Chapter 80: It Will Not Be Canceled

As soon as Shu Ran closed her eyes, she heard her phone vibrate on the nightstand.

Without opening her eyes, she murmured, “Coach, could you put my phone on silent for me?”

Fu Yiqing picked up the phone but suddenly said, “Perhaps you should handle it yourself.”

There was a gentle, spring-like warmth in his voice.

Shu Ran sensed something unusual. She took the phone from his hand, and her previously dim eyes suddenly lit up, her face—shadowed with gloom all day—unexpectedly transformed with vivid emotion.

It was a message from Shu Yutian: “Ranran, if you truly love this, then go for it. I’ll help talk to your mother.”

For so many years, her parents’ attitude toward her continuing with figure skating had always been ambiguous. They had never openly objected, but it was far from supportive.

Her father’s words brought tears to her eyes in an instant.

She tucked away her smile, put away her phone, and closed her eyes again, but her nose felt a sharp ache.

“I’ve put it on silent now. No one can interrupt my bedtime story,” she said quietly.

Fu Yiqing noticed the tears slipping from the corners of her eyes. He pretended not to see, curved his lips into a gentle smile, and began to recite, “Once upon a time…”

*

These days had brought little good news, and even in sleep, Shu Ran’s brow remained tightly furrowed.

Fu Yiqing sat by her bedside, watching her, his own brows deeply knitted in concern.

He reached out, his hand hovering close to her cheek, yet never quite touching.

The hospital room was quiet, filled only with the sound of their breathing.

Fu Yiqing went out for dinner, but worried that Shu Ran might wake up alone, he hurried through his meal.

From leaving to returning, he took only ten minutes.

Returning, his heart pounding with anxiety, he slowed his steps at the door and peered through the glass window.

She lay in the same position as when he left.

Only then did his anxious heart settle.

He entered quietly and leaned back in his chair.

Time seemed to slow down abruptly; there was nothing to do. Anyone else might have been bored standing guard, but Fu Yiqing felt unexpectedly fulfilled.

He gazed at her sleeping face for a while, then took out his phone to scroll.

Shu Ran’s latest post was from before the last GP series—three months had passed.

Fans in the comments asked about her injury, wanting to know how she was doing.

Neither the national team nor her teammates had made any official statement.

But the media had already reported on her situation.

They’d been photographed at the Russian airport before boarding last night.

“@EntertainmentBigBoss: Shu Ran was injured during the World Championships free skate and has now returned home for treatment at XX Hospital. Praying for her! [Nine photos]”

In the pictures, Shu Ran wore a thick down jacket, a large black mask, and a hat. Her already small face was almost entirely covered. If not for the unmistakable presence of Fu Yiqing pushing the wheelchair, few would have recognized her.

Online, people expressed concern for Shu Ran while lamenting the fate of the national women’s singles team.

“It’s such a pity. If not for the accident, she could have made the podium. Her score yesterday was just one point less than last Winter Olympics’ champion!”

“Zhu Hongzhe took first place, but the women’s singles were wiped out. Mixed feelings about the World Championships; poor Shu Ran.”

“Maybe Shu Ran pushed herself too hard this time to avoid being criticized by netizens again? People really shouldn’t judge athletes by entertainment industry standards. They’re not the same; their real job is sport.”

“It was the netizens who accused Shu Ran of not caring about competitions and wanting to enter showbiz, and now it’s netizens who pity her for working too hard and getting injured. Isn’t it strange? Were the last batch just trolls, and the current trolls are offline?”

“I wonder how Shu Ran is now. I watched her free skate video—she looked in so much pain, her face pale and sweating. It must have hurt terribly.”

“If she’s fine, then all is well, but if not, what will become of her athletic career? She just started to shine, and the Winter Olympics are next year. If something happens now, will it affect her results?”

“It already has. This year’s World Championship ranking determines Olympic qualification, and the women’s team didn’t secure a single spot. Now it depends on the September Olympic qualifying tournament, which is even tougher. I hope Shu Ran recovers soon—only by shining on the ice can she make all her years of effort worthwhile.”

Fu Yiqing scrolled through the comments in silence. Exiting, he noticed several private messages from netizens.

“Coach Fu, is this you? How is Shu Ran doing?”

Most were the same.

Reading them warmed his heart. Instinctively, he glanced at Shu Ran. After a moment’s thought, he posted a message on Weibo.

@OldFu: “Thank you all for your concern. The situation is manageable.”

The comments quickly surpassed ten thousand, full of relieved messages, but Fu Yiqing didn’t look further.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shu Ran’s hand had slipped out from under the covers.

