The honesty in that splits something open inside my chest.
I move around the island before she can overthink it, before I can overthink it, and I cup the side of her face with my hand.
Her skin is warm under my palm.
"I love you too," I say.
Then I kiss her. I kiss her like she’s a choice I'm making. Against every instinct I've built as protection.
Natalia makes a small sound against my mouth that feels like relief, her hands rising to grip my shirt like she’s making sure I’m not going to disappear.
I pull back just enough to look at her.
"We eat first," I say, and my mouth twitches despite myself.
Her eyes narrow. "That’s not what your body language suggests."
"I’m still recovering," I say dryly.
She huffs a soft laugh.
"Finish your breakfast," I murmur, brushing my thumb along her cheek. "Then I’ll show you how grateful I am that you stayed."
Her cheeks warm, but she doesn’t look away. She just nods once, as if she’s agreeing to something bigger than breakfast.
"Just so you know. I got the Olympic Committee to agree to a reasonable offering. Mostly, they are going to own you for the next winter Olympics. You’re going to be busy with commentary and promotion. Plus, a handful for charity events that you need to make an appearance and donate signed gear for."
"You couldn’t help yourself, could you? You quit and still couldn’t stop working on this."
"I’m no quitter," she says.
"Me either." Then lean over to kiss her one more time.
And for the first time in days, the apartment doesn’t feel empty.
It feels like the beginning of something I’ve spent my entire life convincing myself I don’t get to have.
Chapter Thirty-Six
LUKA
The press room smells like damp coats and cheap coffee, like a hundred people came in from the cold and decided breathing the same recycled air was a fair trade for being close enough to ask questions that aren’t really questions.
It’s familiar. The same rows of folding chairs, the same camera tripods, and the same tight cluster of reporters with recorders angled like weapons, each of them hoping they’re the one who gets the quote that turns into tomorrow’s headline.
Only a couple of months ago, before I left for bye-week, this room felt like a trap.
I stood in front of these microphones with a scandal hanging off my name like a shadow I couldn’t step out of, answering thesame questions with the same controlled tone while my body stayed on the ice and my mind stayed somewhere else entirely.
Tonight, we won.
It wasn’t a clean or easy win, but a win nonetheless that gets us closer to the playoffs next month. The kind of win that leaves sweat slick on my spine and the echo of the crowd still vibrating in my bones even after I’ve showered and changed and tried to become a normal person again.
Coach gives me a look in the hallway before I step inside, the same look he always gives when he’s deciding whether he trusts you to be careful with your own mouth.
I’m not careful. He already knows that, and he’s already bracing for what I might say.
The door opens and the noise hits me in a wave. Flashes go off. A few voices call my name at once.
