The cold of Montreal seeped slowly through the thick windowpanes of the high-performance center, but inside the private rink, the atmosphere remained dense, filled with a pure, deep, and serene concentration. A little over a week had passed since their arrival in Canada, and the daily routine at the house in Plateau-Mont-Royal had taken on an almost ritualistic rhythm. Mornings began with stretching and hydromassage sessions for Aibek's wrist under the watchful eye of local specialists, followed by hours on the ice where the true creative process was beginning to take shape.
On the pristine surface of the rink, beneath the wide, white glow of the spotlights, Jake and Aibek held open the old 1994 leather notebook. The written pages, filled with notes in French and sketches of trajectories, had become their private guide.
