Having held Natalia most of the night until the power kicked back on, dealing with her and skiing, it's about all I can handle at this point.
She fell asleep fast. Twenty minutes, maybe less—back against my chest to conserve body heat, out cold like she'd decided thatif she was going to be cold and miserable, she was at least going to be unconscious for it. She’s practical, I'll give her that.
She'd also had the presence of mind to wedge a pillow between us before she drifted off, placing it low and specifically. She didn't say anything about it, and neither did I.
It was a practical solution to an inconvenient problem. Natalia is a beautiful woman. That's a fact, not an opinion, and it changes nothing. My body reacted the way bodies do. The pillow handled it.
She and I didn’t discuss it further.
I consider ignoring the phone call. The mountain doesn't care if I answer. The snow doesn't ask questions. That's why I came here. For the silence, the space, the absence of voices telling me what I need to do.
But discipline wins. It always does.
I pull off my glove and fish out my phone, wiping snow off the screen with my thumb. Randolph’s name is there, and my jaw tightens before I even read the message. If anyone can get a text through a blizzard with spotty reception, it’s my agent.
Have you met Natalia yet? She's there to help, and she's very good at what she does. She's the best of the best, and no one else will take on your case.
If she were the best, she wouldn't have followed me here. She would've understood the first time I said no. That’s the worst trait of a PR agent. They think persistence is a virtue instead of a weapon.
Maybe she’s the solution to make this all go away, but she's the solution to a problem I didn't ask them to solve. Now my phone is lighting up on a mountain six thousand miles from Seattle, because apparently distance means nothing when people decide they know what's best for you.
Then another text:
She paid for her plane ticket out of her own pocket. Don't blow this, Luka.
I stare at the words until the cold bites into my bare fingers.
She paid for her own plane ticket to get here? Why the hell would she do that?
My phone begins to ping again. Screenshots from Randolph of gossip magazines, podcasts, and sports media outlets:
Luka Popovish: In trouble with the Olympics?
Seattle Hawkeyes’ Left Winger Spreading It All Wide Open
Three Time Hawkeyes Olympian May Have Medals Stripped
I shove the phone back into my pocket without responding.
I came to Switzerland because the mountains don't want anything from me.
Trust is leverage. My father taught me that before I was old enough to understand the words. Every person who claims they want to help wants something in return. Every opened door is a vulnerability waiting to be exploited.
I pull my glove back on and adjust my goggles. The slope stretches below, pristine white cut with dark lines where other skiers have carved their paths. The sun hits the snow at an angle that makes everything gleam, sharp and clean.
This is what I need. No conversations. Not crisis management. Not some woman with dark eyes and expensive suits telling me she can fix what isn't broken.
I push off.
The first few seconds are always the best. That moment when gravity takes over and the only thing that matters is the line I'm carving through the snow. Speed builds as the wind cuts across my face where the goggles don't cover. My thighs burn in the good way, the way that means muscle working exactly as trained.
I take the run aggressively. Tighter turns than necessary, pushing the edges of my skis until they bite deep and send up sprays of powder. My heart rate climbs. My breathing finds its rhythm—in through the nose, out through the mouth, controlled even as I accelerate.
Pushing my body to its limits… this is what I understand.
The mountain doesn't care about Olympic medals or magazine photos or what the press thinks I should apologize for. It doesn't care about my father or the careful distance I maintain between myself and everyone who thinks they deserve access to my life.
On the mountain, there's only physics and instinct and the simplicity of downhill motion.
