Chapter Text
The air inside the Milano Santa Giulia Ice Hockey Arena was not simply cold; it possessed a dense, almost solid quality, a physical entity that clung to the skin and seeped into the bones. It was a chewable atmosphere, a frigid breeding broth composed of the vapor rising from twenty open mouths, the metallic acidity of stale sweat trapped in layers of polyester, and that static electricity, invisible but piercing, that invariably precedes total physical collapse. Beneath the constant, monotonous hum of the metal halide lights, the sound of blades tearing across the ice echoed against the empty stands with a particular acoustic violence: sccchhhk, sccchhhk, like butcher’s knives being sharpened again and again on a wet stone.
The coach of the United States women’s team, a massive man whose square silhouette cut against the whiteness of the environment, patrolled the edge of the rink. His throat, which seemed to have been cured with industrial sandpaper and years of shouting in athletic barracks, vibrated before releasing each order. He walked back and forth, rhythmically striking the boards with a horrible gold ring, displaying the contained impatience of a predator trapped in a cage too narrow for his ego.
— I don’t want a single problem in Milan! We’re going to skate until your feet forget they’re feet and you grow blisters on top of blisters! And don’t you even think about doing a single stupid thing, is that clear?! —He roared.
His voice bounced off the oversized ceiling of steel and concrete, multiplying into distorted echoes. Down on the rink, the girls skated with their lungs burning, swallowing gulps of frozen air that tasted like ammonia and burnt rubber. They traced eights, crosses, and suicide lines over the icy surface, their broken breathing sounding collectively like an old engine, poorly oiled, on the verge of bursting from the strain. The ice, already scarred by miles of white grooves, released a fine spray of snow with every abrupt stop.
— Yes, coach... —The response emerged from the scattered group. It lacked any martial strength or patriotic conviction; it was rather a synchronized groan, a low lament from bodies pushed to the biological limit, where muscle begins to consume itself.
The coach’s whistle cut through the stale air with a sharp shriek, a sonic needle capable of bursting eardrums, ordering an immediate return to the benches. The sound remained vibrating in the players’ ears as they slid toward the edge, moving no longer by technique, but by pure inertia. The sound of the skates changed as they struck the plastic at the entrance. They tore off their helmets in desperation, releasing clouds of condensed vapor from their heads, and grabbed their water bottles, crushing them, drinking with primitive anxiety, as if the lukewarm liquid contained the last breath of life on earth.
But the peace was fleeting. Before anyone’s heart rate could even attempt to stabilize, before the burning in their quadriceps dropped a single degree, the man’s hoarse voice thundered again, breaking the brief truce.
— Sinclair!
Enid Sinclair, with her twenty-four years carried on her back as if they were fifty, stopped short. Her brake lifted a curtain of frost that briefly glittered in the air. With a fluid movement, almost choreographed by habit, she freed her head from the confinement of the helmet. A cascade of messy blonde hair fell over her shoulders; defying all physical logic and the excess sweat soaking her nape, the strands shone under the industrial lights with insulting perfection, as if she had just come out of a fashion magazine photo shoot and not from a suicidal training session.
She glided toward him with that innate elegance, the kind of someone who learned to walk on ice before asphalt, crossing the distance with long, silent strides.
She was the youngest of the group, but her surname weighed on the ice more than all the others combined: multi-champion, collegiate MVP, and the face that covered cities, from New York to Milan, with giant advertisements for high-tech sneakers and neon-colored isotonic drinks. She was there, selected for the Milan–Cortina 2026 Games, as if destiny had chiseled it in stone. However, as she approached the boards, her blue eyes—normally crystal-clear—revealed something beyond the determination of an elite athlete. There was an opacity in them, a shadow of mental fatigue.
— Everything in order, coach? —Enid asked, tilting her head slightly as she rested her stick on the ice with a dry tap.
She hid the exhaustion behind that mask of polite curiosity and unbreakable professionalism she had perfected for the cameras and the mixed zones. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically beneath the chest protector, her breathing heavy, visible in the cold air, but firmly controlled.
The man scanned her from head to toe. He did not look at her as a person, not even as a player; he observed her with the clinical, cold gaze of a mechanic inspecting the chassis of a Formula 1 Ferrari before the decisive lap, obsessively searching for any crack, any leak, any failure in the hydraulic system.
— I’m just making sure my star isn’t hiding any pain from me. We can’t afford for you to break, Sinclair. Not before the opening. If you fall, the show falls. —He said, lowering his tone into a rough confidence, leaning over the plexiglass. His words, tinged with the breath of stale coffee, felt more like a veiled threat to his investment than genuine paternal concern.
