Sources close to the Olympic Committee say officials were "blindsided" by Popovich’s decision to pose nude wearing his medals in a VELVT Magazine centerfold. Insiders claim sanctions could be imminent, and sponsors are already "having conversations."
I take the screen shots and email them to Molly.
Subject line: Formal Notice–Send cease and desist orders.
Message: This correspondence serves as formal notice that your recent publication titled"ICE KING EXPOSED: Luka Popovich’s Nude Olympic Stunt Sparks Committee Fury"contains materially misleading statements and unverified claims presented as fact.
I hit send knowing that Molly is still in the office for a few more hours. Then I hear a large gust of wind hit the side of the chalet and my internet goes dead. Damn it.
I’ll have to find wherever the resort hides the signal boosters. There has to be some corner meant for executives who still insist on taking Zoom calls while on vacation. I can’t afford spotty internet if I want any chance of untangling Luka’s mess before Gabriella’s three-and-a-half-week clock runs out.
When the bathroom door finally opens a few minutes later, steam rolls out first, then Luka Popovich walks into the bedroom completely naked.
My brain blanks and my fingers freeze on my keyboard.
Not because I've never seen a naked man but because this ishim.All sharp lines and hard muscles. Broad shoulders, strong thighs, scars that tell stories he'd never volunteer.
He has a towel draped over his shoulders, one hand dragging it lazily back through his damp hair, moving directly toward the thermostat on the far wall like a man who has absolutely no awareness that this might be a problem. Like nudity is as natural to him as breathing.
"Luka. What are you doing?" I ask, my brain finally coming back online. "You’re naked."
He glances over at me mid-reach, hand still on the thermostat dial, expression flat. Like I've just pointed out that the sky is blue. He holds my gaze for exactly one beat. The kind that saysand?
"What’s the problem now? This is how I sleep."
There’s no smirk. No "I gotcha" moment. Just mild annoyance, like I’m the one being weird.
Heat floods my face so fast it’s almost painful. I jerk my eyes up to his.
"You could’ve warned me," I snap, voice too sharp to be believable.
He blinks once, genuinely confused.
"I always sleep like this," he says. "Doesn’t everyone sleep nude? It seems unnatural not to."
"No," I snap. "Most people sleep like they’re expecting an intruder to bust through their bedroom door or a fire. No one wants to be naked when the firetrucks or the police show up."
That gets the smallest pause out of him. The barest shift of his shoulders.
"You’re not a firefighter or the police," he says.
I gesture toward the bed I’m currently sitting in. "Yeah but I’m a stranger."
He exhales through his nose and turns without a word, crossing the bedroom towards the dresser on the far side.
"Should I remind you that you begged to stay here? I didn’t invite you," he says and then yanks open a drawer, pulling out a pair of boxer briefs.
"That's true," I say sweetly, "However, I didn’t expect you to greet me like a European art exhibit."
His mouth twitches like he wants to laugh and refuses to give me the satisfaction, as he steps into the briefs, pulling them on quickly, but no less annoyed. Then he turns to me.
"Better?" he asks, his expression flat like he’s just put on socks, like he didn’t just stroll into this room naked a few minutes ago and rewrite my blood pressure.
My throat tightens. "Yes."
He shakes his head and lets out a breath as he crosses back to the other side of the room… his side.
I cross my arms. "You’re telling me every woman you’ve slept with sleeps naked all night too?"
