Irene bit her lips before she could curse, and scrunched her nose in disgust, throwing her phone aside on the soft mattress of the hotel bed. She laid down beside the device, not finding the energy to care about laying in her sweaty training clothes, and hid her face behind her palms.

Media liked to romanticize and willingly misunderstand any context, and the downfall of Irene Bae was in the headline of every single magazine that cared a little bit about figure skating. The Grand Prix final had happened just yesterday but the news spread like a wildfire. They’d been calling Irene’s failure exciting, a ‘new start of a new age’, 'the end of her monocracy over the ladies’ skating. With the status quo disturbed, the tabloids were rioting with excitement like Wendy Son was gift send straight from the heavens, celebrating her victory excitedly.

Like Irene Bae was the evil herself, someone who needs to be defeated to purify the hell that is figure skating. Like Irene Bae hasn't sacrificed her golden years, her youth, her social life, herself to a sport which could not learn to treasure its' players and for fans who are screaming, waiting for her moment to be over. Like Irene Bae was just like Icarus who flew too close to the sun, as she revolutionized the sport based on her talent and hard work -- and people are waiting for her, for her to lose her wings, to fall, to never get up.

It easy for them -- to fall in love with someone else. A new, shiny skater who just came by and dethroned her. Easy for the tabloids to romanticize her, to look for more meaning than there it is. They romanticize and familiarize the tears in Irene’s eyes to ‘glinting with newly found passion and inspiration’ or the frown of to a ‘pushed down smirk in the look of a new challenger’. Truth is that she was indeed pushing something down-- but it was her lung tearing sobs.

It was a seventeen-year-old girl who caused this. A seventeen-year-old so young and bright and full of hope, fresh out of the junior-level, ready to take over. No fame, no pushing and crushing expectations yet.

And she has done it.

Wendy Son, 17 years old, has taken over.

Irene rubs her eyes. They're still sore from the night before. She glances beside her, at the nightstand where the silver medal is glinting at her mockingly. She has to remind herself that getting silver, coming out as second, as the second best, is not losing. She tries to recall the times when she would give one of her arms for a silver medal. But coming first for so long spoiled her and silver will never shine as blindingly as gold.

She's competitive by nature and even though it feels like pouring salt into a fresh wound, she doesn't mind coming out as second. She knows her programs weak points, knows where she had messed up, where she failed to convey her emotions because she was too busy preparing for the next jump, and she also knows where her knees became wobbly so she had to save the jump by putting her hand down. Both programs were far from perfect. It doesn't hurt. Getting silver doesn't hurt, she tells herself.

What really hurts is that people are burying his career already. Saying she's too old, her career intended to end sometime, it was never meant to last. Anyways, she had been on the top for way too long.

What really hurts is Wendy’s smug expression, her winning smile, her mocking eyes. Like they were asking ‘do you enjoy being below me?’ and all Irene wanted to do was scream ‘no!’ and demand respect from the younger.

What really hurts is her ankle that took the bad landing and left her breathless for a moment with pain, making it hard to follow the rest of her free program, snatching important points away from her like it was nothing.

What really hurts is getting mics shoved into her face, aggressive reporters asking questions in a juggle of English and Korean, asking her about retirement, now that she was dethroned. She hasn’t been thinking about it recently. She is in age per se, but she was lucky enough to go uninjured until now. She was healthy, even though her knees disagreed with her from time to time. Her love for the sport was still there, still burning up brightly at the start of every season. She wanted to be there more. She wanted to enjoy giving a good performance, to stand in the spotlight more. Just a little more.

It wasn't like it was the end of her career. Yes, she’s come second for the first time in years. But she was human, after all. And humans tend to make mistakes sometimes, she tries to reason but she couldn't help but think bitterly that these were not her own words. This was what her coach told to the mass of crowd outside of the training rink.

Irene takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. She has a banquet to attend to - and she especially isn’t looking forward. She doesn’t like them anyway, but now she would do anything just to miss the event. She sighed loudly. Now that she is alone, she didn't have to pretend she was alright. She didn't have to plaster a fake smile on her lips, didn't have to press out a sentimental speech about coming second, and didn't have to muster a sincere congratulation towards Wendy.

A thought struck the woman and she reached for her phone. She typed in the name of the new winner of the Grand Prix series. She checked the previous events she'd attended. Some of them were shared events and her kind of felt puzzled by this fact. Wendy Shon has won some medals, most of them were bronze and one silver, prior to the Grand Prix series.

Someone as good as that girl could easily place higher in any events.

Irene's thumb hovered over the play button, as it popped up in the interview about Wendy. It was from Shanghai Trophy from last year. She was curious, of course, but was she curious enough? Was she curious enough to reopen her own wounds (which had no time to heal, after all) to watch the same program that made her lose? Irene bit down on her lips, feeling pitiful once again. She was acting like a child who got her favourite toy taken away. It was a gold medal, it was a significant thing that was taken away - but did she really need to act like this? It wasn't like it changed her life. There was always another season, right? There still were enough events to win - World Championship was to come, along with the Nationals. She had time to recover from this humiliation.

She pressed down on the button, watching that free program that couldn’t be compared to Irene’s. The choreography, the execution, the placement of the jumps were all better than hers. The free program that once lost and once won a medal. It didn't really make sense in Irene's head - but she was a curious thing. The video butchered at first, showing the info about the competitor. Wendy Shon, Canadian, 17 years old. The program was skated to Parachute from Coldplay. It wasn't weird that someone skated to pop songs but personally, Irene didn't like them. She likes when her skate stayed clean from adding too much of her own taste - since she wasn't choreographing her skates. She didn't like to give her two pennies to people she barely knew.

