours later, when he was going back home angrily wadeing in the snow, calling Father Christmas a greying dick and wishing Stalin an inevitable death, he promised himself that he would never forget about anything again.

So it happened. Both.

A few months later Stalin kicked the bucket. Yakov had never forgotten about anything else. Never mind Father Christmas and whether he actually was a greying dick.

No, Yakov couldn't simply forget about the time difference between Russia and the United States. Unless he did it on purpose.

The woman took her phone from her husband with a sigh. She moved her fingers through her short, blonde hair and stared at the screen.

'What have I done to him?' she thought out loud.

Did she show someone the memorable recording from 1998? Did she spill the beans about what Yakov had done in front of Lilia's house? Did she tell somebody about the posters incident? Damn, what would be any other reason for Yakov to call in the middle of the night?!

Well, whatever it was about, there was no sense in postponing the execution. Better to have it behind.

Tatyana Lubicheva-McKenzie took a deep breath and finally (dear God, finally!) pressed the green button.

'Yeees?' she sang, getting ready for the load roar.

And she heard Yakov's voice through the speaker, 'Do you have moments when you think that everything you've ever learned, everything you've believed in, everything you've thought to be the right thing, is not worth a single shit?'

The woman was a little baffled with this question.

Well... okay? Okay. That was not a roar. Rather a howl. Or even: a whimper. There was only one problem – Feltsman never whimpered.

Exchanging knowing looks with her husband, Tatyana raised up so that she was sitting.

'Jackie, are you drunk?' she asked objectively.

'No, I'm not fucking drunk,' she was given the answer.

'Are you crying?'

She heard a sniffing sound. 'No, I'm not fucking crying.'

Tatyana and her husband glazed at themselves.

'Holy hell.' She sent her husband a shocked look. 'Yakov is crying.'

'Impossible!' Steve McKenzie wiped his eyes in unbelief. 'Is he even capable of crying?'

'I TOLD YOU THAT I'M NOT FUCKING CRYING!' Yakov's furious voice announced.

The woman sighed deeply. 'All right,' she said, 'then why are you making these... ummm... weird sounds similar to crying? Someone has died, or what?'

'Yes, for fuck's sake. I have died.'

A spark of amusement appeared in former skater's eyes.

'Err... no, you haven't. You're talking to me.'

'My decency has died. That's almost the same thing.'

'That's rather impossible,' Tatyana stated, giggling. 'Your decency is immortal.'

'Well, it's not, now. I've lost a bet.'

A bet?

The woman massaged her temple. Okay, let's think a little... Yakov had lost many bets in his life. But he never cried because of that. Therefore, it had to be very important. What the hell happened?!

Grumbling like a cat woken up from a nap, Tatyana switched a table lamp on, put her heel against her partner's hip and started to push the wretch off the bed with gentle kicks.

'Go make me some coffee,' she ordered, 'it's going to be a long conversation.'

Like a well-trained spouse he was, Steve put his glasses on and headed towards the kitchen.

Tatyana sat at the edge of the bed. Her own reflection was glaring at her from the huge window taking up the whole wall. Hair resembling a scarecrow's, sacks under the sleepy eyes, crumpled pyjamas...

The former skater thought that Yakov's voice perfectly matched the miserable reflection. A voice carrying a hint of shock, stupor and enormous tiredness. A voice of a person who's been just woken up from a deep sleep. A voice of someone, who's just woken up from a terrible nightmare and still doesn't know exactly what's happening, so they're calling the first person they could think of so that they can be assured the nightmare isn't the truth.

A weird association, Tatyana admitted to herself, massaging her temple. A really, really weird one.

'Okay, then...' she said in a tired voice, 'okay, then, Jackie, I'm listening. Tell me: what exactly happened?'

'I've already told you: I've lost a bet.'

'Jackie... correct me if I'm wrong, but you were betting a million times on a billion different things. You have to specify which bet exactly are you talking about.'

'I'm talking about the bet with the biggest arsehole I've ever known!' Yakov blurted out in a rancorous voice. 'The most important bet in my whole life!'

Aha, the former skater thought, right, that tells me everything.

As far as she knew, Feltsman usually was betting with the same person as always – specifically the one whom he called the biggest arsehole in the Universe. And every single one of these bets was being taken deadly seriously by the Russian coach.

'Why wouldn't you...' Tatyana started, 'well, I don't know; why wouldn't you tell me something more? Like what were you betting on?'

She was answered with silence.

'Jackie, are you still there?'

'I am.'

'So why didn't you answer? What were you betting on?'

Not a single word. The woman was seriously starting to get scared.

Crap! So it was so serious, that Yakov didn't want to reveal what was it all about? He'd never been making a secret out of anything! Even the goddamn posters – which for Tatyana was completely incomprehensible, because if she had done something like that ever, she wouldn't have said a word about it even in the confessional. And it's worth saying that she wasn't exactly a good girl.

For God's sake... what could be that much shameful that Feltsman was afraid to tell about it?!

'Listen, Jackie,' the former skater began in a voice of a patient psychotherapist, 'if you want me to help you solve any problem, you at least have to tell me what's the problem.'

'It's about a cactus.'

A cactus? What goddamn cactus?

Before the woman had time to ask about any details, Yakov started to ramble. 'A cactus... a bloody cactus! I should've forseen it. Why haven't I done it? A cactus, it's a cactus. It's obviously all about a cactus! It's always been a damn cactus!'

'Jackie, please, start from the beginning,' Tatyana pressed her palm against her temple. 'What cactus?'

'WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY „WHAT CACTUS"?!' Yakov yelled with indignation, like he'd been asked about something obvious. 'VITYA!!!'

The former skater blinked several times.

'Vitya's got a cactus?' she asked bluntly.

'NO!' He is a cactus! I mean... he probably has got a cactus, I think so, I think I've seen that prickly annoyance in his room, but that's not what I mean. He is the cactus.'

Tatyana thought for a while. She tried to sort out all that she'd heard.

'Okay, Vitya is a cactus. You mean, in a metaphorical way?'

'NOOO!' she heard another furious yell, 'in a fucking literal way!'

Great. That could mean only one thing. Uh-oh, damn, it escalated quickly...

'Jackie, please, listen carefully to what I say.' Tatyana said every word very slowly, as if she was speaking to a little child. 'I understand that you've finally decided to find out how does the weed taste, okay, that's fine, it's never too late, but it's very important that you move to a safe place, as far from any vehicles and sharp objects as possible, preferably to a bed, so that you can wait until...'

'HOLY FUCK! I'm not high, right?! I'm not high, you dumb twat! You're not listening! I'm not high, and even if I was, I wouldn't be in a bit smaller swamp than the one I'm in right now! You know nothing! It's about the bet, and about the cactus and about me fucking everything up! Vitya is a cactus... just like you! You're a cactus as well! Only I am a damn fern and that's why I don't fucking understand you! Shit... I just didn't know what to say. That brat spilled out his soul in front of me and I didn't get what he meant because I forgot he is a bloody cactus! Fuck, you have no idea how important was it for me... all of that... the bet! That's the only bet I've ever really wanted to win... the only one, you know?! And the worst of all is that... that...'

Tatyana's grip around the receiver tightened up. Yakov started to sob.

'...that just at the time when I thought that... that I was going to win, all of that... I just fucked all that up!'

Somewhere in the distance an ambulance siren could be heard. Tatyana approached the window and stared at the sleeping city with sad eyes. A small glimmer of light was rushing across the streets, making a noise that would make one's ears hurt. But the former skater's ears barely heard the sound. They were listening to quiet weeping instead, the one of a man on the other side of the telephone line – a man, who had never cried before, ever.

How long have you been fighting with all these thoughts alone, Jackie? Tatyana wanted to ask, Weeks? Months? Years? Oh, Jackie... you're crying as if you've been suffering for many, many years.

But she hadn't said it out loud – it could've been too much for Yakov's pride. Feltsman was probably already ashamed of the fact of crying out on the phone. Even if it was while talking to someone he could trust – almost a family member; almost a sister.

Tatyana let his friend have a few more minutes to calm down, and then she asked, 'Tell me everything. From the very beginning.

Leningrad, 1965

'Are you going to stand there forever?! Make a decision: you either stare at your watch or you make a call! If you're not using the phone, then get the fuck out of others' way, whipster!'

Only one look of the green eyes was enough for the man to regret calling the one standing in the telephone booth a 'whipster'. The moment when the nineteen-year-old slightly lifted his hat, it turned out that he looked like a thug! Or even worse – mafia!

Square jaw. Thick, constantly furrowed eyebrows. Light-brown hair resembling a lion's mane, tied in a ponytail. Damn, even the way the young guy crushed a lollipop between his teeth was frightening! As if he had at least a cigarette in his mouth (or someone's finger – one never knows, how mafia deals with its enemies)!

The clerk pressed his briefcase against his chest and stepped back a bit.

'Y-you know what?' he stammered, sending the young man an apologetic look, 'I-I think I could use the phone in my office. N-no rush, mate! Y-you will make the call only when you're ready.'

After saying that, he escaped at a drop of a hat.

And what was all of the fuss for? the young man wondered.

He took the lollipop out of his mouth. Or rather – the lollipop remnants. Feltsman hadn't even noticed finishing the candy. Well... at least the sticky abomination had done its job. It helped him calm down. And Yakov preferred to be calm when he was to begin that important phone call – possibly the most important one in his life.

He glanced at his wristwatch for the last time. Okay... so now it's the time? Unless any unusual circumstances occurred, Vadim should be home alone now. He'd better be.

Swallowing a gulp, Yakov fed the machine with some coins. Waiting for the person he was calling to pick up the phone, he was tapping the pavement with his shoe nervously and twisting the telephone wire around his pointing finger.When he realised what was he doing, he immediately stopped twisting the wire. Damn, only ladies do such stuff! And he was not a lady!

'Hello?' he heard Vadim's calm voice.

'H-hi!' Yakov whispered in a conspiratorial voice. 'A-are parents home? Have they gone out?'

He had hardly finished the sentence when he was forced to move the receiver away from his ear.

'Yaaakooov! Oh, I am so happy my brother has finally found some time to call home! God, I've started to think you're never going to say a word! Have you got any idea how worried we were? Oh, if only I've been next to you right now, I would hug you so hard that...'

'Shut up, you monkey with an elephant's secrecy!' Yakov hissed at the phone. 'Tell me, whether parents are home!'

