The ice rink was an arena of frozen war.
The foyer, with its drapes, tartlets, donation cards and half-concealed cracks, lay behind the spectators like a polite lie that one was allowed to forget for the duration of the match. In here, the ice reigned supreme. Blue-white light lay across the surface; the logos of the philanthropist and the five teams gleamed on the boards; the stands were full; and above it all hung the old roof of the hall with its steel beams, cables and shadows.
Every scratch of the blades sounded sharper than a sentence.
France versus the Soviet Union.
The final match.
Luc Moreau stood at the face-off spot, shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly, as if listening to music no one else could hear. His elegance on the ice was no longer soft. It was fast, precise, almost cheeky. Beside him, the French players waited, blue and white, nervous and fired up, with that mixture of pride and danger that made youth tournaments look like state visits after a tequila shower.
Ilya stood opposite him.
Dark red, silent, his stick resting calmly on the ice. His face showed none of the tension from the corridor, none of the smoke, none of the tournament doctor’s threats. He was once again the captain, utterly confident of victory.
In the stands sat the cadets of the Wild Boar cohort in gold and lilac, neatly lined up like a colourful bracket around the international celebration. Moritz Felinger rested his hands on his knees, but his eyes followed the game with the concentration of a future strategist. Dana sat not far from Jennifer and Jonathan, Fox beside her with the expression of a man who respected sport as long as it held enough potential for intrigue.
“Do you understand the rules?” asked Dana.
“Of course,” murmured Fox. “Two groups of young men chase after a small puck until diplomacy emerges from physical contact.”
“That was disturbingly close to a correct summary.”
Jennifer leaned slightly towards Jonathan. “Rozanow seems calm.”
Jonathan looked across the ice rink at the philanthropist sitting in the VIP box. Dr Walter Franklin had placed his hands on the knob of his walking stick. His face once again bore its public dignity, yet it looked askew, for the face was paler than the ice; in the strange light, it appeared almost bluish.
“Not Franklin,” said Jonathan.
Jennifer followed his gaze.
The philanthropist wasn’t smiling.
Seated beside him was Dr Amara El-Amin, dressed in light blue, her hands clasped, attentive, yet unaffected by the tension. The tournament doctor stood slightly behind the boards, his medical bag at the ready, a Venetian mask pendant on his lapel. He looked almost bored.
That made him even more unsettling.
The whistle blew.
The face-off took place.
Luc was first to the puck.
He flicked the puck backwards, spun out of Ilya’s reach and immediately shot forward. France started like fireworks: fast, bright, skilful, almost impossible to contain. Two passes, a change of direction, a shot at the Soviet goal that whizzed just past the post. The crowd erupted in cheers.
Luc grinned.
Ilya did not.
He skated back, signalled to his defenders, and by the next attack, the game had changed. The Soviet team would no longer let France dance around them. They closed in. Not brutally, not unfairly, but relentlessly. Every French run was met with a response, every beautiful move with a body, every pass with a red line.
Shane Hollander stood with the British team near the boards, already eliminated but not absent. Great Britain had won the third-place play-off against Japan, securing fourth place. Shane still bore the marks of the game: flushed cheeks, damp hair, a small graze on his chin. He wasn’t looking at Luc.
He was looking at Ilya.
Cemil Arslan, whose Ottoman team had fought their way to third place, stood a few metres further on. He, too, watched the final in silence. As Luc launched the next attack, Cemil raised his head almost imperceptibly, as if he knew the thought behind the run. Perhaps he did. Half-brothers could sometimes read each other even without being close.
The first goal came after six minutes.
France.
Luc feinted left, cut inside right, left the Soviet defender grasping at thin air and crossed at the last moment. His winger slotted the puck into the net. The French bench leapt to their feet, Luc raised his fist, the crowd went wild.
Franklin applauded too slowly and too controlled, not like a father, not like a founder, more like a man who had just been forced to publicly endorse a development that he didn’t agree with deep down.
Jennifer noticed.
“He wanted France,” she said quietly.
Jonathan replied just as quietly: “Or he didn’t want the Soviet Union.”
On the ice, Ilya accepted the goal as if it were a piece of information, not an insult. He skated over to the goalkeeper, said two words, patted him on the shoulder and turned away again.
The Soviet Union won the next face-off.
This time the attack lasted longer. No explosion. A build-up. Layer by layer. The red jerseys moved like cogs in an old, very well-oiled mechanism. Luc tried to disrupt, but Ilya pulled him out of the centre with a small movement. A pass back, one across, then the puck came to Ilya.