Enid felt a cold knot tightening at the mouth of her stomach, colder than the ice beneath her feet. She suppressed a grimace of irony that threatened to curve the corner of her dry lips. She knew perfectly well what was happening. That blatant favoritism was as subtle as a puck to the face at one hundred and twenty kilometers per hour. It wasn’t about her talent, nor her vision of the game; it was the narrative, the marketable “likability,” the image of the golden American girl that the media devoured with voracious hunger. She hated that sticky feeling. She felt like an intruder in her own skin, as if her ligaments and tendons were mere fashion accessories loaned by a sponsor.
— Everything’s fine, really. —Enid replied, forcing her voice to sound light. She glanced away for a fraction of a second toward her teammates crowded on the bench, searching for air.
The movement was a mistake. She caught the fleeting gesture of one teammate rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, another tightening her gloves with unnecessary violence, pulling at the Velcro with an aggressive rasp. Fantastic, Enid thought, feeling the isolation growing around her like a layer of invisible ice, separating her from the rest of the team. Now they’ll hate me a little more. As if it weren’t enough to be the “poster doll,” now I’m the sergeant’s favorite too.
The coach opened his mouth, inhaling deeply, probably to deliver that recycled motivational speech about alpha wolves and the unbreakable strength of the pack, but the words died in his throat.
A group of five people, visually dissonant with the athletic environment, emerged behind the side plexiglass barrier. Impeccable in their dark wool coats, designer scarves, and official credentials hanging from silk lanyards, they advanced like a diplomatic phalanx. Two women and three men, frowning and radiating bureaucratic importance, signaled urgently, tapping their wristwatches. It seemed that if they were not attended to at that precise moment, the Olympic Rings would collapse in on themselves in an implosion of failed protocols.
While the coach muttered a curse and walked toward them with heavy steps, making the wooden platform creak, Enid remained still for a moment. Her eyes drifted toward the wide corridor that connected the rink to the international locker room area.
It was a parade of nations, a turbulent river of synthetic colors and embroidered flags. She saw the Greek delegation pass, their jackets in shades of blue and white evoking the Aegean Sea and old legends; then, a burst of color broke the gray and white monotony of the place: the team from Mexico. They were vibrant, noisy, filling the corridor with a different energy. Right there, Enid’s gaze stopped, drawn like a magnet, to a slender figure walking with their back to her. The Mexican golden eagle was printed across the back of the jacket, and they were speaking in a muted, serious tone with a Greek girl.
Farther back, a Japanese skater walked in absolute silence, eyes lowered, adjusting her skates as she moved with a zen concentration that created a bubble of quiet around her. The Italians, hosts of the event, moved about in large groups with the relaxed, expressive confidence of those who know they are playing in their own backyard, their voices echoing with open vowels and easy laughter.
It was the beautiful, polyglot chaos of the Games. In that suspended instant, Enid had no idea that the perfect storm was brewing beyond the visible: political tensions simmering on low heat, doping rumors already slithering like snakes through the concrete corridors and, perhaps, a chance encounter that would turn her meticulously ordered world upside down. For now, she only felt a strange pang in the center of her chest, just behind the sternum. Envy of that easy Mexican laughter? Curiosity about life outside the fishbowl? She wondered whether, in the midst of all that suffocating pressure to perform, there was room left for something human. Something that did not require a perfect smile, a correct posture, or a gold medal hanging from the neck.
The coach was still arguing in the distance, gesturing furiously about the “damn Italian bureaucracy” and the training schedules, so Enid pushed herself back toward the group. The ice cracked under her blades. When she reached the bench, Mia, a veteran defenseman with scars on her chin and with whom she had a cordial relationship, gave her a soft, though firm, nudge in the ribs.
— Another VIP check, Sinclair? —Mia said. Her breath formed a small cloud between them. —You must have a magnet for drama or something, because it’s not normal for them to check your oil every five minutes.
Mia accompanied the comment with a half-smile that stretched her lips but did not reach her eyes; they remained cold, calculating.
Enid let out a brief laugh, a hollow, joyless sound that bounced off the scratched acrylic of the bench.
— I wish it were interesting drama. I’m only useful for counting goals and smiling pretty in selfies so the sponsors don’t pull their checks, you know how this works. —Enid answered, lowering her gaze to her skates, observing the scratches on the leather of the boot.
She felt exposed, fragile beneath the layers of protection. What if this is all there is?, she questioned internally, feeling the cold of the stadium finally slip beneath the thermal fabric of her uniform, raising goosebumps on her skin. Medals, thunderous applause, and this huge emptiness, this echo chamber, that no one notices when the cameras turn off and you take off the makeup?
Outside, beyond the reinforced concrete walls and steel beams of the arena, the pale February sun was uselessly trying to warm the sharp peaks of the mountains of Cortina d’Ampezzo. The light bathed the Olympic village in a golden tone, creating a deceptively peaceful postcard image. But on the horizon, over the jagged peaks, the clouds were gathering, gray, heavy, and loaded with snow. Environmental protests in the squares, geopolitical power plays in offices, and an uncertain destiny waiting just around the corner.
And for Enid, though she did not yet know it, the ice was about to become much more slippery.