'Chill out, they're not. Dad's at work, and mum's doing shopping.'

The younger brother breathed a sigh of relief. Thanks God, his calculations were right! Still, he didn't feel totally safe. He had to make sure the area is clear.

'And... and the witches?' he asked, meaning his two younger sisters.

'At a houseparty.' Vadim said with a sigh. 'You know them. Partying when there's any occasion.'

'You don't have to tell me.'

They were both silent for some time. Only after about ten seconds that felt like eternity, the older man decided to break the silence.

'You know...' he started gently, 'you can't be ashamed to talk to us about this stuff. You don't have to be afraid, Yakov. We are family. You can't be afraid to call us... and you especially can't be loitering around a phone booth, waiting till everyone except me are out.

Yakov let out a shocked grunt.

How the hell did he know?!

But, well... why was he even surprised? They had always been close with each other. Nobody knew Yakov as well as Vadim did. They had much in common, after all. Not only the same parents.

A young skater's hand tightened up around the earphone. 'I wanted to talk to you... because only you can get what I mean. Only you know how it is; to be an athlete. To train hard. To put your heart and soul into something. To win and... and...' Yakov closed his eyes, swallowed a gulp in his throat and finally said the monstreous words, 'to lose.'

Vadim laughed. But it was a completely joyless laugh – a laugh full of compassion and nostalgia.

'Is that why you were afraid to call? Because you've lost?'

The younger Feltsman sighed quietly. 'Y-yes.' He almost felt his ears becoming red out of embarrassment. 'That's why.'

'Were you crying?' he could hear a hint of amusement in Vadim's voice, 'You know; after the competition?'

'I was not fucking crying!' Yakov growled in anger. Now he was red all over his face; red out of fury.

The brother did not answer.

'I-I wasn't crying!' the young Feltsman repeated, hitting the booth's wall angrily.

The silence on the line was very meaningful. Eventually Yakov decided to back off.

'All right,' he admitted clenching his teeth. 'You win. I was bawling in the loo for two hours.'

'Oh shit, two hours?' If it was even possible, Vadim sounded to be even more amused. 'You were crying in the loo for two hours?'

'And swearing at myself.'

'Probably. That's exactly something you'd do.'

'And I've torn off the toilet seat.'

'Congratulations.'

'And when I was heading out...' Yakov hesitated, 'I've forced the door with a kick. It fell out of the hinges.'

'I wish I'd seen that.'

'T-that's not my fault, okay? I couldn't open it! It's not my fault!'

'Of course it's not!' Vadim was laughing his head off.

'I think nobody knows it was me.

'It's hard to believe anyone except you would be able to demolish half of a toilet. They rather know it was you.'

'D-don't tell parents, okay?'

'About the toilet seat?'

'No. Don't tell them I was crying.'

The older brother finished laughing, finally.

'You fucked up the Worlds,' he stated gently. 'Who wouldn't be crying?

Yakov shook his head. He was right, but... after all it was so ladylike!

Moreover, the fact of crying in the loo wasn't the most embarrassing thing. The reason why he was crying was the one.

'T-to be honest...' the young skater forced himself to stay calm, 'to be honest, I wasn't crying because I'd lost.'

'Okay? So why were you? It's not about Svietlana, right? She's been planning her retirement for a long time. You told me about this couple of months ago, didn't you?'

'No, it's not about Svietlana.' Yakov said as the truth was.

The girl he was pair skating with had nothing to do with the reason why he had been crying in the toilet, indeed. She did have something to do with the reason why he had left the said toilet – it was she who had found Feltsman, hugged him and calmed him down. She was explaining for nearly half an hour that it wasn't his fault that they'd lost; that they'd been simply too weak, that sometimes you can give your best and it's still not enough; that he is young and he's got the whole life ahead of him; that she absolutely believes in him and is going to cheer him; and that maybe when he will start skating with his new partner everything would change; and so on, and so on...

Svietlana was an amazing woman. Yakov wasn't blaming her for anything. Not for their lost, not for the fact she was retiring – she had been warning him about it for several months, after all. No, Yakov wasn't blaming his former partner. The only problem he had was the one with himself.

'To be honest, I was crying because... I've understood that there's no point,' he admitted with resignation. 'I took my time, but I've finally understood. I should've admitted it earlier. I... I am not gifted.'

Holy shit; it happened. He did it. He'd told the horrible truth out loud. Now he was standing in the telephone booth like in a damn coffin, waiting for the world to end.

How else could one call... whatever was going to happen. The End of the World. The Apocalypse. The Fucking Mental Armageddon! The Lost Bet...

Yakov shrugged. When several years ago he was negotiating with his parents the possibility of him leaving for Leningrad, he had only one bargaining card – only one argument: that he was gifted. At the time, he really thought that he was.

But that was before he saw what other skaters are capable of. Let's take an example of Alexei Vronkov...

Yakov shrugged once again. And apparently his beloved brother had the ability of reading his mind.

'Is it about Vronkov?' he asked after a long silence. 'Did he tell you something again?'

The younger Feltsman snorted loudly. The fucker's name itself was making him willing to bite off a piece of a flagstone.

'No, it's not about him. I mean, obviously, he's said some words just like he would have, the well-bred dickhead he is, but all in all he didn't come up with anything unusual, so no, it's not about him. Or rather... not only about him.'

'Hmm.. not only, you say? Yakov, by any chance, aren't you dramatizing a bit? For me, you sound like a standard, depressed man. A lot has been happening in your life lately. You've come from the Worlds without a medal, you've ended your partnership with another skater... And if that wouldn't be enough, you had to see your greatest rival parading with the gold.'

Yakov had his thoughts dangerously close to the idea of pulling the telephone out of the booth's wall. Do it! they were wispering, Come on, relieve yourself a little! Maybe nobody will notice?

A huge drawback of this idea was the fact that it would mean the end of the conversation with his brother. But it was all right – he would have got many more opportunities on his way to the rink. So many opportunities for unloading his anger, so many interesting props! Lanterns, benches, swings – that's right, he wouldn't let the damn brats to swing carelessly while his career was hanging by a thread; and he hadn't mentioned the trash cans, bottles left on streets, flowers growing in places they shouldn't grow in, the statue of Father Christmas at the bus stop – well, of course, the greying dick had to pay his price for strutting around Leningrad in fucking April – and for the dessert, a fender of a car parked askew, finally some kids' shoes scattered all over the hall of the Club.

Keep calm. All you have to do is to hold on to the end of the conversation.

'Yeah, you're probably right,' Yakov mumbled at the phone. 'Maybe I really am depressed? But I will get on with it. I already feel better, actually.'

'As your older brother, I instruct you not to destroy public property.'

The young skater almost jumped in surprise.

Damn, I knew it! Fucking telepath!

'Promise me you won't destroy anything today,' Vadim asked.

'Okay, I promise.' Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll meet a bunch of chavs* I can kick their arses for relaxation...

'And that you won't beat anyone up.'

'Oh, for fuck's sake!' Yakov howled, 'Do you want me to get mentally disfunctional?!'

'You don't need a temporary relief for your mental functionality. I sense that you've got a problem. Let's talk about it.'

The younger man jerked his head angrily. 'What are we supposed to talk about?' he grunted with bitterness. 'I'm not gifted. That's all.'

'Yakov...'

'I am not gifted! You've seen it with your own eyes! You've been watching that competition! For a moment, please, just for a moment forget that you're my brother and tell me, being absolutely frank, that I'm a talented skater. Or that I'm not.'

Vadim didn't say a word for a while.

'Aha. So you want me to give you an answer not as a brother, but as a complete stranger? He asked with a deep sigh. 'As an athlete?'

The young skater imagined himself standing at the edge of a cliff. Ready for a jump. Ready for death.

'Yes,' he answered, trying to make his voice sound more confident, 'exactly.'

'Well then, as a complete stranger, as an athlete, I'll give you the answer...' Yakov stopped breathing. 'That you won't win any competition only with talent. Moreover: you won't win any competition alone. Think about it. Call when you're done with self-pitying. Oh, and speak to your coach. Bye!'

'WHAT?! Wait... wait a moment!'

He heard only beeping. His shoulders were shaking in anger.

He hanged up. Holy shit, he hanged up! That great moralizer, his dear brother hanged up in the middle of a very important conversation! How could he, for fuck's sake?!

With a furious move Yakov pushed the receiver against the stand. The receiver slipped from it and was hanging on a cord. Yakov caught it and tried to put it on the stand once again.

'FUCK!'

After the third attempt, the receiver was dead. Pieces of plastic fell on the floor. Well, that would be all in the topic of „not destroying the public property"... oops?

The young man rushed out of the telephone box in panic. That was a good decision – only a moment after that, two militiamen came out from behind the corner. They treated Feltsman with suspicious looks when he was passing by. Yakov put his hands in his pockets and left the crime scene, whistling innocently.

After he walked far enough, he sighed and stared in the pavement. Ah, damn it... he'd messed everything up.

It wasn't supposed to be like that, he thought in resignation. That conversation wasn't supposed to be like that! No, let me make an adjustment. That conversation shouldn't have ever happened. My CAREER wasn't supposed to be like that.

Why had he even called his brother in the first place? Well... right, he knew why, but right now he wasn't sure about anything. Excuse me, but what had he been expecting? That someone would stoke his head gently? Thad he would have been hugged mentally? Or... maybe he had been expecting Vadim to make a decision Yakov had no courage to make? Something like:

'Hey! What's up? I've figured out recently that I'm no good for anything anymore, so I've decided to shoot myself. But, you know, making a decision to end my life scares me a little, so would you be so nice and pull the trigger?'

The younger man snorted quietly. Frankly speaking, he wasn't the kind of a man who would commit suicide after a lost fight. He would rather be the kind of a man who after loosing all of his limbs not only holds on to life stubbornly, but also crawls through the battlefield and bites enemy's feet. That was the kind of man that Yakov Feltsman was – the one that fights till the end.

The question was – how long could he do that? If you're a soldier without legs and arms, then sooner or later you won't avoid death! If you're a figure skater that hasn't got anything special to offer, then sooner or later...

Eh... that was the whole problem. Yakov felt, that his „sooner or later" was already there. And he had no idea how to cope with it. Well, Vadim was definitely right about one thing – he certainly had to speak to his coach.