Phone in hand, he gently felt her hand—it was cold as ice. Quickly, he tucked it back under the blanket.

Just as he locked his phone, it lit up with a call from Russia.

Fu Yiqing frowned, quietly stepped outside, and answered.

“It’s me, Barrow.”

Fu Yiqing froze for a moment, his brow tightening, his gaze turning sharp.

His tone was even, “What do you need?”

“Your…student. Is she all right?”

“She’s fine, you needn’t worry.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. What kind of injury? Will it affect our wager?”

Fu Yiqing’s laugh was icy. “Given the situation, if I said it would have a big impact, would you call off the bet, President?”

After a few seconds, the other replied, “No.”

Fu Yiqing narrowed his eyes. “Then what’s the purpose of this call? Just to confirm your inevitable victory?”

Quentin had actually wanted to check on Shu Ran, but Fu Yiqing’s words annoyed him, and his tone turned cold. “Barrow, I’m just reminding you—no matter what, our wager stands.”

“Good. That’s how I see it too.”

Quentin said, “My student Kristina—”

A sharp noise sounded from the next room.

Instantly, all coldness vanished from Fu Yiqing’s face. Without waiting for Quentin to finish, he hung up.

He was about to open the door but realized the sound came from the neighboring room.

He exhaled in relief and smiled wryly.

Was he being overanxious?

Returning to the room, he saw Shu Ran’s hand once more outside the blanket. He caught her hand and, as he lifted the covers to tuck it in, was startled by how hot it was.

The light from the corridor illuminated her face; her brows were deeply furrowed, her expression one of pain.

A suspicion flared in Fu Yiqing’s mind. He pressed his hand to her forehead.

The burning heat made his heart leap into his throat.

He pressed the call button and leaned over her, calling softly, “Shu Ran? Shu Ran? Can you hear me? It’s Fu Yiqing.”

She opened her eyes slightly, her head foggy. “Coach? What’s wrong? I feel a bit unwell.”

“It’s nothing, just a fever. I’ve called the doctor.”

A nurse came to check, muttering, “Strange… Could her wound be infected? That can’t be.”

Fu Yiqing said sternly, “Get the doctor!”

The nurse, suddenly realizing the importance of Shu Ran’s identity, rushed off for help.

The doctor on duty hurried in. “If the wound is involved, a fever means infection, but with a sterile surgical closure, that shouldn’t happen.” He turned to Fu Yiqing. “We’ll need to remove the cast to see.”

Shu Ran was taken to the operating room.

Even as her mind grew muddled with fever, she gripped Fu Yiqing’s hand. “Coach, don’t tell my parents I have a fever.”

His heart jolted. After a moment, he answered, his deep voice resonant and steady, as though making a promise, “All right.”

Just in case, Fu Yiqing contacted Qin Liubei but made him promise not to inform Xu Jingyu.

Qin Liubei rushed to the hospital at eleven o’clock at night, out of breath, leaning on the wall. “What’s the situation now?”

Fu Yiqing shook his head, looking haggard. “She just went in.”

“Just went in? Didn’t she go in earlier?”

“It’s not an old infection.” Fu Yiqing rubbed his forehead, suddenly stopping himself. Leaning against the wall, he seemed deeply shaken.

Seeing him like this, Qin Liubei grew even more anxious. “What’s wrong?”

Fu Yiqing replied, “It’s not just her foot. Her knee is badly swollen with fluid.”

“Fluid in her knee?” Qin Liubei frowned. "But isn’t that something you just drain?”

Fu Yiqing didn’t know what to expect.

Athletes’ bodies differed; some injuries meant little to certain athletes but could be devastating to others.

No one could yet say what the outcome would be, or whether it would affect Shu Ran’s career.

No one understood better than Fu Yiqing how torturous waiting could be. He longed to see Shu Ran’s confident presence on the ice again—her wish, too. The more they cared, the more agonizing the wait became.

At last, the operating room doors opened, and Shu Ran was brought back to her room.

Half-conscious, she grasped Fu Yiqing’s hand. “Coach, am I all right?”

Fu Yiqing didn’t yet know. “Rest now. I’ll ask the doctor and tell you tomorrow.”

He turned to leave, but her faint voice called him back. “Coach Fu.”

He turned, his eyes suddenly soft. “What is it?”

“No matter what, don’t keep the truth from me.”

“Yes.” Fu Yiqing came back to her side. “And keep your hands under the covers. You’re not a child anymore, always making people worry.”

Shu Ran lowered her gaze. “I wish I could spare you all this worry.”

Fu Yiqing’s heart clenched. He sighed gently, “Sleep now.”