The locker room was a hive of noise and heat. Eric ignored it, cutting through the static toward his corner. He was moving through a fog of déjà vu—that stale, exhausted feeling of knowing the script but having no power to rewrite the ending. He pulled the suit on. The fabric gripped his dry, trained muscle, settling as a second skin. Zip. The familiar metallic bite of the fastener. Helmet on. Kevlar-reinforced palms. Goggles with that strange, bruised yellow-purple tint.

He looked ready. But the hollowness in his chest told a different story.

Minutes bled away. At the twenty-minute call, the herd moved toward the ice. In the doorway, O’Brien turned, flashing a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“They say even the biggest washouts get a lucky break eventually,” he barked, making sure the room heard. “Right, Stevensen?” He clipped Eric’s shoulder with a heavy, mock-friendly palm. Eric didn’t flinch. He just waited for the gap to open. Behind his goggles, his eyes remained as vacant and unreadable as a fly’s. O’Brien didn’t wait for a comeback; he clattered off toward the rink, the rhythmic clink-clink of his blades echoing his confidence. He walked like a man who owned the podium. Because, unlike Eric, he usually did.

Eric took a breath, centering. The mental drills kicked in—pure muscle memory. This was his third Olympics. A week ago, the final was a fever dream, let alone a medal. But years on the ice make you a pragmatist. Yesterday’s qualifying was a fluke, plain and simple. The leaders had tangled on the final turn, a mess of limbs and carbon fiber, and Eric had simply stayed upright long enough to slide through.

The start line. Five shadows in a row. They were coiled, motionless, hearts thudding against ribs. Eighteen laps to decide a life. People say there are no accidents at this level. That morning, Eric would have scoffed. Now, he felt the weight of something inevitable. His pulse drowned out the stadium; his world narrowed to the rasp of steel cutting ice.

He was fifth. The favorites tore ahead immediately. They moved like a single, chromed machine—a frantic, mechanical caterpillar fighting for a scrap of gold. To the crowd, it was a blur of color. To Eric, it was years of sweat, salt, and suppressed doubt. Do I belong? No. He choked the thought. He was here. Three cycles of preparation. This wasn’t a mistake; it was the moment.

Lap 13. The gap yawned wider. His quads were turning to concrete, heavy and unresponsive. His spine wasn’t just aching; it was screaming for him to stand up, to quit, to breathe.

Lap 15. The “Go” zone. Time to burn whatever was left in the tank.

Lap 17. The roulette wheel was slowing down, the marble looking for a slot. In one desperate surge, Eric did the impossible. He closed the gap. The backs of the leaders—Lee, Appel, Markov, O’Brien—were right there. He could hear the ragged, wet rasp of their breathing. He could see the beads of sweat flying off O’Brien’s neck. So close he could taste their exhaust.

One lap left. The longest 111 meters in the world. They moved in a tight, pulsing knot. Then, the gamble. Markov and Appel tried to squeeze the same gap.

The ice didn’t care about their rankings. Their blades locked, and the world went sideways.

It was a slow-motion wreck. Three leaders spiraled into the pads, a chaotic spray of ice and shattered dreams. Suddenly, the lane was clear. Only O’Brien’s back remained. Thirty meters. Eric’s heart, lathered and frantic, threw its last shot of adrenaline into his veins. He drew level. O’Brien, sensing the ghost at his shoulder, twitched—a micro-flinch that cost him his balance. Just a flicker. A fraction of a second.

Eric lunged. They threw their skates at the line in a desperate, lunging tie.

Photo finish.

Eric skated into the turn, his lungs feeling like they’d been scrubbed with wire wool. He could hear nothing but the roar in his own ears. Second, he thought. I’m second. A silver miracle. It was more than he had ever earned. He saw his coach leaning over the boards, screaming, face purple.

“First! Eric, you’re first!”

He slowed, his blades vibrating on the scarred ice. He looked back at the board, then at the track. And then, through the thud of his blood, the sound of ten thousand people screaming his name finally broke through.

He wasn’t a fluke. He was the champion.

***

Oksana Pasichnyk is a Ukrainian author who has been actively writing since 2023. Exploring various genres, she has already been featured in 15 literary anthologies for emerging writers. Oksana believes that human life is the ultimate value, which is why her stories always center on people, their inner experiences, and their unique life journeys.