Feltsman intended to head to his mentor's office before the training session, but he barely passed the door of the Champions' Club, when something drew his attention. A group of jam-packed young skaters was standing at the rink's entrance. They put their heads between the door and the wall, whispering something excitedly. Intrigued by the view, Yakov moved in their direction. When he almost reached the door, he heard the music playing behind the door: „Carmen – Habanera". Soon, he was able to hear pieces of the conversation:

'She's even better than Vrzanova.'

'You think so?'

'I know so! Just look at her Axel... she jumps for at least three feet in the air!'

'Jeez... if she's that good, why isn't she a single skater? It's a pity to waste that talent in pair skating.'

'Eh, that's probably because she's from acrobat's family. You know what I mean? I heard that when she started skating, she was pretty good in acrobatics. Maybe that's why they've figured out she'd be better in pairs.'

'Oh my, look at that spin!'

Starting to get impatient, Yakov speeded up the pace. Who the hell were they talking about?

He finally managed to reach the door. Mumbling swear words, he squeezed in between Igor's blond hair and Pavlo's greyish head. The moment he did it, he found out that all the nice words about the skater weren't even a tiny bit exaggerated. With his eyes wide open as if he'd been hypnotised, Feltsman was watching the show performed at the rink.

The light was dimmed. The sounds of „Carmen" coming from the record player were overlapping with the sound of steel scratching the ice. A woman dressed in a black tracksuit was dancing. Her thick braid was waving in the air, going up and down in perfect rhythm. The blades moved on the surface like they were glued to it; as if some kind of an invisible force attached them to the ice for eternity.

Yakov's skates never moved like that.

Feltsman swallowed a gulp in his throat. Sometimes when watching other skaters he liked to imagine a glow of light around them. The average ones who didn't stand out in any way were surrounded by a pale, light-yellow mist. The artists that were capable of magnificent music interpretations emanated with soothing blue, whereas the ones like Vronkov, the champions of jumping, faced their opponents with an aggressive red gleam.

The light of that woman was different – unique. So bright that it was almost dazzling. If Yakov had to choose its colour, it would have been neither blue, nor red – more likely violet. Beautiful, strong, bright violet! A perfect colour for a skater who was both an athlete and an artist. Who was strong and graceful; talented and dangerous. Versatile.

When the skater took off for an Axel, Feltsman felt a shiver piercing through his body. His colleague's earlier claim was right – the lady really jumped for a three feet height! And then landed without an issue. With a facial expression that didn't show any signs of concentration. The mysterious skater looked like she'd been skating with her head in the clouds. For a moment it seemed to Yakov that he noticed signs on boredom on the beautiful face.

'Who's that?' he asked with his eyes fixed on her.

'The Club's new recruit,' Igor answered with a sigh. 'Tatyana Lubicheva.'

'Coach Novak took her under his protection after she's been kicked out of the Moscow's Lenin,' Oksana whispered excitedly.

Some people whistled in appreciation.

The Lenin Club, right? Feltsman thought, growing even more intrigued.

High level, indeed. Leningrad's Spartan, where Vronkov was training, had the same prestige – or maybe a little higher. In such environment, the term „average" wasn't accepted. To join a club like that, one would have to be on such a high level that individuals like Yakov could only dream of it. Well... a little uplifting aspect was the fact, that once you're admitted, it's equivalently hard to leave it. Which brought another question:

'Why have they kicked her out? They had to be blind if they couldn't see that she's in great shape,' Yakov stated.

MORE than in great shape, he thought, feeling both amazed and bitter on the fact.

'Because of Vronkov,' Oksana sang, leaning her chin on her palm.

'Vronkov?! What the hell has he got to do with that?'

'As far as I know, they had a little quarrel before the Worlds. It's said that she might have cast a curse on him.'

'She scared Alexei so much that he was terrified and ran to his daddy,' Igor said, giggling.

'Cowardly prick,' Yakov snapped. The rest approved with vigorous nodding.

'His old man has contacts in Lenin,' Igor continued his story in a gloomy voice. 'He whispered some words to the right people and the girl has been kicked out. Messing with Vronkov always ends like that.'

'Don't exaggerate.' Pavlo rolled his eyes. 'Yakov called Vronkov a conceited cock a million times, and somehow he hasn't been kicked out of anywhere. It's hard to believe that girl has been thrown out of a club only for annoying Vronkov.'

'I think they've been wanting to get rid of her for a long time and they just needed a reason,' Oksana stated. 'Having her flippancy in mind, that's no surprise.'

'What do you mean?' asked Igor.

'Haven't you heard of how they call her? „Lu-beat-cheva?"

'Ugh,' Pavlo shrugged. 'I heard the „Madyana Lubicheva" version...'

At that moment Yakov remembered: 'Hey, isn't it by any chance the wench that jumped onto a table, took off her dress and started to dance in her underwear on one of last year's banquets?'

Oksana giggled. 'You haven't recognized her before?'

'Yakov was the only one that wasn't impressed with that performance.' Igor grinned at Feltsman. 'I was thinking how to sneak to the toilet all the time with my trousers a bit too tight, and he hadn't even frowned. Yakov, maybe you like guys better?'

'No, I don't, you wanker.' Yakov gave his colleague a look entitled „one more suggestion like that and you earn yourself a punch". 'If you'd been living with two witches feeling comfortable enough to walk around your room stripped you'd also be unmoved by tits.'

'And, by the way...' Paulo leaned towards Igor's ear, giggling, 'it's not like Yakov is unmoved by all tits. You should know how he looks at one particular ballet dancer...'

'I'm going to kick your skull so hard that you'll be unmoved by everything,' Feltsman warned him in a gloomy voice.

'Yakov, Yakov, calm down...' Nadya, who was keeping quiet until that moment, patted her colleague's shoulder. 'Boys aren't saying that to annoy you.'

'Come on, mate, don't get angry.' Pavlo embraced Yakov apologetically. 'Who am I going to play cards with if you'll be mad at me?'

'We have to hold a tournament, guys!' Igor announced. 'The season's ending, after all. We have to celebrate it with a decent game and beer. Are you in, Yakov?'

'I can't. I promised Novak that I'll take care of kids' class.' Yakov shrugged at the very thought of little motherfuckers.

'You have to be more assertive.' Oksana gave him a sympathetic look. 'You let the coach to leech you off all the time.'

'I wouldn't call it „leeching off". I get paid, after all.'

'But that's a pittance,' Pavlo remarked timidly.

'Still, that's something.' Yakov shrugged his shoulders. 'I haven't even started college. I'm happy to get some money at all.'

'Well... you'd definitely get much more money out of the bridge.' Igor winked. 'Ignore the kids! You need to rest once in a while as well. Before the Worlds you worked so hard that you barely had time for anything. One evening of just relaxing will be good for you.'

Yakov tried to think about it. Maybe they were right? Maybe he needed a rest indeed. But, on the other hand...

He glanced at Tatyana Lubicheva. At her strong legs and slim, fit body. At the way the girl made her moves match the music. He didn't know that skater. He knew nothing about her. And still, he couldn't help the feeling of jealousy growing in his heart.

She's got something I'm never going to have, he thought. No matter how much I try, I'll never even get close to her level. I'll never have the perfect silhouette or the innate grace. It's always going to be harder for me. I'm always going to be a step behind, because all the skills I had to learn were given to some peopleint the day of their birth.

Mother Nature wasn't fair in giving out her gifts. A few pert beaks could twaddle that hard work can compensate the lack of talent, but competing only a few times was enough to show how the reality worked. In the clash of talent versus hard work, talent would most likely win. People like Yakov Feltsman simply did not represent the same species as Tatyana Lubicheva; or Alexei Vronkov.

Realising all that could be fucking depressing.

'I don't feel like having a relaxing evening,' Yakov mumbled with a grimace. 'I'd rather yell at some kids.'

'Do as you wish,' Igor breathed a long sigh. 'But don't get depressed, will you? Just one loss doesn't mean anything yet.'

'And beside that,' Pavlo grinned, 'remember, that you're not alone. Whatever happens, we are with you! We're like three Musketeers, right?

Corners of Yakov's mouth lifted up slightly. 'Yeah, right. Three Musketeers,' he nodded.

'All for one and one for all!' Igor raised his fist up.

'And who are you going to fight?' Oksana giggled. 'Vronkov?'

'Life, woman; life,' Pavlo declared passionately. 'Life is hard! We have to help each other. It's all about being optimistic. Let's think about the positives.'

'Like that no one of us came back from the Worlds injured,' Nadya said.

'Exactly!' Pavlo snapped his fingers. 'Like Nadyushka says! Let's appreciate the fact that we're ending the season without any injuries. Or that no one of us will be assigned to Lu-beat-cheva...

'By the way, I'm wondering who is she going to be assigned to...' Igor rubbed his chin.

'I bet two thousand rubles on Ivanovich!' Feltsman blurted out without thinking.

'Aha!' Pavlo sent him a devilish smile. 'As always, Yakov's the first one to bet.'

'What are we going to do about it?' Igor fished his wallet out of his pocket. 'He's a born gambler. Raise to three thousand on Mishkin.'

'Mishkin is a bungler,' Yakov stated flippantly. 'Ivanovich has experience and skills. He was a thing at the Worlds.'

'He's got some trouble doing lifts,' Igor noted.

'And Mishkin can't jump,' Yakov stroke back. 'It's easier to learn the lifts than jumps. I know from my own experience. And that girl is thin as a rake, so he won't have to make much effort.'

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

'Whoever is it going to be,' Oksana breathed in deeply, 'he should get himself a rosary. And a helmet. Better to secure yourself against any curses and other... hmm... nuisances.

Yakov cast his eye over Tatyana again. The girl wasn't the only one on the ice anymore. He couldn't tell when a hive of juniors surrounded her. One boy skated towards her with an expression suggesting he was going to ask her something. When the girl turned around unexpectedly, her braid, tied with a beaded hairband, hit the boy in his face forcefully. His nose started to bleed.

'Bloody awesome,' Yakov grunted.

Tatyana put her hands against her cheeks. Saying something roughly like 'Och, darling, I'm so sorry!' she grasped his face and pressed it against her chest with all strength. The kid looked like he was about to cry. Feltsman couldn't blame him.

The guy that'll be skating with her is completely fucked, he decided.

xXx

'HAAAH?!'

Yakov was standing in the middle of the ice rink, trying to figure out any logical explanation for the situation he was currently facing.

Did I forget about damn April Fools? he thought desperately. Is it some kind of a lame prank? A bad dream?! Where the hell am I right now? What am I fucking doing here? And, most importantly... what is SHE doing here?!!!