He didn’t shoot immediately.
That was the mistake France wasn’t prepared for.
He waited half a second until the goalkeeper made up his mind, then scored low to the right.
The equaliser.
The celebration was different. Heavier. More relief than fire. On the Soviet bench, players were banging against the boards. Ilya accepted the congratulations curtly, without breaking eye contact.
Shane exhaled.
Too obviously.
“That’s interesting,” Fox muttered.
Dana kept her eyes on the ice. “Not now.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I was just taking mental notes.”
“That’s louder in your head than in other people’s.”
The second period got tougher.
Not dirty. But more physical. France tried to keep the tempo high; the Soviet Union pushed it out wide. Luc played more beautifully, Ilya played with greater purpose. Cemil glanced over at Shane once when France found themselves a man down. Shane didn’t return the look. He was too fixated on Ilya.
The tournament doctor stepped closer to the boards during a brief interruption. He spoke to an official, pointed at a list, nodded, smiled. Amara El-Amin watched him do so.
Meanwhile, Franklin leaned towards Eleanor Price. His fingers were once again gripping his walking stick too tightly. He said something. Eleanor shook her head. He said something else. She remained friendly and unmoving.
The result could no longer be kept under wraps.
The ice was too public.
In the final period, the score was 2–2.
France was worn down but proud. The Soviet Union was contrite but organised. Luc took the puck off the boards, evaded a check, turned, and passed backwards into the slot. A French player shot.
The Soviet goalkeeper saved it.
The rebound went to Ilya.
For a breath, the whole game was up in the air.
Ilya set off.
Spectacular, like a hero from a propaganda poster, just like someone who suddenly could no longer hear any background noise. The arena, the sponsors, Franklin, the tournament doctor, Shane, Cartagena, the United States, the Soviet Union, money, threats, families, photos, rumours: everything fell away behind him.
Luc came towards him.
The two captains did not collide. They read each other. Luc tried to force Ilya out wide, but Ilya placed the puck behind him with a small movement, accepted the contact, spun around Luc and played it across.
His teammate came from the second row.
Shot.
Goal.
For a second, it was silent.
Then the arena erupted.
Soviet Union 3. France 2.
The red players rushed towards Ilya, throwing their arms up, bumping helmets and shoulders together. Luc stood on the ice for a moment, stick in both hands, head bowed. Then he skated over to the Soviet goalkeeper and patted him on the pads. A small gesture. A great defeat.
Cemil nodded almost imperceptibly.
Shane closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
When the final whistle blew, the result was no longer in doubt.
USSR ahead of France.
Ottoman Empire in third place.
Great Britain in fourth place.
Japan in fifth place.
The scoreboard above the ice confirmed it in cold, hard light:
1. Soviet Union
2. France
3. Ottoman Empire
4. United Kingdom
5. Japan
In the VIP box, Walter Franklin rose to his feet.
He clapped.
This time he had to.
His face was impassive, but not quick enough. Anger lay beneath, raw and hot. Not just over Luc’s defeat. Not just over Ilya’s victory. Over something deeper: over the fact that a public match had just derailed a private plan.
Amara El-Amin looked at the scoreboard, then at Franklin.
The tournament doctor, on the other hand, seemed completely calm.
On the ice, the teams shook hands. Luc and Ilya were the last to come together. They held each other a moment longer than the cameras demanded.
“Good game,” said Luc.
“You too, almost like at Borodino,” said Ilya.
“He won’t be happy.”
Ilya didn’t look towards the stands. “Who?”
Luc’s smile was weary. “Franklin.”
“US capitalists are never happy.”
They let go of each other.
Shane was standing behind the boards as Ilya skated past him. For a tiny moment, their eyes met. Not a word. Not a smile. Just something too fleeting to be public and too heavy to remain private.
Then Eleanor Price called over the loudspeakers for everyone to regroup for the medal ceremony.
The cadets were asked to line up at the edge of the ice rink. The brass band took their places. Helpers rolled out a red carpet over the rubber mats at the entrance. The old trophy with the boar’s heads was carried in by four men in dark green waistcoats, heavy and gleaming, whilst photographers sought their positions.
The teams lined up according to their placings.
Japan first at the outer edge.
Great Britain next to them.
The Ottoman Empire in the middle, both losers and winners at the same time.
France next to the podium, proud and silent.
The Soviet Union last, in front of the top spot.
Ilya took off his gloves.
Franklin stepped towards the ice with the trophy.
His smile was back.
But now Jennifer could see how much strength it was costing him.