"A girlfriend," Wolf repeats it like it’s hilarious. "What’s next? Are you going to start smiling in post-game interviews and saying things like, ‘I’m just happy to be here’?"
My mouth twitches, but it isn’t a smile.
It’s a warning.
"She’s not my girlfriend," I say, and even I can hear how flat my voice is. "She’s not even my PR agent anymore."
The laughter stutters, then picks up again, because they think I’m being dramatic, or grumpy, or stubborn, and they don’t understand that I’m saying it like a man trying to cauterize a wound so he doesn’t bleed out.
JP’s grin fades just a fraction, as if he senses the shift.
Olsen tilts his head. "Okay, okay. Chill. We’re just messing with you."
Wolf changes direction, sensing I’m not in the mood. "Well, at least the VELVT thing is turning into a bloodbath for them. They had it coming."
I keep my eyes on my skates as I finish tightening the laces. "We’ll see," I say.
And then the room’s energy shifts again, because my phone rings.
That’s Randolph.
I stand, grab my phone, and walk out into the hallway so the guys don’t get a front-row seat to whatever he has to say
The arena corridor is colder, quieter. The noise of the locker room dulls behind a heavy door, and I can breathe again, which is ridiculous because I shouldn’t need solitude to be steady.
But I do.
I answer. "What."
"Don’t ‘what’ me," Randolph snaps, and he sounds like he hasn’t slept. "Where the hell have you been?"
"On a plane," I say, because what else is there to tell him? That I was running? That I left a chalet like a coward because my trust was broken and my pride couldn’t handle it?
"Sponsors are calling me. The press is asking for comments. The Olympic Committee hasn’t released anything official yet, but they’re circling. The good news is that people are buying it. VELVT has a history. I’ve got two brands already saying they feel ‘reassured’ that you were misled."
"Reassured?" I scoff.
"This is a narrative war, and we’re winning it," he continues.
"We," I repeat, and my voice is sharper than I intend. "You’re winning it."
Randolph pauses. "Luka. Don’t start."
The pressure in my skull builds. "They can still come after me," I say. "I’m still the one in the photos with the medals."
"Yes," he admits. "The Olympics may still want to hold someone accountable. Your lawyer agrees. But Weekly Sports can’t name a source, and VELVT can’t risk confirming anythingwithout dragging their own NDA and shady practices into the light. That’s the point. The point is plausible deniability."
Plausible deniability.
"A loophole." I say, reading into what he’s trying to say without saying it exactly.
The kind of loophole I didn’t want.
The kind of loophole Natalia told me she wouldn’t use.
My jaw clenches until my teeth ache.
"Right now I need you focused. We’ll deal with your wounded pride later. Like it or hate it, Natalia and Legacy PR did you a solid here."
