#russian rocket

A small smile crept onto her red-painted lips. The 2026 Milan–Cortina Olympics was giving her the chance to bury in her subconscious the silver medal that for so long she had seen as tangible proof of her failure.

How can a second place at the Olympics be considered a failure? Being second in the world?

For many it would have been a trophy to display with pride, a milestone to remember every time their eyes fell on the small display case at home next to the family photographs

A symbol of success to celebrate near those you love.

But for her, it was nothing more than worthless metal, a bitter memory that had haunted her for four years.

Alexandra sighed, and from her lips formed a small cloud of condensation. It was cold that morning, she told herself mentally, but fortunately she could handle it. A gloved hand rested on the railing and green eyes observed, without much interest, a couple of athletes training.

She hated sharing the rink, she thought bitterly. She didn’t want anyone in her way.

She straightened her back and the high collar of the sports jacket — in white, red, and blue, recalling the Russian flag — brushed against the pale skin of her neck. With her other hand, she grabbed the zipper and pulled it down, opening the fabric under the lights of the arena. Alexandra lifted the corners of her lips slightly in a smile and, almost without realizing it, brought a hand to her face. The black glove moved aside a reddish-copper strand that had escaped from her bun.

A firm hand rested on her lower back — warm, decisive, familiar.

Alexandra turned abruptly, green eyes met two dark, impenetrable pools. Her shoulders instantly stiffened under the severe gaze of her coach, her chin slightly tilted downward as if already evaluating posture, energy, discipline.

"Ты уже знаешь, что делать, Саша" (You already know what to do, Sasha) said Eteri Tutberidze in a hoarse voice.

She never raised her tone. She didn’t need to.

Alexandra swallowed and nodded. There was still a week before the competition and already she felt the pressure tightening in her chest. She can’t start now, she thought, annoyed, while the distant sound of other athletes skating filled the arena.

The coach took her jacket with a quick, almost mechanical gesture, placing it over her forearm without really looking at her. She gave her a subtle smile — one that never quite reached her eyes. Then she brushed a blonde strand out from her face, a movement practiced, repeated thousands of times in thousands of competitions.

"Ты должна быть лучшей."(You must be the best) she whispered.

The wrinkles around her eyes deepened as she smiled.

Sasha clenched her jaw.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Anna Shcherbakova. She was standing nearby, skates carefully tied, hands clasped in front of her body to keep warm. Shoulders slightly curved, gaze gentle but tired. She gave her a small smile — polite, almost shy — but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Sasha sighed through her nose.

She won’t steal the gold from me again, she thought, feeling anger rise warmly under her skin.

She straightened her posture out of habit, pushing her shoulders back. She watched Anna cautiously, expecting that flash of confidence, that silent smile saying «I won, I’m the reigning champion»

But Anna seemed terribly exhausted: slight dark circles under the cold lights, lips pressed into a neutral expression.

Sasha looked away.

She didn’t hate her. Not really. She had forgiven herself long ago.

But her competitive streak prevailed, as always.

Perhaps she should speak to her. She didn’t want to ruin the atmosphere before the competition even began. The Olympics had already welcomed the Russians with coldness and tension; there was no need for the athletes to become enemies.

And yet she didn’t understand that hostility.

What did they have to do with political decisions?

The sound of the ice under her blades brought her back to the present. She inhaled slowly and leaned on the railing to remove her blade covers. Before entering the rink, she gently placed the blade on the ice and made a small forward glide — a light test, almost a check of the surface. She felt the ice beneath her skates: solid, smooth, ready.

Then she entered with a fluid motion, first the left foot, then the right, as if it were an instinct carved into her muscles. She stiffened her left leg and struck the blade against the ice.

She straightened her shoulders and, meanwhile, could hear Anna entering behind her.

