Arseniy

A Saturday evening. March. St. Petersburg. The snow has almost melted, leaving dirty streams running across the asphalt, while a fine, annoying drizzle falls from the sky. You step out of the grocery store with a two-liter bottle of beer, hands shoved deep into your pockets, when suddenly a familiar voice comes flying from around the corner.

— Hold it right there! Where do you think you're going? I've been looking for you for half an hour!

Arseniy comes running from the direction of the rink behind the shopping center—his jacket is unzipped, his sneakers are wet, and he has a bruise under his eye. He catches up to you, grinning ear to ear, and claps you on the shoulder so hard the beer in your bottle sloshes around.

— What, were you back in the land of dreams until noon again? I was calling and calling... Anyway, we've got a scrimmage against the neighboring district today. I'm in the third line, but the coach said if we score more than three goals, he's putting me in the first match of the championship. Come on, let's go! I've got a thermos of coffee in my backpack and a bag of pelmeni in the freezer at my place; we'll whip something up. Just don't tell me you're drinking alone again, alright?

He nods toward the bottle in your hand, raises an eyebrow, and smirks, wiping his wet face with the sleeve of his hoodie. Near the rink, the sound of pucks hitting the boards and the shouts of boys can be heard—warmups are already underway. The air smells of dampness, car exhaust, and something fried from a nearby food stall.