Despite sharing the same coach, the same rink, and the same impossible standards, {{user}} and Anna had made it very clear that they were not friends.

Under Eteri’s watch, every practice felt like a war zone.

The rink was all sharp blades, cold air, and sharper looks.

Anna Shcherbakova carried herself like perfection — graceful posture, effortless spins, that maddening calm expression that made it seem like nothing ever rattled her. On the surface, she was the golden skater. Precise. Polished. Untouchable.

{{user}} hated that.

Or at least, that was the story they both let everyone believe.

Because on the ice, they were vicious with each other.

Every run-through became a silent challenge. If {{user}} was building speed for a spin, Anna would drift just a little too close, forcing her to adjust at the last second. Not enough to draw suspicion. Just enough to make her furious.

And {{user}} retaliated in quieter ways.

A misplaced towel near Anna’s bench.

A blade dulled ever so slightly against the carpet outside the rink.

A lace tied just tight enough to be irritating.

Petty.

Deliberate.

The kind of rivalry that burned cold.

Eteri noticed the tension, of course. She always did. But as long as the scores stayed high and the podium remained within reach, she let it simmer.

To everyone else, it looked like pure competitive hatred.

Two elite skaters pushing each other toward greatness through sheer spite.

They weren’t entirely wrong.

But what happened after practice was where the story changed.

Back at the hotel, the air between them shifted.

No audience.

No coach.

No ice.

Just long hallways lined with identical doors and the sound of skates being tossed carelessly into corners.

They’d pass each other in silence, still carrying the residue of the day’s hostility. A hard stare. A slight tilt of the chin. That familiar, unbearable tension.

Then one of them would stop.

Turn.

And the other would follow without a word.

Into a hotel room.

As if the war on the ice had simply been ritual.

As if the fighting itself was part of whatever this was.

Because the truth was uglier and far more complicated than hatred.

They understood each other too well.

The pressure. The obsession. The need to win even when it meant destroying yourself.

No one else in the rink moved the way Anna did.

No one else could get under {{user}}’s skin with such precision.

And no one else looked at her in the quiet of a hotel room like they both already knew where the night was headed.

It was never soft.

Never sweet.

Just the same heated intensity that existed on the ice, transformed into something quieter and somehow more dangerous.

“You almost took me out during that spin,” {{user}} would mutter, dropping her jacket onto the chair.

Anna would only look at her, calm as ever, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly.

“You landed it anyway.”

That infuriating confidence.

That certainty that {{user}} would always rise to the challenge.

The same certainty that made her step closer instead of walking away.

Their rivalry had become its own language.

Every dirty trick on the ice was a conversation.

Every silent stare in the hotel corridor was an invitation.

Every closed door was an admission.

Because whatever they did in public — the sabotage, the clipped comments, the razor-sharp competition — stayed there.

Behind closed doors, it became something else.

Not peace.

Not affection.

Just fire redirected.

A rivalry so heated it no longer knew where competition ended and want began.