He kept blinking continuously, but the view wouldn't change a bit:

An ice rink. Coach Novak in the middle of the rink. Yakov facing him. And next to Yakov – Tatyana Lubicheva! Tatyana; or rather – „Madyana Lu-beat-cheva"! And obviously – in a company of her damn braid and fucking beaded hair band.

Just try to hit me with that damn thing; I will shave your head with my own hands! Feltsman glanced at the woman's hair with hatred.

In response, Tatyana winked at him.

Excuse me? What, for heaven's sake, is going on here?! Damn, maybe we're not supposed to skate together, actually? Maybe I'm just to help her training... or something like that...?

But the coach's next words left not a shadow of doubt. Mikhail Novak smoothed his favourite green sweater saying „Love Mother Nature!" (Yakov got pissed off every time he read this dumb slogan), adjusted his glasses, ran his fingers through his short, grey hair and said to his pupils with a smile:

'Therefore, as we all've got acquainted, it's high time we plant a seed of your partnership! Hopefully, it will be flourishing!'

Yakov needed all of his willpower to force himself not to flee from the rink as far as possible. He'd known his coach long enough to get the subliminal message.

Holy shit, I knew it! he thought in horror. If he's nattering about Goddamn seeds already, it's got to mean that he's made a decision. Has he gone insane?! He must be out of his tree to get an idea of pairing them together! How a mediocre like me an an ice skating terminator like her are supposed to skate together?! Are you trying to play some fucking joke one me?!

Well, nothing indicated that someone was joking. Most certainly not the coach. Surprisingly, neither Tatyana. One could think that someone as skilled as her would start to giggle and keep asking why they've been paired with a complete failure... Vronkov would do that. Repeat; Vronkov had done that – when he found out he was supposed to skate with Ekaterina Mongetale, he laughed and asked why such a miserable partner was chosen for him. Yes, that's what he said. And then, he got his arse kicked; by Katerina herself. It's never come to his mind to complain about his partner ever again. The whole figure skating worlds knew that. No one doubted who was the Alpha male (or rather the Alpha female) in the Wronkov/Mongetale team.

Yakov leered at Tatyana carefully. To him, she looked like she would be an Alpha as well. Judging by the way she was watching him with her sharp, blue eyes, he assumed that she was one of these women who liked to get what they wanted. Feltsman's sisters had the exact same looks on their witchy faces. Yakov knew very well how to deal with such pissing ladies. The problem was, he wasn't exactly used to doing so on the ice.

In Feltsmans' family home everything was clear – there were certain rules and fixed hierarchy. At home, Yakov had power and authority. He knew what to do to force the girls to dance like peacocks. And if any of them would get an idea of talking back, he always had his argument of 'being older and wiser, therefore being right'.

And here – what he was supposed to say? Tatyana was supposed to do as he says, because... exactly – because what? Because he was a better skater? Ahem. The problem was that he, for fuck's sake, was not a better skater, to be exact he was a much worse one, and he had no chances to ever get even close to her level – which made the whole situation horribly annoying!

Well, the good thing was that Lubicheva was nothing like Vronkov. Instead of openly making fun of Feltsman, she was simply standing there with her hand on her hip, watching her new partner with curiosity. As if she tried to judge him.

Yakov's deep thought was interrupted by coach clapping his hands. 'Okay, then!' Novak beamed. 'Now that I've explained everything...'

What?! This wimp was talking? Feltsman was surprised. Holy shit, I wasn't listening a bit!

'... let's start the relevant part of your practice! Tell me, my dear... have you learned Yakov's routine from the previous season as I asked you to do? I'm talking about the free skating programme.'

'Sure thing.' Tatyana nodded.

'That's wonderful! I don't have to ask you that question, right, Yakov? Do you remember your own programme?'

'Err... yes. Yeah, sure, I do.'

'Great. So, I'd like you to skate that routine. I'll see how well do you cooperate and I'll think what should be improved. Skate the whole programme, from the beginning to the end. Take it easy, of course. Don't push yourselves. That's not a competition. If something doesn't work out, don't get nervous. Think of it as of a handshake at the beginning of your partnership. Rather than focusing on performing a perfect routine, try to get acquianted. That's the most important thing right now, right? Oh, and one more thing! Save the lifts, okay? That's the first time you'll be skating together, so I don't want anyone to get injured. When there's a lift planned, just skate through it, and then continue with the choreography. Do you understand me?'

'Very clearly,' Tatyana responded with a devilish smile.

Yakov narrowed his eyes. Keeping them on her partner, he took his pose on the ice. He didn't like her smile; not a tiny bit.

The mood at the ice rink started to resemble one in a bunker. Only the shooting sounds were missing. While Novak was searching through the vinyls for the right record, Tatyana was skating around her new mate. She looked like a vulture getting ready to dig her claws in her prey. Momentarily, she rushed towards Yakov. She was skating so quickly as if she wanted to ram him!

Someone else would probably get scared and jump to the side – but not Feltsman. The malice he was born with was telling him to stay where he was and watch the charging wench with calm.

You can skate into me if you wish so! he blurted out in his mind. I'm twice as heavy as you are. I hope you'll bounce off my body and get that skinny arse bruised!

Unfortunately, her skinny arse hadn't got bruised. In fact, she didn't even skate into Yakov. At the last moment she turned both of her skates to the side like a professional hockey player, stopping a few inches in front of her partner. Some pieces of ice sprinkled over Yakov's trousers.

She hasn't hit me, after all? What a pity...

He was surprised to see a glipse of admiration in Tatyana's eyes. Apparently her charge wasn't a silly prank, but rather some kind of a test. But what was that wench trying to find out? What was her problem?

She didn't have time to ask, as Novak had found the right record. The song sounds echoed at the ice rink. Yakov and Tatyana started skating.

Pardon – Yakov started skating. Tatyana launched herself into the programme, making the distance between her and her partner too big at the very beginning. Feltsman couldn't help a comment on that:

'Slow down, that's not a race!' he hissed.

Quite surprisingly, she followed the suggestion and slowed down sharply. Also, she turned her head suddenly, which resulted in her braid hitting Yakov's ear.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.' Tatyana smiled apologetically.

Feltsman glared at her angrily. He started to have really bad feelings about the skate.

Of course, he fucking had to be right. When Lubicheva turned to face her partner and grasped his hand while having her leg raised high up, she whispered conspiratorially:

'Let's do a lift.'

Yakov almost stumbled in surprise.

'What the fuck did you say?' he stammered, whispering.

'You heard me.' The devilish smile returned to the girl's face. 'Let's do a lift.'

'Are you nuts?! The coach forbidden us...'

The dangerous suggestion knocked Yakov off his rhythm so much that he almost forgot about the upcoming jump. He barely landed his double toe loop – he had to wave his arms around to save himself from falling down. It definitely didn't look aesthetic. Tatyana, of course, had no trouble landing.

'Well done!' They heard Novak clapping somewhere around. 'Great jumps. Keep up the good work!'

The old fool tries to give us some motivation, Yakov thought in resignation. If it was a competition, I'd probably get some points for good intentions, maybe.

Then it was time for a camel spin. Feltsman did not start doing it at instant – his instinct was telling him to wait and see, what his partner would do. And that was the right choice, because if he hadn't jumped to the side at the last moment, he would've got his arm wounded with a blade.

'Careful!' he grunted to Tatyana's ear when a few seconds later they were skating next to each other. 'Watch the distance. You were too close!'

'So, what about the lift?' she whispered.

'We're not doing any lifts!'

'What's the matter? Are you scared?'

He hadn't even got time to feel offended, because at the exact moment his partner grasped his arms and got up in the air. Yakov reacted spontaneously.

SHIT! Feltsman thought, swinging Tatyana over his head. Fuck, she surprised me! It shouldn't have happened... I shouldn't have LET it happen! How could I... holy shit, she's so light! Does she even weight anything? Damn, I barely feel I'm holding her!

His awe didn't last for long. While making her way back on the ice, the skater hit Yakov's forehead with her knee.

'FOR FUCK'S SAKE!' Yakov swore. 'I told you that I do not agree! You have to consult such things with me.'

'But I have consulted it,' she answered, amused.

Feltsman clenched his teeth. While speaking, they didn't stop skating even for a moment. For any spectator they would look like two predators fighting for territory.

'You should consult such things before you start skating,' Yakov barked. 'That was dangerous. We're not doing that again.'

For an answer, he once again got hit in his face with Tatyana's braid. 'Of course we are,' she said in a voice of a spoiled child. He wondered whether she could've been an only-child?

'No, we are not!'

And another blow with a braid! Feltsman had a few strands of hair in his mouth. Watching her partner spitting out her hair, Tatyana giggled.

'I'm warning you...' Yakov said in a voice he was using when his sisters annoyed him even more than usual, 'if you try to force me to do a lift once more, you're going to regret it!'

'Come on, the previous one was amazing. The other is going to be great as well.'

'No, it is not, because we're not doing any lifts.'

'Yes, we are.'

'For fuck's sake, are you listening?! It is dangerous!'

'What are you, a lady?'

She crossed the line. Calling him a 'lady' was a step too far. Oh nooo, Yakov simply could not just ignore that! He had to show that snot-nosed girl who wears the drawers! Somewhere in the depths of his mind the idea could've been called inappropriate and very indecent, but Feltsman couldn't care less. He'd made the decision.

With her wild and confident look, Tatyana skated towards her partner. When she grasped his arm and went up in the air for another lift, he had a face of a cheerful little girl who'd never heard 'no' in her entire life.

You don't agree, my friend? her eyes told him. So what? That's just another silly antic of mine, because what would life be without any of these; and the fact that one of us could get injured is just a side issue.'

She probably assumed that Yakov would be offended and he'd simply stop skating. Or, like before, he'd just react instinctively and execute the element.

But Feltsman did neither of these.

The moment Tatyana was at the right height, instead of carrying on with the lift, he threw the rebellious girl over his shoulder and spanked her skinny buttocks with his spare hand.

Years of practice with his sassy sisters did the right job – it had to hurt as fuck! Even Yakov felt hurt, and he was the one who spanked, not the one who got spanked. For a moment he thought that he'd maxed out a little, because who in their right mind hits their partner's arse in the middle of a routine, but it was fucking worth it – for Tatyana's priceless expression. She was so shocked that her eyes almost popped out of her head. And the sound of a hit was absolutely beautiful, clean and freaking amazing; the first-class quality. And the squeak that was probably heard by at least half of Leningrad was even more amazing!

