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Of all the blows puberty had dealt him, Yuri thought, this was definitely the cruelest. His debut year was supposed to be glorious, not some flash in the pan and then too tall to even function.
I can’t believe they’re not going to let me compete.
The ice felt fine under his skates. The nagging pain that had been so wearing and terrifying was almost completely gone. The adrenaline of the argument fueled him around the rink, the cut of the blade strong, decisive. He turned, feeling the ice, then went into a spin, feeling his balance.
Fuck them all.
They were all watching him, so he slowed a little as he approached the rail. “See, I’m fucking fine. I can skate. You just watch me.”
Our crew goes to Ostrava for the European Championships. Nothing quite goes as planned.
(This work is part of a series which strongly relies on what has gone before.)
- Part 7 of Translations on Ice