"Well, you're passionate about everything you love," Reno observes, tone thoughtful. "Because of that, when you want to express something specific, the minutae gets lost on people that wouldn't know personally what you're trying to say." He shrugs slightly, expression apologetic. He doesn't see anything wrong with what Emil does, how, or why. The only reason it's a problem is because it won't win anything, and that's what the Olympics are about.

"My passion is...complicated, I guess. I'm either into something or I'm not. There's not really a bland middle ground. But more often than not, I ain't into somethin'. So when I put my head down and aim for what I want it can get...uh...volatile, I guess," he shrugs, rubbing under his nose lightly and glancing away.

Pretty much why he was a good thug; his temper was fairly black and white.

"Well, I'll come skate with you, if that's something you want. Not competitively - tch, they'd never have me." He knows from personal experience, turned away at the doors more than once just because he couldn't prove citizenship. Why should that matter? It's nothing he understands.

"But maybe if you have someone else on the ice with you, you'll get what I'm saying? You can't tell me you're ready to throw in the towel? You're not that old, yo. That Scott Hamilton guy skated into his fifties and battled cancer. Anyone that gives up under that kinda shadow never really cared in the first place."