If they'd given medals for raising women and children, Yakov would be a few-times World Champion.

Unfortunately, nothing good ever lasts. In spite of his little moment of glory, Feltsman knew that he had to put Tatyana back on the ice. And then he would find out what would happen next. Eh, the wounded lady was probably going to burst into tears...

Well, screw it! Yakov was still angry with his partner. I'll eat my skates if she didn't fucking deserve that! If she's crying, I won't be sorry for her!

But she did not cry. More surprisingly – she didn't even look offended! Well... yes, she was shocked and she was gaping at Feltsman with her eyes wide as if she'd been a character in one of these dumb Disney's films, but still... she did not look like she minded what her partner had done! And that was completely incomprehensible for Yakov, as he wasn't used to people reacting in that way after they'd been hit by him.

He also couldn't help his admiration. After being hit that hard on your buttocks, all the Salchows and spins most certainly must've been quite unpleasant. Yet Tatyana performed all the elements perfectlyand managed to skate with the beat on point! Well, of course, she had a little grimace on her face, but still she made no mistakes.

And – most importantly – she stopped forcing the lifts.

Where has all of her excitement gone? Yakov wondered spitefully when they omitted that element. You're not so reckless anymore, huh? You don't feel like jumping up on my head? Next time when you will want to force something on me, you will think twice!

SMACK!

Well... Tatyana might have given up forcing difficult elements, but her goddamn hair still hit her partner's face regularly.

She can't adapt to another person's movements at all! Feltsman assumed.

After being hit in his face for the upteenth time he realised that the whole braid thing was unintended indeed. Lubicheva wasn't trying to hit her partner. She just completely wasn't able to feel the distance. She was a part of a team, but she behaved as if she was a single skater. Everything she did, she did in her own time – like she'd been assuming that Yakov would be the one to get adapted.

And that was where the problem was. Most of the 'braid incidents' (and other missteps, such as nudging oneselves with elbows or bumping their hips) were results of either Tatyana's thoughtlessness, or Feltsman's desperate attempts to keep up with his partner.

But he couldn't. He wasn't able to. With every second of the routine he was feeling more convinced of what he'd known since the beginning – the gap between them was too huge. No matter how hard Yakov tried, he was falling behind anyway.

No... there was no use in trying. That simply could not work! That programme wouldn't be fine for a girl who'd have been at least a a bit reasonable, much less for someone who not only was mentally still in primary school, but moreover showed no willingness to cooperate. After the twelfth attack by the braid, the young man was praying for the programme to end.

And then... as if it was not enough, as if Yakov wasn't already exhausted, ragged and hackly, Lubicheva did something absolutely incredible. Something that Feltsman had never seen before! Something that would make countless people sink into the floor and reconsider how much they really knew about figure skating.

In the last ten seconds of the routine, the man was doing a spread eagle while skating around his partner, who was spinning. It was supposed to be a simple, plain sit spin. But Tatyana did something entirely different. She entered the spin, and then she bent her body and reached with her hand for one of her feet, grasped the blade and while still spinning... she raised her foot over her head.

Yakov stopped breathing.

Holy shit, she raised her foot over her head in a middle of a spin! he thought in shock, awe and terror. She raised a damn foot over her head! Holy fuck, she almost did a split!

What was that supposed to be? What on earth was that supposed to be?! Was something like that even possible? Fuck, he felt like he'd been watching ice skating science-fiction!

The music (Thank you, dear God!) finally stopped. After the programme's end Tatyana rubbed her buttocks.

'Jeez...' she said with a hint of recognition. 'I think I'm going to have a bruise in the shape of your hand on my butt.'

'You're lucky it wasn't a belt!' Yakov barked.

He wanted to add to the fire, but he was interrupted with a snort. Shit, Novak! Damn, what was the coach going to say? Feltsman completely forgot about the man.

One of the old man's hands was resting on the boards, and the other was hiding his face. So Yakov wasn't wrong – Novak was really laughing out loud.

He's laughing? The young man thought with outrage. All of that was FUNNY to him?!

'Yakov, I'm sorry...' the coach said, wiping a tear. 'That slap of yours just wrecked me.

Feltsman got read all over his face rapidly. He didn't regret spanking her partner, but as required by good manners, he should at least apologise.

'I'm sorry,' he murmured to Tatyana. 'I got carried away a little.'

'That's fine.' To his surprise, the girl smiled. 'You were right: that was quite dangerous. If someone is to apologise, that would be me. I will do so the moment when... ouch! The moment when my booty gets over that close encounter with your hand.'

I wonder how much time will I need to get over the close encounter with her hair? Feltsman thought, rubbing a bruise on his cheek. Fuck, the next time we'll be practising together, I'm going to get a rubber band and make a solid bun out of that nappy hair!'

Assuming, of course, that there would be any other practice. Well, after the unfortunate skate nobody was in doubt that that arrangement made completely no sense? Right...?

'So, what do you think, my dear?' the coach said to Tatyana.

'Well... I haven't thought I'd admit it, but I think you were right.' The girl moved a few stands from over her forehead.

Novak beamed.

'I told you!' He clapped his hands cheerfully. 'I told you that you'd like him.'

'Yeah, now I get what did you mean.' Tatyana had a thoughtful look on her face for a while, and then she grinned happily and pointed at Yakov. 'I like him. I want to skate with him.'

What the FUCK?!

Yakov got simply stuck. Wait... wait a moment! No, something was very wrong! All of that made absolutely NO sense. ESPECIALLY that girl's behaviour. She got fucking smoked and as an outcome she claims that... she 'likes him' and 'wants to skate with him'?! Was she a masochist or something like that?

Okay, Feltsman, let's focus... are you completely sure that it's not the first day of Aplil today?

What could be any other explanation for all of that? April Fools. A silly joke. Some wild experiment. One of these foolish TV programmes that focus on pranks on oblivious people. Or simply... his coach being desperate, having no idea what to do with his temperamental student? But in that case, why would Novak be so happy? And why does Tatyana look like she was positively surprised by her new partner's behaviour? And – most importantly – why does Yakov feel like he was the only one who did not understand what was happening at all?!

'Speaking of the routine...' the coach started, 'it was rather good. You did better than I expected you to do.'

Rather good?! Feltsman shouted in his mind. I got hit on my face several times, and he says that we've skated „rather good"?! For fuck's sake, I looked like I'd come back from war! And what is „better than I supposed you to do" supposed to mean?! Pardon me, but what did he expect? Fatalities?!'

Well, maybe it actually was possible – speaking of fatalities. If Yakov hadn't had stopped his risky friend on time... who apparently was absolutely not deterred from doing dangerous things.

'The routine was okay, but I would change some jumps,' she declared in a confident voice. 'Salchow is good for killing time. I'd like to learn jumping Lutz.'

Lutz?! Yakov felt like yelling. I barely manage to get full rotations in my toe loops, and you're talking about Lutz?!'

'And I wouldn't mind some more energetic music,' she added, smiling. 'Don't you think, Jackie?'

'Not Jackie, I'm Yakov,' he hissed, glaring at her furiously.

That's not even a variant of my name! he thought with anger.

'Whatever. So what are we doing, mister coach? Can we get a faster song?'

'I'll see what I can do.' Novak was as much excited as Lubicheva. 'But before I arrange your meeting with a choreographer, you have to go over a few of the basics. I want you two to skate together for at least a month before you start learning new routines.'

A month?! Feltsman hoped that he overheard. We're supposed to get used to one another in a mere MONTH?! Fuck, I doubt a year would be enough!

The longer he was a part of all of it, the more confused he felt. Nevermind these two thousands he'd bet on Ivanovitch. Nevermind the fact he was supposed to be skating with a wench who was like a Zamboni with turbo-changer flame blower instead of brakes. Nevermind all of that! He'd done lots of things in his life. Teaching a reckless girl some self-control couldn't be that difficult.

But why everyone except Yakov were oblivious to the most important issue? Because, despite appearances, the biggest issue was not Tatyana's difficult nature. It wasn't. The problem was the gap between Feltsman's and Lubicheva's skills.

If only the gap was at least small. Or even big. But it was neither small, neither big – it was drastic! How Feltsman, the man who'd been learning basic sit spin for eternity, was supposed to compare himself to a person who could raise her foot over her head?

And he didn't mean that skating with that girl would make Yakov supercritical about himself (he already was, so it made no difference to him). In the first place, he wouldn't feel fair about skating with Tatyana. He still couldn't get why did she agree to something like that, without complaining. Didn't she think that being in a team with a little man like Yakov wouldn't give her any benefits? Was it because she was kicked out of Lenin? Maybe she was desperate, just like Feltsman was? Ready for everything, just to save her career screaming in agony?

The young man swallowed a gulp in his throat. Was it really all they could do? Madness? Was it how the last resort of figure skaters who fucked up the Worlds or were thrown out of prestigious clubs looked like? If the traditional methods did not work, could they only try out something crazy and unusual?

Yakov glanced at the coach, silently begging the old man to explain it all. To clarify what did he mean, slowly and carefully.

But Novak didn't say anything. He was just standing and looking at his students with a wide smile.

Well, let's hope he knew what he's doing, Feltsman thought, shaking his head. The only thing I can do is to trust that man. Maybe it won't be that bad?

xXx

It wasn't bad – it was horrible. Lame, shitty, gruesome!

Four months had passed... four fucking long months, and all that Tatyana and Yakov had managed was not bumping into each other during choreographic sequences. All the rest was a damn chaos. A chaos written with a capital 'C'. For Christ's sake, the season's beginning was right around the corner, and they still hadn't finished their routines!

And that was mostly Tatyana's fault, who was constantly trying to improve things that didn't need to be improved. But also Yakov's, who couldn't tell her 'no'. Or rather – he could, but he didn't want to. And he didn't want to because he thought that him being a mediocre shouldn't be a reason to give up trying difficult elements. Feltsman's team mates said that it was stupid of him and that he was stubborn as a mule and a masochist. But Feltsman believed he was just being fair with his more talented partner.

Whatever happens, I won't be a burden, he promised himself after the memorable first practice with Lubicheva. I may not be quite talented, but that does not give me right to hold her back. If Tatyana for some reason had decided to skate with a mediocre like me, I will pay her back by doing my best!

