I almost go back and change into something that looks less like I crawled into a dark hole and then I stop myself. If she's that worried about him, I don't have time to waste.
Luka’s building, The Commons, is one of those downtown places that tries to disguise luxury as minimalism, all neutral tones. It's proximity to the arena is probably why all the players live here. Another fact my mother shared earlier this week as if she was hoping I would drive by like a stalker to run into Luka.
I ride the elevator up, my stomach tightening with each floor. What if he is hurt and I got here too late?
I step out of the elevator, and before I know it, I’m standing in front of his door, staring at the wood grain like it’s about to either open or swallow me whole.
I knock once.
Then twice.
Then, because the silence stretches too long, I knock again.
"Luka?" I call, keeping my voice low so the neighbors don’t get a show. "It’s me."
No answer.
I press my forehead briefly against the door and exhale.
Of course he isn’t answering. Of course he’s making me stand out here like an idiot.
I text Katerina:
No answer.
Katerina:Please go inside. I’m sending you the code.
I stare at the message and then at the keypad. I bite down on my lip as I anxiously type in the code.
My heart starts pounding in a way that has nothing to do with professionalism and everything to do with the fact that Luka Popovich is going to murder me if he catches me breaking into his apartment. If he's still alive…
The door unlocks but before I can push it open, I text Katerina back one last time. Maybe for confirmation. Maybe for emotional support. I'm not sure which.
He will hate me.
Katerina:He already hates everyone. Go inside. Please.
That makes something in me loosen, not because it’s funny, but because it’s true. Luka is an equal-opportunity grump. If he’s going to be furious, at least let it be because he’s alive enough to be furious.
The moment I push the door open, I sense a level of wrongness that is anything but comfortable.
It's not subtle wrongness. Or even a "he’s in a mood" wrongness.
I glance around the scene before me. His boots looking like he kicked them off in the middle of the entryway instead of lined up by the door like he always did in Switzerland. His jacket is crumpled on the floor, half inside-out, as if he shrugged it off and didn’t care where it landed.
Luka does not leave things disorderly.
My throat tightens.
"Hello?" I call, stepping inside slowly. "Luka?"
Then silence stretches on, the apartment smells faintly sour, like sweat and something stale.
I move farther in, scanning the kitchen and living room.
Still no Luka.
My brain tries to stay calm, but it’s already sprinting.
