"And I came here to figure out why I let go of figure skating."
The words hang in the air, suspended by the gravity of an admission I have been circling since the day I laced up skates in the campus rink and felt the ice welcome me back like a friend who had been waiting.
"I did not lose my talent," I say quietly. "I lost my spark. I started conforming to everyone's standards. My mother's expectations. The communal system's limitations. The world's insistence that an Omega's aspirations should be modest, manageable, and centered around finding a pack rather than finding herself. I shrunk myself to fit spaces that were never designed for what I am capable of, and I hated it. Every single day, I hated it. But I did not know how to change it. Especially alone. Especially without a pack. Especially without anyone in my corner telling me that the shrinking was optional."
I look up at Raphaël.
His gray eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that carries no judgment, no pity, no performative sympathy. Just attention. Full, undivided, present attention from a man who tracked me to an empty training room because he could not rest while I was angry, and who is now standing in that room listening to me unpack years of compressed pain with the patience of someone who understands that healing is not a spectator sport.
"But now I have a pack," I say. "Even temporary. Even uncertain. Even held together by a deadline and a housing assignment and the collective stubbornness of three Alphas who decided that I am worth the effort. And I can already see the difference. The opportunities. The space to be bold instead of small. The permission to want things I told myself I was not allowed to want."
I straighten my spine.
"I want to learn more about you, too," I tell him. "Your past. Your coaching. The version of Raphaël that his friends in Paris and Milan and Munich know, the one who tells bad jokes andgets into alleyway brawls and cares more than his composure lets on. I want to see you in action. On the ice. With the team."
I pause, and the next words form with a determination that feels like iron hardening in my chest.
"I want to audition for the figure skating team."
His eyebrows lift slightly. Not with surprise. With recognition. The expression of a man who was waiting for me to arrive at a conclusion he could already see forming.
"I do not care if I get captain or first chair or any position of prestige. I just want to be on the ice again. I want to get lost in the passion that my heart has been yearning for since the day I convinced myself that wanting it was selfish and pursuing it was impossible. I want to skate again because it is mine and nobody gets to take it from me. Not my mother. Not the system. Not the years I spent pretending I did not ache for it every single day."
I blush, the heat climbing my neck with the suddenness of a woman who has just delivered an impassioned monologue and is now arriving at the practical ask.
"Um. Cal mentioned that you might have experience coaching figure skaters? From your time in Europe? So, uh. Maybe you could help. If you are willing. No pressure. I realize I just threw papers at your brother and threatened to bake a sarcastic cake, so my negotiating position might not be ideal."
He smirks.
Slowly. Deliberately. The expression building across his features with a warmth that transforms his composed face into a landscape I want to study, each line and angle carrying a story I have not yet heard but intend to request.
He walks toward me.
Unhurried. Closing the distance between us with the measured confidence of a man who moves through the world at his own pace and does not adjust it for anyone, his vanilla ice cream and dark sandalwood scent intensifying with each stepuntil it wraps around me with the intimacy of an embrace that has not yet become physical.
He stops in front of me. Close enough that I have to tilt my chin to meet his gaze, the height difference pronounced at this proximity, his gray eyes looking down at me with an expression that is equal parts captain, coach, and the man who told me fifteen minutes ago that watching me box was the best entertainment he could ask for.
"I will help you any way I can," he says. "With the skating. With the team. With whatever version of yourself you are trying to rebuild. That is not conditional. That is not transactional. That is a man telling a woman that her passion matters and he intends to support it."
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache.
"However," he adds, and the smirk returns. "I do have one condition."
"Which is?"
"I get to take you out for a dinner date tomorrow night. After practice."
I smirk, crossing my arms over my sweat-soaked shirt.
"Practice is going to be eight hours?" I ask, because Cal mentioned the scheduling and the number sounded more like a punishment than a training session.
He chuckles, the sound low and reverberating through the small space between our bodies.
"You have not seen me coach in practice, sweet love," he warns, and the endearment lands against my senses with the impact of his sandalwood scent, warm and unexpected and leaving a mark I will feel for hours. "It is brutal. Whoever shows up tomorrow is going to discover exactly how different my methodology is from what they have been suffering under. But if you want to experience my coaching firsthand, you are welcometo join. I could use an assistant who understands strategy and is not afraid to throw papers at people who underperform."
I pout.
"Why do I feel like I am going to regret accepting that invitation?"