Well, despite making promises, Yakov soon found out that he couldn't always keep them. It was partly due to the fact that some of Lubicheva's suggestions basically equaled suicide, or were fucked up and completely dumb ('I'd sooner kiss Vronkov on his mug than agree to do a death spiral while holding your legs'). Yet it was mostly because Yakov's body wasn't cooperating with his good intentions ('If you don't know yet, woman, that loud crunch was most probably the sound of my coccyx breaking, so would you kindly stop bugging me about including a Lutz in the programme!!!').

In effect, every next week looked exactly the same: the young man everyday would come back to his room shared with Igor and Pavlo being so tired, that one would think he'd been rolling around the ice rather than skating (which wasn't that far from the truth); and then he'd literally wallow in the ice (read: jump into a tub full of ice in order to heal the remnants of his body); and then, glowering at his roommates with death cold eyes, he'd throw himself on his bed. In the morning he'd come to the practice, think up some reason why Tatyana was late to avoid her being scolded by the coach, and when the carefree missy would come around, Feltsman would wait for the coach to look away and scold the annoying lady himself for making out with whoever was around and being lazy, to which Lubicheva would respond with yawning and picking her nose.

But the tiring routine was tolerable. That wasn't the worst thing. The worst one was the voice in Yakov's head, telling him that all he'd been doing had no point at all, that the progress he'd been achieving with Lubicheva was not important and that if that amazing skater would've been working with someone like Ivanowich or Mishkin, it would be so much better for her.

Mishin – an experienced twenty-year-old. Ivanowitch – ex single skater who decided to try out pair skating. Why neither of them was skating with Tatyana? Why Yakov was?

Once, Yakov decided he was full of all that. He refused to spend another day on decorating his body with new bruises! He at the very least had to know why he'd been doing that in the first place...

He stopped in front of his coach's office and banged on the door. It was a high time for him to get some explanation!

'Yes?' a man behind the door chirruped.

The room that Novak took for his office resembled a miniature botanical garden. The moment Yakov entered the room, he shrugged, smelling a decent number of some exotic flowers. The room was submerged in green colour – it was on the shelves, on the ledges, on the floor... Feltsman would bet that if one they there was not enough place in the room for another plant, Novak would put one on his own head. Duh, that man was just nuts for plants! A damn amateur botanist...

Seeing Yakov, the old man's eyes brightened up. The coach put his watering can aside hurriedly. 'Pardon me for a moment,' he said, raising his pointing finger up.

He seated himself behind the desk, extended his arms, closed his eyes and smiled blissfully. Feltsman raised his eyebrows.

'Erm... excuse me, but what are you doing?'

Fuck, the old fool couldn't have been huffing anything weird, could he? But, Yakov wondered... who knew what plants were growing in all these pots of his? Maybe the whole office was a disguised marijuana plantation? That would explain why the coach was always walking around being so cheerful.

'I'm enjoying the moment,' Novak whispered. 'The historical moment for the Champions' Club! Yakov Felsman, who'd never been complaining about anything, has come to my office to complain. Oh, my dear boy! If only you'd known how long I've been waiting for this moment.'

Yakov rolled his eyes. Well... he isn't high, at least.

The coach finally stopped making his strange, meditative kind of pose. He looked at his student earnestly, wrapping his hands on the top of the desk.

'It's about Tatyana, I believe?' he asked gently. 'She's done a number on you, right? Before you say anything, remember that you've been skating together only for a couple of months. When you get to know her better, you will see that she's full of assets.'

For Yakov, Tatyana's only asset was her best friend, Lilia Baranovskaya. At the simple thought of the beautiful ballet dancer, Yakov's cheeks blushed.

The young man shook his head angrily. 'I haven't come here to complain,' he stated with a deep sigh. 'Some child's quirks are not enough to push my buttons.'

'Oh, she's not quite a child.' Novak waved his hand. 'Yakov, you're only two years older than her!'

'Physically, yes. But I assure you that if we take into account her mental age, the gap is much bigger than just two years.'

'Well, it's difficult not to agree...'

Yakov took a seat next to his coach. The old man reached for a teapot, but Feltsman shook his head.

'I haven't come here to complain,' he repeated what he said earlier. 'That's true, Tatyana has... hmm... difficult character...' To put it mildly. '...but that's not what I wanted to talk about. It's not about her.'

'Aha? Then what's your problem, dear boy?'

'My own predispositions.'

The coach fixed his eyes on his desk for a moment, and then went back to look at Yakov. 'Continue,' he asked politely.

Feltsman opened his mouth and just when he was about to start speaking, he hesitated. He had a deja vu. Hadn't he gone through a conversation like this already? But with whom? And when could it be?

Ah... right! Four months ago! Four months ago, he was talking about this with Vadim. On the same day, he saw Tatyana for the first time. Yakov remembered his brother telling him to talk to his coach. And the young skater planned to do so, but because of all the fuss about Lubicheva he'd completely forgotten about that.

Well, he laughed in his thoughts, I am talking to the coach RIGHT NOW. Better late than never.

'I think that the whole situation is horribly unfair to Tatyana,' he said, looking in Novak's eyes. 'She's an amazing skater. I'd say she's a genius. The way she's skating... the rate at which she's learning new things... all these things... all of that... for me, it's something out of this world! And, frankly speaking... eh... I wouldn't really mind, because thanks to Tatyana I'm learning a bunch of new stuff... and even though she annoys me as hell, I like her in my own way, because she knows what she wants which is a huge advantage in the sports' world, but...'

Yakov paused, wondering how to put his thoughts in words.

'But?' the coach asked.

'...but don't you think that it would be better for Tatyana to skate with someone more experienced? With Mishkin, or with Ivanovich?'

'You think they'd manage through it?' Novak asked, amused. 'You think they'd be able to keep her from hurting herself? You think they wouldn't run off screaming into the night after getting hit with her hair for the fifth time?'

Yakov scratched his ear. Well... actually... right, he didn't think about that.

'At least they wouldn't pull her back,' he said, shrugging his shoulders.

'Hmm... are you pulling her back?' The coach pressed his pointing finger to his lips, observing his student.

'I'm rather sure about it,' Feltsman mumbled.

'Why would you be pulling her back?'

'Because I don't have talent!'

Novak was silent for a while.

'Why do you think so?'

Yakov clenched his teeth. He felt that he'd been losing his patience.

'What do you mean „Why"?' Both of his fists banged the table. 'You're my coach! You must've seen how am I skating! I'm the worst one at basically everything... everything is so much more difficult for me. Jumps, spins, steps! I'm such a slow study! Well, I may be not that bad at lifts, but that's not enough.'

Lifts were the only trump card Yakov ever had. As he had carried shit tons of carton boxes as a young lad, swinging skinny ladies over his head wasn't that difficult. But – just as Feltsman said himself – that was not enough.

The coach remained stoical during his student's outburst. The glint in Yakov's green eyes (which should've been labelled as a 'look of an outraged bull') made everyone willing to flee as they saw it. One of the novices admitted that if he'd have been a torreador, he'd much rather use his red rag to tease a 600-pound bull than 'the Couch's assistant, that scary monster, Mister Feltsman'. Nobody could stand being pierced by Yakov's ices without a clenching feeling in their stomach. With an exception of Novak. Well, and maybe Tatyana, but he didn't count the ones without their survival instinct...

Yakov had to admit that in some way he admired the Buddhist peace of his coach's spirit (subconsciously he hardly could believe it was achieveable without the help of some drugs), but he had moments when he'd rather have his coach simply yell at him. If he'd set the record straight, just like any other teacher, by saying either 'You're talented' or 'You have no talent'. 'You rule' or 'You suck'. 'You're a genius' or 'You're a disaster'.

He'd rather Novak would simply tell him whether he was fit for skating, or whether he should've fucked off rightaway.

There were many coaches who would do that. But Novak was not a one. He couldn't do that. Whatever he did, whatever advice he'd give, he never saw things only in 'black' and 'white'. For him, there always were two sides to the coin. Vronkov pointed this out as the reason why Champions' Club skaters rarely made their way up to the podium; that because of chasing the meaningless 'other side of the coin' Misha Novak had no guts to carry out the 'natural selection' and give up coaching the hopeless competitors. Yakov, being loyal to his coach, would bark that Novak was a wise man. But he rather meant to fuss back at Vronkov than actually believed what he was saying.

Right then he didn't believe that. He was just angry. And impatient. The annoying old man hadn't said a word for over a minute.

'Figure skating is not only about jumps, spins, steps and lifts,' Novak said, finally.

So what is it about? Yakov wanted to ask.

He didn't have time, as Novak spoke up first: 'Tell me, how do you understand the word „talent"?'

The young man raised his eyebrows. 'That's rather obvious, isn't it?'

'At the first thought, yes. But I'd like to hear your definition. And you should have one, right? I heard you've applied to college. You're going to a Sports Academy, aren't you?'

Ugh, right, Feltsman thought, resigned.

He wasn't sure where it was heading, so he said the first thing that came into his mind: 'Well then, so „being talented" means... Eee... well... well, that... you're good at something. We say that someone's talented when they can achieve something easier and faster than others.'

'Okay...'

To Yakov's dismay, his coach put a fern on the desk.

Oh, God, please, no; only not another biological metaphor! he whined.

'Tell me the features of this fern,' Novak asked, smiling cheerfully.

Feltsman gave him a dirty look. 'Don't try to embarrass me. You know very well that I'm no good at the botanics.'

'Just tell me whatever comes to your mind! As the common sense tells. Come on, Yakov... think of a fern's features.'

Yakov snorted. He crossed his arms in hope that his body language said what he was thinking of such psychological chitchat-shitchat.

'It grows everywhere, it's quite common, it needs lots of water and it's... well...' he tried to show what he meant by stretching his arm, 'flexible?'

'Exactly.' Novak clapped his hands. 'So we can say that flexibility is a fern's talent, right?'

'Err... yes?'

'Okay then. What will you say about a cactus?'

The coach picked a spiky plant and placed it on the desk, next to the fern. Yakov watched him with embarrassment.

'Are you fucking serious?' He glared at the old man with plea.

'Language.' Novak lectured him with a finger, blowing raspberries.

'Sorry. Okay, so... err... a cactus.' He tried to remember of everything he knew about the spiky representatives of the flora. 'Cactuses' features. A cactus can be found only in several places in the world, so you could say it's very rare. It doesn't need that much water, or rather it hardly even needs any water, or rather it hardly needs anything; I know that because a friend of mine has got that thing and he doesn't do anything around it, and that stuff still grows like it's gone mad, so I think that thing is just unmoved by anything. Oh, and the bloody thorns. If you touch them, you can go mad.'

