Chapter 1: The Interview Trap
The lights in the press room were too bright, bleaching everything into a harsh, sterile white. Ilia Malinin leaned back in his chair, the gold medal a cold, heavy disk against his sternum. He liked the weight of it.Another one. The microphone in front of him was a slim, black stalk, and he watched the cluster of reporters with a detached amusement, like a lion surveying a field of particularly nervous gazelles.A woman in a navy blazer raised her hand. “Ilia, another dominant performance.Your technical score was historic. How do you respond to critics who say your artistry lacks the… emotional vulnerability of some of your peers?”
Ilia’s smile was a quick, sharp slash.“My jumps are four and a half revolutions in the air. That’s my emotion.” A ripple of chuckles went through the room.He loved that sound.
Then a younger male reporter, glasses reflecting the bank of camera flashes, spoke up. “There’s been a lot of speculation, especially online, about the nature of your relationship with Mikhail Shaidorov. You’re often seen together at competitions. Is there anything you’d like to say about that?”
The room went still, the only sound the whirr of a camera lens. Ilia didn’t flinch. He let the silence stretch, thick and uncomfortable, before his gaze flickered past the reporter, across the sea of faces.There, leaning against the back wall, was Misha. Pale, delicate Misha, who hadn’t even made the podium. His long fingers were knotted together, his eyes wide and fixed on Ilia with a naked, hopeless hunger.
Ilia’s smirk returned, broader now, more possessive.He turned back to the reporter. “Misha?” he said, his voice dropping to a casual, conversational rumble that the microphone caught perfectly. “He’s a good kid. Cute little boy, isn’t he?” The room erupted in a混合 of gasps and uneasy laughter.Ilia watched the reporter’s ears turn red. “We skate. That’s all.”
He stood up, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the floor.The session was over.He didn’t answer any more questions.
The hallway outside was a sudden tunnel of quiet after the press room’s buzz. The air smelled of industrial cleaner and the faint, lingering sweat of athletes. Ilia walked, his dress shoes clicking a firm, impatient rhythm on the polished concrete. He didn’t need to look back to know Misha was following him.He could feel it, a weak, pulling current at his back.
He turned a corner into a deserted access hallway, lined with stacked gymnastics mats and fire extinguishers.Then he stopped.
He waited.A few seconds later, the soft shuffle of skate guards.Ilia turned slowly.
Misha stood there, a ghost in his team jacket, which swam on his slender frame. His eyes were red-rimmed.“Ilia…” he breathed, the word a plea.
In one swift motion, Ilia closed the distance between them. He slammed a hand against the wall beside Misha’s head, caging him in. He leaned in close, so close he could see the faint dusting of freckles across Misha’s nose, could smell the sharp, clean scent of his shampoo under the smell of ice and fear.
“What was that?” Ilia whispered, his voice dangerously low. “That look you were giving me in there?”
Misha’s breath hitched.“I didn’t…”
“You did.Every camera in the room saw it. That pathetic, lovesick puppy stare.” Ilia brought his other hand up, not to touch, but to hover near Misha’s throat.His thumb brushed the frantic jump of a pulse. “You want them to know?You want them writing stories?”
“No,” Misha choked out. “I just… I wanted to see you.After. Congratulations, your skating was…”
“I don’t need your congratulations,” Ilia cut him off. He dropped his hand, letting it rest heavily on Misha’s shoulder, then slid it down to grip his bicep. He squeezed, hard enough to make Misha gasp.“You embarrassed me. You made it look like something it’s not.”
“What is it, then?” Misha’s voice was a thread of sound, daring and despairing all at once.Ilia’s expression darkened. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Misha’s ear. He felt the smaller man shiver violently.“It’s whatever I say it is. And tonight, you’re going to remember your place.You’re going to sit pretty and be quiet. And later, in my room, you’re going to pay for that little performance.”
He pulled back, searching Misha’s face for defiance, for fight.There was none.Only a terrible, beautiful surrender. The fierce light in Misha’s eyes had drowned, replaced by a deep, willing submission. A tear escaped, tracing a slow path down his cheek.
Ilia wiped it away with a rough, calloused thumb, then smeared the wetness across Misha’s lips. “Don’t cry,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.“Get your things. Meet me at the south service exit in twenty minutes. Not a second earlier.”
He didn’t wait for an answer.He turned and walked away, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the empty hall. He didn’t look back. He knew Misha would be standing there, pressed against the wall, trying to catch his breath, already obeying.
The night air outside the arena was a cold slap after the arena’s controlled climate. Ilia stood under a flickering sodium light in the nearly empty service lot, the medal hidden now under his coat.He checked his watch.Nineteen minutes.
He watched the exit door.At exactly twenty minutes, it opened. Misha slipped out, a single duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his slight frame dwarfed by the concrete architecture. He looked both ways, spotted Ilia, and hurried over, his steps quick and light.
He stopped a few feet away, head slightly bowed, waiting.Ilia said nothing. He simply turned and walked towards the rental car, knowing Misha would follow. He unlocked it with a click, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet lot. He got in the driver’s side, started the engine.He didn’t open the other door.
Through the windshield, he watched Misha hesitate beside the passenger door, confused, his bag held tight to his chest.He looked so young. So breakable.Ilia lowered the window.The chill air rushed in. “Put your bag in the back,” he said, his voice flat.
Misha blinked, then complied, opening the rear door and carefully placing his bag on the seat.He closed it softly. He stood there again, waiting for permission to enter.“Get in,” Ilia said.
Misha opened the front passenger door and slid inside, pulling the seatbelt over his chest with trembling hands. The click of the latch was the only sound. The car was filled with the low purr of the engine and the cheap, lemony scent of rental car air freshener.Ilia didn’t pull away immediately. He just sat, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead at the chain-link fence. He could feel Misha’s anxious heat beside him, could hear the soft, shallow rhythm of his breathing.Finally, he spoke, his eyes still fixed on the darkness beyond the fence. “You understand, don’t you?What happens now?”
A long pause.Then, a whisper. “Yes.”
Ilia nodded once, a sharp, satisfied jerk of his chin. He put the car in drive, the headlights cutting two bright swaths through the night. As they pulled out of the lot, he finally glanced over. Misha was staring out his own window, his reflection a pale, fragile ghost in the glass. The streetlights strobed across his face, one after another, like a slow-motion film strip of his quiet despair.
Ilia looked back to the road, a faint, unwavering curve on his lips.The city lights blurred past.The night was his. The victory was his.And, for now, Misha was his. The journey back to the hotel was a silent countdown, and the tension in the car was a live wire, humming with the promise of what was to come.