Chapter 4: The Breaking Point
The gym was a converted storage room off the main rink, and it smelled of rubber mats and old sweat. Leonid had spent enough hours in it to know every crack in the ceiling tiles, every squeak of the industrial fan that spun uselessly in the corner. Tonight, the air was thick and hot, and his lungs burned with every breath.
Jennie had him on the floor.
"Again," she said.
He dropped into another lunge, his back leg extended, his knee hovering an inch above the mat. The muscles in his thighs screamed. The tendons in his hips felt like they were being pulled apart by invisible hands. He had been holding the position for what felt like an eternity, and she hadn't even counted to ten yet.
"Lower," she said.
He dropped.
"Hold."
He held. The sweat dripped from his chin onto the mat. His jaw was clenched so tight he could feel the ache spreading into his temples. His hands trembled where they rested on his hips.
She circled him, her footsteps soft against the rubber floor. She wore black leggings and a fitted sports top, her hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. She looked like she had just walked out of a magazine, composed and unbothered, while he was dying at her feet.
"Your legs are your foundation," she said, her voice conversational, almost bored. "If they are weak, everything else collapses. The jumps. The spins. The landings." She stopped in front of him. "You."
He didn't respond. He couldn't. He was too busy trying not to collapse.
"Ten more seconds," she said. "But I want you to go deeper."
He let out a breath through his teeth. His knee dipped lower. The fire in his quadriceps intensified until he felt like his leg was going to snap in half. His body was shaking violently now, his control fraying at the edges.
She pulled out her phone, checked the time.
"Good," she said. "Switch."
He collapsed onto his other leg, barely managing to get into position before his knee hit the ground. The pain was different now, sharper, more immediate. His left leg was weaker than his right. She knew that. She always exploited that.
"Twenty reps," she said. "Then we move to squats."
He didn't argue. He had learned not to argue.
By the time she was done with him, he was lying flat on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling tiles, his limbs heavy and useless. His shirt was soaked through. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
She stood over him, looking down. Her face was unreadable.
"Get up," she said.
He didn't move.
"Leonid." Her voice sharpened. "I said get up."
He rolled onto his side, pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. His legs threatened to buckle. He gripped the wall for support.
She watched him with those dark feline eyes, patient and cold.
"Now," she said, "we go back on the ice."
He stared at her.
"Jennie—"
"Don't." She cut him off. "We are not done tonight. You have the competition in six days, and you are not ready. You are not even close to ready. And we are going to fix that."
She turned on her heel and walked out of the gym.
He stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, his body screaming at him to stop. Then he pushed off the wall and followed her.
The rink had been flooded with mist, thin and cold, swirling around his ankles as he stepped onto the ice. The spotlight burned overhead, a single golden blade of light that carved the darkness into a perfect circle of illumination. He skated to center ice, his legs still trembling, and she was waiting for him at the boards.
"The triple axel," she said. "Show me."
He wanted to tell her he was too tired. He wanted to tell her he needed to rest, just for a moment, just enough to catch his breath. But the words died in his throat. He had seen what happened when he made excuses. He had learned that lesson the hard way.
He pushed off.
The first attempt was a disaster. He went up with too much speed, lost his axis in the air, and came down on his hip with a crack that sent lightning bolts of pain through his entire body. He stayed down for a moment, his teeth gritted, his eyes squeezed shut.
"Again," she said.
He got up.
The second attempt was worse. He under-rotated, his blade catching on the ice at an awkward angle, sending him sprawling onto his chest. He skidded to a stop near the boards, gasping, his palms scraped raw.
"Again," she said.
His body was screaming. His hip was a solid block of pain. His legs were shaking so badly he could barely stand. But he pushed off again, and this time he landed it, hard, his knee jarring, his balance wavering, but he stayed upright.
She said nothing.
The fourth attempt he fell. The fifth attempt he fell harder. He hit the ice face-first, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. He tasted blood, metallic and warm, and when he dragged himself to his knees, he saw the red dripping onto the white surface.
She skated toward him.
For a moment, he thought she was going to help him up. But then her hand grabbed the collar of his jacket, yanked him upright, and pressed him against the boards. Her face was inches from his, her eyes burning with fury.
"You will not fail me," she hissed. "Do you understand?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. He was still gasping for breath.
Her hand swung back.
The slap came fast and hard, cutting across his cheek with a crack that echoed through the empty rink. His head snapped to the side. Pain exploded through his face, sharp and blinding. Blood spattered from his nose, spraying across the white ice.
He looked at her.
There was blood dripping down his chin now, staining the front of his jacket. His nose was throbbing, his cheek already swelling. He could feel the heat of her handprint on his skin.
"Do you understand?" she repeated.
He swallowed. The blood tasted like copper. He nodded.
"Good," she said. She shoved him away from her, pushing him back onto the ice. "Now run the program from the top. And Leonid?"
He paused, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
"If you fall again," she said, "you will stay on this ice until dawn."
He didn't doubt her.
The music began.
He moved through the opening sequence, his body leaden, his limbs heavy, but his mind sharp. The grief of the opening phrase settled into his chest like a stone. He moved into the cross roll, the twizzle, the sharp angry edges that carved lines into the ice.
The first triple salchow. He landed it.
The combination spin. He held it.
The music swelled. The triple axel approached.
He gathered speed. He felt the edge catch. He launched.
The rotation was perfect. The timing was perfect. His blade touched down, and he held it, gliding out of the landing with a clean, sweeping exit. He didn't stop. He moved into the final combination spin, his body a blur of motion, the music crashing around him.
The last note faded.
He held his pose, chest heaving, blood still dripping from his nose, staining the ice at his feet.
She didn't clap.
She walked toward him, stopped in front of him, and reached up to wipe the blood from his lip with the pad of her thumb. Her touch was almost gentle. Almost.
"Better," she said. "But not good enough. Tomorrow, we do it again. And the day after. And the day after that." She dropped her hand. "Until it is perfect. Are we clear?"
He stood there, trembling, bleeding, aching.
"Yes," he said.
She turned and skated toward the exit. Her voice floated back to him, soft and cold.
"Clean yourself up. You're bleeding on my ice."
He stood at center ice for a long time after she left.
The rink was silent. The spotlight still burned overhead. The blood had begun to freeze on the surface, dark red against the white.
He touched his nose. It was still bleeding.
He didn't know how much more he could take.
But he also knew he would rather die than disappoint her.
He pushed off the ice and began the program again.