'I wouldn't have said it better myself.' The coach shrugged slightly. 'So we can say that making an effective use of whatever comes around and making difficult conditions working for it are the talents of a cactus, am I right?'

'Let's say so.'

'Okay, Yakov... and now comes the thousand points question: what is more talented, a fern or a cactus?'

Yakov felt an extra pint of blood running through his veins. Holy fuck, even Sokrates didn't ask thatstupid questions! Feltsman was annoyed at his coach exactly as much as he was at his Russian teacher when she asked him to explain the famous phrase 'I only know that I know nothing'.

'How am I supposed to answer that?' Yakov yelled, waving his arms around. 'That's dumb! How am I supposed to say which of these plants is better, if we're talking about two different species?!'

Novak snapped his fingers with a facial expression that would make it hard not to add a caption saying 'Eureka!'.

'Exactly! And that's the very essence of what I wanted to talk to you about!'

Feltsman, who was getting ready to yell some more, froze in a stupid pose, with his mouth wide open.

Err... what? An essence?

'There are millions of different people with millions of different talents,' the old man said slowly, keeping his eyes on the desk. 'Everyone has a gift. Something that could've been called an insignificant trait can be used as a weapon, if one can exploit it to its furthest.'

'And what is that trait of mine that i should be exploiting?' he asked urgently. 'We agreed that I'm bad at everything except from the lifts. Maybe I have some hidden talents, but in all things that are important in skating, I'm rather mediocre.'

'There's one more think you keep forgetting about. A think that's freaking important in figure skating. Or... at least in pair skating.'

He wondered what that thing was? The only talent Yakov could think of was teensitting Tatyana. Oh, and making a fool of himself in front of Lilia Baranovskaya. He could've got a damn PhD in that.

'What's that thing?' He started to feel quite intrigued.

He expected Novak to simply give him a word. He expected that he'd tell him about some universal virtue that ninety-nice per cent of the world's population had and that he'd try to convince his student with some philosophical speech that the said advantage is very useful in the sport of figure skating. But, to Yakov's great surprise, the old man said:

'I've been coaching figure skaters for twenty years, ten of which I've spent coaching at Champions' Club. I beg you won't believe me if I say that I heard a great number of complaints in my life. There's never been a week without any moaner loitering around my office to complain about something or someone. 'Mister Novak, Iosif did this!', 'Mister Novak, Mashenka did that!', 'Xenia is dumb!', 'Ygrekov is an arsehole', and so on. There are complaints about everybody in this club. There are problems with everyone. Except from one person. There's just one person in the whole club who never, ever, not even once, was complained about. There's just one guy who everyone likes. Do you know who that person is?'

'The caretaker?'

'That's you, Yakov.'

The young man's jaw dropped in surprise.

Ugh... me? he wondered, scratching his head. Really? I'm swearing my tongue off and demolishing halls everyday and no one ever complained about me? Interesting...

'You're a middle child, right?' Novak asked gently. 'You've got both older and younger siblings?'

'That's right. I've got an older brother and two younger sisters.'

'I've read an article about „middle children" recently. According to psychologists they're most likely to be successful with people-to-people contacts. They're not allowed to do as much as the eldest siblings; and they don't expect to be treated lightly like the youngest are. They need to constantly adapt to their surroundings sice they're little. They're never their parents' pupils. They grow up thinking that their main role is to stand aside and take care of the chaos unleashed by the rest of the family. That's why the middle children are the least confrontational people in the world.

Yakov snorted. Right, all of that was quite true... except from one detail.

'If I'm not confrontational, then Stalin was an Apostle,' he mumbled, making duckface.

Novak giggled. He granted his student with a half scolding, half affectionate look – in a way that a lenient grandfather would look at his naughty grandson.

'You're temperamental, Yakov,' he admitted, winking at him knowingly. 'You always say what you think without beating around the bush. But that doesn't mean you're confrontational... they mean that you're straightforward. And at our times... at times when everybody lies to each other and pretend to be someone else, being frank and straightforward is something to be prized. How do you think, why do your teammates like you so much? Why nobody complains about you? Because you're not talking about them behind their backs! If you've got a problem, you go to the person you've got problem with and you lay all your cards on the table. Moreover, you're fair, tolerant, loyal and they can always count on you.'

'It's very nice of you to say that... but I can't see how is it related to figure skating or talent?'

Right then the coach was the one starting to be impatient.

'Yakov... the ability to act with other people, to influence their decisions, to rise up their motivation is a kind of a talent,' he emphasized, looking at his student with eyes screaming „Dear God, just let him understand what I'm trying to say!". 'A talent which can't be underestimated!'

Yakov's eyes widened. The young man's hands, up to that moment clenched into fists, finally loosened up. Feltsman was staring at his outspread fingers like he'd seen them for the first time ever.

Influencing other people? Getting them motivated? So that was a talent as well? Yakov had never seen it that way before. And was he really good at that?

'Let's think about Tatyana right now...' Novak continued. 'Let's assume she's a cactus. She doesn't have to work that hard to gain benefits from everything that surrounds her. There's no jump she wouldn't learn to jump and no spin she wouldn't be able to perform. She's like a cactus that needs ten times less water than any other plant; she needs ten times less time to teach herself whatever she needs to be able to do. Would you agree?'

Feltsman's heart gave a one – only one – short beat of jealousy.

'Yeah, I agree,' he said hesitantly.

For some reason he knew that he shouldn't let any bitterness get into him. Something was telling him to listen carefully to what he was going to hear. That it might be the most important thing he would hear; not only right then, but in his entire life.

'But...' Novak's voice suddenly became quieter and sadder, 'there's one more feature of cactuses, quite an important one. And most people seeing a cactus spot that exact feature, before noticing anything else. If they even would notice anything else.'

The coach's finger touched one spike carefully.

'Thorns?' Yakov guessed.

'That's right.' The old man sighed loudly. 'In the world of competitive sport, cactuses are real treasures. There are very few people able to learn something with their will... with such an ease as if they've been born to be doing that. There can be one person with such a talent in a whole generation of athletes. And there's hardly ever any use made of that person's talent. These unfortunate thorns are the reason... tell me, do you think that it's easy for Tatyana? Do you think that her life is easy?'

'No.'

'Exactly! And now, listen to me... the lone fact that you said „no" with no hesitation... that you came here not to complain about the thorns, but to point out you being inferior compared to the cactus... all of that makes you an amazing, unique person. You're an example of a magnificent and very rare fern.'

Novak finished his speech by smiling at his student and petted lovingly a bent leaf of said plant.

'Well, that's right, but me being a fern doesn't make the gap between me and Tatyana any smaller!' Yakov barked out, turning his eyes away from Novak. 'The thing you've just said only confirmed what I was talking about. I am too weak to be skating with that girl. Don't you think that cactuses should be skating with other cactuses, and by analogy, ferns with other ferns?'

'I admit I used to think like that.' His coach nodded, stroking his chin with his thumb. 'That's why I'd been making you skate with girls much older than you. You've always been very mature, even as a kid. Well... of course, you have your moments of weakness. You know, like tearing off toilet seats... destroying swings... spanking people... the posters...'

'NOT A WORD ABOUT THE POSTERS!' Yakov yelled with his face turning bright red.

Novak raised his hands as a gesture of defence, 'Okay, we won't be talking about the posters.' Looking at his student apologetically, he wiped some sweat off his brow. 'It was a... ehh... a traumatic experience for me as well as for you. But you know, apart from the toilets and the posters, you've always been very mature. I always thought that by choosing you partners who were similar to you in this way, I was doing you a favour. But after the last competition I realised how wrong I was. I've been thinking for a long time, what have I done wrong? Only after I went to USA I've opened my eyes.'

'You've been to USA?' Feltsman expressed his respect with a short whistle. 'Were you allowed to by the authorities?'

'I have my connections,' the old man admitted, sticking out his chest a little. 'But, nevermind... When I've been in the States, I attended a very fascinating lecture. Americans are indeed very knowledgeable, did you know that? Obviously they have their drawbacks... you know, like rushing to psychotherapist while they're feeling a little blue and so on... but when it comes to managing people, they're a very wise nation. They learn the hard way, but they come to very outstanding conclusions.'

'Like what?'

'Yakov, do you know Alexei Vronkov?'

While Yakov was being asked that question, he was playing with a pen that was lying on the desk. The desk survived. The pen wasn't that lucky.

'No, I have no fucking idea who he could be.' That's how a nineteen-year-old from Russia set a new world record in the amount of sarcasm that could be squeezed into one sentence.

Obviously, the real response would sound roughly like that:

Yes, mister coach, as you know very well I've met that wanker several years ago. We've met each other at a camp in Moscow and we hated each other at first sight. He's very talented, but he's also a lazy rascal, while I'm not quite talented, but I'm the master of hardwork. We like betting each other. Sometimes he's the one to win, sometimes I am, but most of the times he is. That utter cock is my greatest rival, so I take our bets very serious, even if all the fuss is about something completely dumb or messed up and dangerous, like the posters – I still remember well the Committee for State Security officials coming to the rink. But I won't be talking about that because just thinking about that incident makes me feel like wetting my pants, so I don't want to remind myself of it even more. But of course the blame lies with that prick, because it was his idea, and basically all evil in the world is his fault, including communism, unemployment, Tatyana's beaded hair band and the fact that I've got ink all over my hand right now!

Yakov hoped that all that he'd just thought of could be asily read out of his eyes, because the perspective of repeating it out loud pissed him off.

The coach chuckled. 'Tell me, why does Vronkov always win?' he asked, handing his student a tissue.

'Because he's skating with Katerina,' Yakov answered instantly.

'Are you sure that's the right answer?'

The young man stopped wiping the ink off the desk to give the old man a drawn look.

Yes, he was pretty damn sure. He wasn't sure about loads of things in his life, but in that case he had not a single doubt.

Feltsman smirked. He thought he should make a correction to his earlier thoughts on Vronkov – that wanker used to be a lazy rascal. But since he started skating with Katerina, he was not anymore. It's funny how a mere thought of a possibility of losing one's testicles could make a person so motivated for hard work... and if one was to believe the things said by the Spartan's skaters that was the kind of threats Vronkov heard before each practice. Eh, If only that punk wasn't so full of himself, Yakov could even have felt sorry for him.