The video started and Irene thought Wendy looked odd. She looked odd, and Irene couldn't pinpoint why. She watched the skate -- and it had nothing of the fluid movements and effortless jumps which she'd won the competition with. It was crystal clear that the choreography had been changed for the better. She had performed well, but she wasn't the whirlwind that she was at the Grand Prix Final. Something in her lacked. Her difficult entry of the triple axel -- which she entries from a spread eagle -- was not the same. She hadn’t held the same confidence as she had at the finals. She was shaky, her jumps were saved by her putting down her hand, costing her precious points. Her Ina Bauer was beautiful but Irene could see small tremor of her legs as she leaned back for more effect. She was off rhythm, also.

The music stopped and a moment later and Wendy stopped her doughnut spin, too. The audience cheered for her, good-naturedly. Nothing of the same heat that was performed during the Final. A few fans threw her Olaf plushies (which oddly reminded Irene of the girl) but nothing more. She stood there, a small girl in the middle of the huge ice, heaving and sweating and smiling. Her smile was crooked, wasn’t as smug as she was towards Irene. She hadn’t been satisfied. Irene guessed Wendy had been aware of how she underperformed compared of her set of skills.

She stared at the black screen of her mobile for a second, staring at herself. Her eyes were puffy and red, her cheeks are flushed, her lips cracked. She looked like a mess. She didn’t understand. She didn’t understand how could this girl, Wendy Shon outperform her. How could she maximalize her talent in such a short time? Initially, she was good. That was why she got to perform at the Grand Prix Final. That was why she was chosen as one of the best six skaters. But she wasn’t on Irene’s level. Until the Finals.

It was time for the banquette. She didn't want to attend because the whole time she'd have to pretend she was alright, that she wasn't affected by the Final. She hated these nights, where she had to smile and make small talks with the sponsors. She was going to have to smile to the sponsors, and assure them that no, it wasn't going to happen again; and yes, she was going to win gold both at the Nationals and at the Worlds. After all, it was about making the sponsors happy enough to get away with being a failure. To keep them happy enough for them to keep providing her with the money she needs for pursuing this hell of a career.

Irene sighed and started putting on makeup. She had one thing at least, where she can be the ace -- charming everyone.

***

Irene pushed her long, dark hair over her shoulders. She was late. Terribly late. Her coach was flipping out, cursing at her through the phone to get her down to the banquet. But luck seemed to be on her side tonight, as the star of the event, Miss Wendy Shon was also utterly, terribly late.

She stood in front of her hotel room for a moment longer. She checked her purse: keys, wallet, phone, silver medal, ID card, tissues. Check. While she was digging in her purse, she heard another door open next to hers.

Strutting out of the hotel room next to Irene's, came the one and only Wendy Shon. She was dressed in a red dress that complimented her skin tone well, giving her a warm hue. Her blondish hair was let down, makeup solid on her features. She was an astonishing beauty when you take the time to swoon over her features. She wasn't an eye-catching one like Irene was -- at least that was what people told her -- but she was a mesmerizing thing, never the least. Youth radiated from her eyes, from her poise, from her atmosphere -- yet, somehow, hadn’t softened standoffish way she stood here.

Irene was about to be a good sportsman by greeting Wendy and congratulating her on her win. It was time, she told herself. It was time for her to swallow down the bitter taste of self-pity and give this teenage girl what she deserved. She missed doing so when the results were announced. She couldn’t press a single word out of herself at that moment, as a hiccup threatened to tear out of her. She could at least, do it now, far from prying eyes.

"Wendy--" she started. The woman looked up at the source of the voice, surprise written on her face. Her eyes fell on Irene and widened a little in surprise. The hotel keys fell from her hands and crashed loudly on the floor.

The silence slowly became uncomfortable. Irene thought she should be the one continuing if she’d started. Though, she found the reaction a little bit odd. "I just wanted to congratulate-"

Irene trailed off. It seemed like a slow motion part of a movie. Wendy's eyes grew cold in a way that it made Irene shiver. They were cold and hollow and unwelcoming -- they resembled the ice, in a way. Unmerciful and unforgiving was the coldness surrounding her, as the ice was the same way however bright one burned. She lightly furrowed her eyebrows, like she was trying to put some pieces together. She looked confused and lost; she looked hateful, almost.

Irene willed herself not to look intimidated, and to stop fiddling with the strap of her purse. She wanted to show that she was still a senior in this sport, that she’s still got 6 years on her. That she wasn’t hurt by the nonchalant way Wendy won over her.

However she’d tried, though, Irene felt nervous. Never in her life had she been examined like this. Wendy stared at her. She felt like the girl was staring right into her soul, into her mind, thus the unwelcoming gaze. Like she was seeing the truth of Irene’s thoughts. Without anything better to do with her hands, she tucked her hair behind her ears.

"I just wanted to congratulate you on winning gold," Irene said. She thought she'd done a good job. Nervous and sad as she was now, she sounded like it came from her heart like it was sincere. Years of talking to sponsors and people she didn't like had helped her develop a better lying skill. Though she didn't particularly want Wendy to like her, it was easier like this. She didn't need 'rival' stamped on her both by reporters and fans of the sport.

She just wanted to skate and live a quiet life.

To add more soul to her acting, she walked towards Wendy and reached her hand out for a handshake. It was a friendly gesture, and honestly, she had to get used to the idea of having her on competitions. Hopefully, on her right side, coming as second. It was easier like this. She wasn't going to act carefully around the girl, this way she could be just passing by with a greeting and small talks. This way, she'd still be addressed as the "Goddess of Peace" who had no rumour with any other competitor. She needed the title because the sponsors thought it looked good on their ads.

(It was hard to make rivals if all of the competitors were afraid of her. It also made it hard for her to make friends. She was a lonely thing, but it was alright. There was no need to make skating even more difficult.)

"Your skate was bea