Magnitogorsk is a city of iron, and so is Metallurg’s will. They will not be thwarted, they do not let go of what is theirs. So when one of their own, born, bred, and molded, tries to run? To spit in the face of all that they’ve given him? Metallurg does not give up what it owns.

The entire building is decked out for Christmas. Sparkling lights, the rich, glowing reds and greens of masses and masses of poinsettia flowers. It’s not hard to realize what’s going on. It feels like every titled, unmarried man between the ages of 20 and 40 who likes other men is here. Unbelievable. They’re marrying the King off with a fucking Cinderella-style ball.

“They asked me, today, in an interview with Sid right next to me, about that thing I said last year. About leaving the Penguins, being a big star somewhere else.” “And you’re, what? Afraid he’s going to be angry with you?” Zhenya squirms. He feels hot and prickly, his emotions a soupy mess he can’t grasp in order to make sense of. “I think… I think I’m afraid he won’t be.”