'That's the only answer I can think of that would make sense,' Yakov said.

'See!' Novak's pointing finger raised up triumphantly. 'I got you! You said what you did, when you could've said that it's because Vronkov has a talent!'

'Okay, then.' Yakov shrugged his shoulders. 'I change my answer, then. It's because he's skating with Katerina and because he has a talent. You can't convince me that his talent isn't an important matter...'

'I don't intend to do so. But Vronkov doesn't skate his routines by himself. As you have pointed out, he's skating with Ekaterina. And what are you going to say about her, Yakov? Do you think she's also talented? Do you think she has any gift when it comes to jumps or spins?'

Feltsman tried to think of everything he knew about Ekaterina Mongetale. Everyone reached an agreement about her loathsome half-Italian, half-Russian temperament – that that horrifying devil must've been an incarnation of Catherine the Great or even Stalin himself. But was she talented? Well...

'I'd rather say no,' Yakov said after a while. 'But she's working hard. And she's got an unbelievable stamina.'

'But that doesn't make her a genius skater,' Novak stressed out. 'If we'd look only at her predispositions, there's a huge gap between Ekaterina and Alexei, don't you think? A gap such as the one between you and Tatyana.'

The young man needed a second to process the last statement of his coach. It had never come across his mind to compare Katerina and Alexei with Tatyana and him. The difference in style of both teams was huge. It was like comparing impressionism with cubism. On the other hand... if one would speak only on the skills of the members of both teams... then maybe his coach was a bit right?

'Where are you heading with that?'

'I'm trying to tell you,' Novak began, stressing every syllable, 'that a fern will always make great friends with other ferns. And that a cactus can be understood only by an another cactus. But when trying to see the bigger picture, two ferns can't learn a lot from one another. Neither can two cactuses. What can you possibly learn from a person who is exactly the same as you are? What use can you make of features that you already have?

Yakov kept staring at the cactus. Feltsman had no idea how it could be possible, but somehow... somehow it all made sense. That huge, weird metaphor he didn't want to listen to... that he thought would bring him no use at all... which he took for an another dumb, messed up lecture... actually, it had opened his eyes. He finally noticed how much he and Tatyana were different.

He might have known that before, but back then he was taking mostly their skills into account. But he totally ignored the fact that...

Feltsman inhaled sharply. He heard in his mind the words that Vadim told him four months ago:

You won't win any competition only with talent. Moreover: you won't win any competition alone.

Tatyana couldn't win because she couldn't cooperate with her partner. Yakov could cooperate. He couldn't win because his style lacked originality, uniqueness and that thing that made spectators scream: 'Wow!'. Tatyana had all these things. Shit. So it was all about that...

'You and Tatyana are different, so you both have a lot to offer to one another,' Novak said out loud the thought that was being processed in Yakov's head. 'I don't want you to think it's going to be easy. Even if you become friends one day, you will always stay a cactus and a fern. Nothing can change a person's true nature. Nothing, do you understand? Not hard work, not time, not maturity, not even coercion. You can try saddling up a pig, you can even try teaching the poor thing to pull a wagon, but it will always be a pig, no matter what you'd do. Just like a horse won't be feeling comfortable in a pigsty, even if you'd try to convince it that the mud would make it healthy and joyful and so on.

Feltsman shrugged. 'You know... I'd rather stick to cactuses and ferns.'

'Sorry, I got carried away a little,' the old man said apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sure he did. He'd better stay away from pigs and horses! But well... about the rest...

Yakov raised up. 'Okay, let's assume you are right,' he mumbled, putting his hands inside his pockets. 'I'll do my best. If you say so, I will try and figure out that... erm... cactus.'

Novak smiled. 'She speaks well of you, Yakov. All your partners did, but with Tatyana it means something more. You did for her something that no one else did. Well... maybe apart from her best friend. You're one of two people who accept her just as she is. You're not trying to change her into someone who's not her. She can sense that, you know? And she respects you for that... even if she doesn't show it all the time.

Hands that Yakov kept in his pockets shivered a little. Feltsman turned his face away, so that his coach wouldn't have been able to see the weakness that appeared in his green eyes. The young man knew where it came from, but he would've never said it out loud.

Because, to be frank... it wasn't only Tatyana who was given something exceptional. Thanks to Lubicheva and Baranovskaya, Feltsman discovered something new as well. It wasn't friendship – he knew very well of that thing. Both as a little brat and as a young man who would soon become an adult, Yakov knew lots of people who he could've called friends. But only after he met these two women – the one he had an unrequited crush for and the one whom he started to treat like she'd have been his younger sister – he understood a new kind of feeling: a feeling of another person who could completely see right through him.

The feeling of another person looking at him and seeing not a temperamental man who could get furious very easily – as all the others did – but the real him.

The awareness that there were people who could see what was right there, under all the layers his personality was covered with, made Yakov feel both relieved and terrified. Because he had a reason for hiding in such a shell.

Figure skating taught him one thing – that all that guys dancing on the ice, jumping their triple sals, spinning with their legs raised over their heads and doing a bunch of other crazy stuff could play the big men, act like they were so self-confident, but under their masks of tough athletes they all hid the exact same thing. All of them – both ferns and cactuses. All of them had the same problem.

They all had hearts as frail as ice.

'Yakov!'

The young man moved his hand over the door handle. Feltsman turned his head to look at his coach. The old man sitting behind the desk looked to him more dignified than ever.

'What do you think, what's the thing that I like about you the most?' Novak asked with a smile, but his eyes were earnest; deadly earnest.

Yakov tipped his head in a question.

'Looking at other skater you always see a person first, and only then you see an athlete,' Novak whispered. 'That's a gift of yours. The most precious gift that one could have. Whatever you decide to do, don't reject what you'd been given. Do not reject that gift ever.'

At present...

'I see.'

Tatyana was laying on her back and watching a fan spinning over her head. The woman's eyes were filled with sadness and regret.

'I see...' she repeated with a short sigh. 'So that's what the ferns and cactuses mean? Oh, really... I've always thought Novak was a bit of a weirdo. But in reality, he was a great man. A damn wise man.'

'You don't have to tell me that,' she heard Yakov's gloomy voice on the phone.

'But that was only the introduction, am I right, Jackie?'

Tatyana raised to her feet and reached for a cup of coffee standing on the bedside table. The latte smelled just amazing, as a one prepared by a beloved husband should. Not wanting to disturb, Steve moved to the living room with his favourite book.

'Yes,' Feltsman confirmed in a tired voice. 'That wasn't even the beginning. I wanted to explain the damn plants to you.'

Leaning against the wall, the former skater put her free hand in her dressing gown's pocket and moved her eyes over the city behind the window's glass. Even though there wasn't any ambulance heard anymore, the billboard's lights sparkling in the dark were strangely... depressing.

'I don't think I know when exactly all of that began.' Tatyana took a sip from her mug. 'That... erm... problem of yours. At least I'm not sure.'

'I'm not sure either,' Yakov muttered, 'whether I can tell when it begun.'

'Well, we have the whole night to specify that matter. Let's start with the most important part. Tell me about the bet.'

'Well, fine, I will tell you. But before I do, focus, okay? It's a long and very messed up story. If you don't pay enough attention, you may not get which bet am I talking about. You must know that even though there are loads of bets in this story, only one of them... only one... was truly important to me.

xXx

  *chav – the author uses the Polish term dres (you can read about them on Wikipedia); stereotypically these are 'young lower class men who'd beat you up for basically anything'. There's a similar group in Russia called gopniki (thank you for letting me know, NB!) and Wikipedia suggested that a 'chav' would be a British equivalent. Actually, the group was separated and got its name in Poland almost thirty years after Yakov uses the term; I don't know about Russia or Britain. In Polish it pretty much just sounds funny.  

xXx

[Author's Note] - Story by Jora_Calltrise 

So you got the opportunity to see the nineteen-year-old Yakov in action! How did you like him?
I hope you weren't scared by all the philosophical chit-chat. BUT 'The Gamble' is supposed to be a more serious story [TN: compared to Author's another fanfic which is not translated to English yet as far as I know], so from time to time there will be some... hmm... thoughts in it. But I promise you'll have plenty of moments to laugh at. Especially when Viktor appears and Yakov's live will start to resemble a constant Armaggedon ;)

If you want to ask me a question, find me on Tumblr or Facebook (my name's Jora Calltrise on both).

Trivia:
* Leningrad is an older name of Sankt Petersburg.

* Alexei Mishin (by whom, if we were to believe YOI creators, Yakov was inspired) was pair skating with Tamara Moskvina. It was probably the first skater to ever perform the Biellmann spin (doing a split while spinning). She did it... in 1965 ;) What's interesting, I found out about that AFTER I'd written Prologue (I'm talking about the date, I did my research before writing). A video of Moskvina and Mishin's performance from 1968 is below.

https://youtu.be/6-c0RmNtfR4

* Joseph Stalin really was born on Father Christmas Birthday (6th of December) (at least according to Julian Calendar).

* Alena Vrzanova was a Czechoslovak skater who was the first lady to jump a double Lutz.

Technical note:
Dear Readers! While writing the story, I did what I could to stic to historical realities. But please keep in mind that for the stories some facts (such as: venues where competition were held, World Champions' and record holders' names) could have been changed. I ask for your understanding!

For my fanfic reality, Viktor was born in 1988.

The wonderful anime 'Yuri on Ice' and its wonderful characters belong to 'Yuri on Ice' creators (Mitsurou Kubo and Sayo Yamamoto). The OCs belong to me (the Author, Jora Calltrise).

[Translator's Note]

Hello, I'm Zashi and I'm translating 'The Gamble'! (That's quite a surprising line, I know.)

Firstly, I'd like to thank Jora for letting me translate her work, and for all the help, and for writing such an amazing story in the first place.

Secondly, I'd like to beg you for forgiveness - it's the first time I'm translating from Polish to English (Polish is my first language and I've been learning English since I was about three feet high, but I've never been to an English-speaking country for more than two months so I'm still not as fluent as I would like to be), so sorry if my translation sometimes seems sloppy or unnatural or just strange.

If I start to write everything I want to write it could turn out to be longer than this chapter and I don't want it to be so, so I'll just say three things.
First - I hope you enjoyed the chapter.
Second - if you see any errors in spelling, grammar or whatever, please let me know!
Third - I have no idea when I will post the next chapter, but I hope it will be soon.

Kisses, Zashi