She tilted her neck slightly to loosen it. She made a few slow ankle movements, bending and extending her knees to “feel” the blade’s grip. Alexandra pushed forward and began with a crossover — legs crossing in steady rhythm, one push after another, to gain speed along the edge of the rink. The blades cut the ice with precision, leaving thin white lines behind.

The movement was clean, controlled.

Her body leaned slightly into the curve, arms open for balance.

Then she slowed, shifted her weight onto one foot, and transformed the accumulated energy into a simple spin — a centered, stable rotation with her torso upright and head steady.

It wasn’t a difficult element.

She exited the spin with an elegant line, extending her leg backward in an arabesque, forming a long, clean line — her body almost horizontal, like a T suspended over the ice.

She resumed her glide.

Satisfied, she continued her routine.

As usual, the smile disappeared. Her chin lowered slightly, her eyes grew darker, focused. Now there was no arena, no audience. Only the sound of the blades and the rhythm of her breathing.

While performing another lap around the rink, she noticed in the distance two American athletes.

She frowned.

There was a tall blonde girl with sharp, athletic features, direct gaze and flushed cheeks from the cold. The other girl had Asian features and hair of strange and, above all, unacceptable appearance: shoulder-length hair with three yellow streaks alternating with dark brown.

What on earth are they doing? How are they dressed? She thought with disgust.

Her face twisted into a dark, accusatory expression, a flash of anger seeing how these athletes were treating figure skating with contempt. A sweatshirt and sweatpants? Really? Hair loose, no makeup, and dancing?

Where was the education? The respect for this noble sport?

She stared at the girl with the strange hair.

She seemed… to be having fun. She was dancing, joking with her blonde companion, proudly wearing the USA sweatshirt on her chest. Her brown eyes sparkled at something her teammate had said and she gave her a playful elbow in the side.

Alexandra boiled with anger.

The posture, Sasha! Chin up, Sasha! Makeup on, Sasha! Tie your hair, don’t smile, Sasha!

Memories of countless reprimands tightened her stomach. She clenched her jaw. The pressure of being perfect had been pressing on her all her life. She couldn’t stand seeing someone so carefree… someone who seemed to truly love skating.

That girl looked like a damn princess for being able to do whatever she wanted.

And Alexandra couldn’t stand those who didn’t respect her sport.

A flash of defiance crossed her green eyes and she pushed her blades harder, skating with more force.

She passed near them and intentionally made a sharp stop, slightly lifting the ice under her blades. She tensed her muscles and, with a quick push, performed a nearby spin — a controlled rotation — making her blades almost brush the blonde’s sweatpants.

Sasha smiled to herself and lowered her arms along the dress she was wearing.

The blonde skated toward her angrily.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” said the blonde, brows furrowed and lips tight.

Alexandra blinked and looked the girl up and down with a superior expression.

“If you want to dance, this isn’t the right place,” she said in English, but with a strong Russian accent.

The blonde made an incredulous face and was about to confront her when her companion stopped her.

“Amber, there’s no need,” she whispered calmly.

Then her brown eyes fixed on Sasha. Naturally dark, well-shaped eyebrows, fair skin slightly flushed from the cold, light freckles on her nose and small moles scattered across her face. The American girl smiled artificially and Alexandra was irritated when she noticed the small silver ring in the center of her upper frenulum. Thin, delicate. Just a metallic flash that made her smile even more annoying.

Alexandra sighed loudly through her nose.

“None of your business, принцесса"(princess) she muttered between her teeth.

The girl looked at her strangely, tilting her head not understanding what she had said in Russian. Amber opened her mouth to defend her but the girl interrupted again:

“I have no idea what you just said and frankly I don’t care.”

Her tone lowered and her playful, social demeanor was replaced by something Alexandra was used to seeing in Russian arenas.

“Let’s go, Amber.” The girl with Asian features said to the blonde and gave Alexandra an annoyed look before turning her back and skating toward the railing.

Alexandra didn’t even know her name.

But she already couldn’t stand her.