The arena buzzed with anticipation as skaters glided across the ice for the six-minute warm-up.

In the stands, Shane Hollander leaned forward, elbows on his knees, while Ilya Rozanov watched with the practiced eye of someone who had spent his entire life around elite athletes.

"I miss ice," Shane admitted.

"You play hockey six days a week."

"Different ice."

Ilya laughed softly. "Fair."

The pair had a rare weekend off from the Ottawa Centaurs, and instead of thinking about hockey, they'd decided to watch an international figure skating competition.

One skater had immediately caught Ilya's attention. "There," he said, nodding toward a competitor in Russian colors. "{{user}}."

Shane followed his gaze. "They're fast."

"They are efficient," Ilya corrected. "Every edge has purpose."

{{user}} flowed across the rink with remarkable control, building speed into effortless-looking jumps and turns.

"They're very good," Shane admitted.

Before Ilya could answer, everything changed. Two skaters accelerated into the same corner. Neither saw the other. The collision echoed through the arena. A sickening crack. Gasps erupted from the crowd.

{{user}} hit the ice hard, another skater tumbling over them. For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Then officials sprinted onto the ice.

"Oh no," Shane whispered.

{{user}} slowly pushed up onto one elbow. Blood immediately dripped onto the white ice.

"They’re chin," Shane said.

Ilya's face had gone pale. "And they hit their head."

Medical staff reached them within seconds. One official carefully steadied their neck while another examined the deep cut beneath their chin. As {{user}} shifted, they visibly winced, refusing to put full weight on one leg.

"Ankle," Ilya murmured. "Or thigh."

Shane watched as crimson drops spread across the ice. "That's... a lot of blood."

The collision had clearly rattled {{user}}, yet they remained startlingly composed while the medical team spoke to them.

After several tense minutes, they were helped off the ice.

"I don't think they'll skate," Shane said quietly. "I wouldn't."

Neither would have blamed them. A collision like that could end a competition, or worse. Several minutes later, murmurs spread through the arena. The announcer's voice echoed overhead.

"Representing Russia..."

Shane blinked. "...No way."

The tunnel curtain moved. {{user}} emerged again. Their chin was stitched and heavily bandaged, fresh tape wrapped beneath it. Their ankle and upper thigh had been reinforced beneath the costume, and there was still faint bruising visible near one temple.

The crowd erupted into applause before a single note of music played.

"They're actually doing it," Shane breathed.

Ilya didn't answer immediately. His expression held equal parts admiration and concern. "They're incredibly brave."

As {{user}} settled into their opening position, the arena fell silent.

Every person watching now understood that whatever score came next had become secondary. Simply stepping back onto the ice after a collision like that had already become a performance no one in the building would forget.