China.

The Grand Prix ...

I won't even make it to the Grand Prix if I don't qualify. The routine is flawles, intense, beautiful and very ...

... Victor.

He's my coach. He's my coach? I'm still ... I don't know. Reeling from the shock? It hasn't sunk in that's for sure. I don't know how I beat Yuri, or even if I did. He walked out before Victor made his decision. Winner by default. Story of my life.

I sweep around the rink, building speed. The quadruple toe loop needs enough speed to get the height, but not enough to -

My butt stings as it hits the ice. I let the momentum drag me across the rink.

Dammit.

He makes it look so easy! So effortless, graceful. The side of my palm hurts as much as my butt after I slam it against the ice in frustration.

My face is numb, tender from the cold air. My breathing is embarrassingly ragged. After two hours of training I'm drained. Two hours?

I pull myself up, shake off the pain and settle myself to continue, taking a deep breath as I sweep around the rink once more.

I do a few combinations to relieve the frustration of failing - for the millionth time - in landing the quadruple flip. Triple Salchow. Perfect. Double toe loop. Triple toe loop.

My chest, thighs and shoulders are burning, but I ignore it as I twirl through a step sequence. I have to land Victor's signature move, or all this will mean nothing.

I'm gaining speed again, using the momentum to fly across the ice. I can't compare myself to him. There is no comparison. What Victor has can't be taught. No amount of training or repitition can suddenly make you a five time world champion! I'm kidding myself if that's what I think will happen.

Victor is a natural-born champion. His level of composure and elegance can't be copied or duplicated. When he's on the ice all eyes are on him. You are helpless to resist and cannot take your eyes off him.

When Victor skates he transforms into something inhuman. Like an other-worldly being whose ethereal presence is profoundly irresistible. He hypnotises you with his movement and somehow makes you forget everything but him. There's no way I can compare to that.

I prepare for the jump - land it! But my ankle gives out and before I know it, I'm skittering across the ice once more. I'm on my stomach; my forehead, nose and lips freeze to the ice, steam rises in puffs as I pant.

My chest and throat constrict as my eyes burn and tears well. This ... Is ... This isn't me! I'm the best skater this side of the Pacific! I'm not meant to bomb like this! It's one stupid jump! One more rotation, five percent more speed, one tenth more landing stress! So why can't I -

The tears pool on the ice and freeze. The pounding in my ankle and the throbbing in my butt - not to mention the million and one bruises all over my body - taunt me.

Maybe the quad toe loop is my limit? Maybe ... That's as far as my talent goes? Is there something wrong with that? Maybe ... Just maybe ... I've aimed too high with my expectations, maybe I really am just not that good.

NO!

I'm Yuri Katsuski. I'm the ranking skater this side of the Pacific. That must count for something? I must be good, just not as good as - NO! I need to forget about Victor. I need to stop trying to claw my way up to his standards and expectations. I am not Victor! I need to skate my own way. It's the only way I will win.

"What are you doing?"

Black velvet skates slide into my view. I'm still lying in the same position on the ice as before my little pep talk. I feel my cheeks flush, and scramble into a half sit.

Victor squats down in front of me and I instantly look down at the ice, willing the flush to leave my cheeks. I can't look at him. He must have seen. He saw me bomb and who knows what else. At least I've stopped crying.

"Was it a new step I don't know about? Well, I don't know if the technical score would be too high, but-"

I'm on my feet as anger smashes into my chest. I don't know what's caused it, he's touched me a million times before, but this time had a different, inexplicable reaction.

"Yuri-"

I need this not to blow up into something bigger, but I seriously can't be anywhere near him right now.

"I'm tired." Yeah. Wow. "I'm going home now." I know the smile I forced was more like a sneer, but I couldn't hide it. A quick glance at him reveals a fading hard line to his mouth. He smiles, I look away again.

"Well, okay. We'll start tomorrow's session bright and early, okay?"

I nod, but that's it, I'm done with him for now. I'm over to the gate before I know it, debating which would be quicker between ripping my skates off or putting on the guards.

"Bright and early," Victor calls.

I grab the guards and slam them on, practically running to grab my stuff and leave, hoping no one else is around to bump into. Of course not, it's eleven at night, no one will be here.

China's not looking promising. If this- whatever this is that I'm feeling right now- doesn't go away, there goes China, and probably the whole season.

The panic is a torrent by the time I get home. I slide my door shut, slide down to the floor. I can't do this! I'm quitting, right now. I'm going to run away to somewhere nobody knows me. Somewhere warm and sunny where skating can't possibly be a sport.

I'm quitting! It's the only choice I have. The stress is killing me, the expectation and the anticipation is going to give me a heart attack. I can't! I can't do it! I should have quit after last year, I should have taken the signs and listened to them. I'm not cut out for all this stress.

The tears flow freely from my eyes, I gasp in long halting breaths. I can't breathe properly. I screw my fingers into my hair, pull at my scalp hoping to alleviate the pressure.

I. Can't. Do. This. Anymore.

I don't know what Victor was thinking becoming my coach, but he's wrong. I'll just embarrass him, I won't drag him down with me.

I grab my phone, the screen is blurry through the tears. I sniff back the stuff dribbling from my nose, and blink through the tears. My hands are shaking as I log onto Instagram.

I write out a post explaining my plan. I say sorry and explain why. I read it back before I post. It just doesn't sum it up. I delete it instantly and replace the post with two words.

'I quit.'

I log out, toss my phone away, I don't want to look at it anymore. I lock my door. Everyone is asleep. Everyone should be asleep, including me. I cry myself to sleep, soaking my pillows in my hopelessness. That's what I'm feeling. I figured it out as I teetered on the cusp of sleep. This whole situation is hopeless and there's no point fighting it anymore.