"And me, and reporters asking you questions during post-game interviews, where it’s their job to do so."
"You’re kidding, right? They’re vultures."
I don’t admit that part of the reason I stumbled through those press questions after the game she attended was because I couldn’t concentrate on anything except her standing in the back of the room.
That’s the kind of ammunition she doesn’t need to know she has. That her proximity throws me off my game.
"Just forget it, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about."
"There's nothing to talk about," I say.
"Your agent disagrees. So does the Olympic Committee. And possibly soon, the NHL as well."
"I don't care what they think."
That part is true. I don’t care. Because it was worth it. Sanction me, strip me of my medals, fine me… whatever they have to do. As long as my father is still simmering in his big mansion all alone, I’ll take whatever punishment comes my way.
"That's evident." She shifts her weight, adjusting her stance on the skis. Still awkward with the equipment. "But your lack of caring doesn't make the problem disappear. The Olympic Committee is demanding a response, the press is circling, and every day you refuse to address this, it gets worse."
The wind picked up, sending powder skittering across the packed snow between us. I focus on that instead of the way her cheeks are flushed from cold and exertion, or the way her breath comes out in small clouds that dissipate in the air, or how there are droplets of frost on the tops of her eyelashes, and how her lips are cherry red from the cold.
"So let it get worse," I say. "Eventually, they'll find something else to care about."
"That's not how crisis management works."
"Then maybe I don't want crisis management."
"Too bad," she says, that steel underneath the professional polish that she shows every once in a while. "Because you need it whether you want it or not. And I flew six thousand miles to help you, and your agent is begging, so you're going to talk to me."
"I didn't ask you to follow me. Maybe I should file a restraining order when we get back to the US."
She folds her arms over her chest, her head tilting just slightly as she glares back, but I can see a smirk on her lips. "How cute. A restraining order. Why don’t you do that? I’m sure all the boys in the locker room will get a kick out of how a six-foot-four hockey player is scared of a five-foot-five PR agent. I don’t think that would look good for your reputation on the ice, do you?"
"They’ll side with me once they realize you flew halfway across the world when I never retained your services," I say coolly. "That’s not dedication, Natalia. That’s unhinged."
"You didn’t have to hire me. Your talent agent took the liberty of doing so for you. And ever since we met at the stadium, you’ve dismissed me as if I am an inconvenience instead of the person who’s trying to save your career." She takes a step forward, wobbling slightly in her boots. "But here's what you need to understand, Luka. I don't quit. Not when I'm confident that I can fix this, IknowI can fix this. You just have to give me a shot."
Something flickers between us. Most people back down when I freeze them out. They take the hint and leave, but she doesn't. I could respect that if it didn't piss me off so much.
"You don't know what I need or what I want." I say, keeping my voice flat and cold. The tone that makes teammates shut up during practice. "You're here because Randolph is paying you, not because I asked for help."
"You're right. I don't know what you want or what you need because you refuse to talk to me." She holds my gaze unflinching. "But I know what happens when athletes ignore PR crises. I know how fast sponsors disappear and endorsements dry up. I know what it looks like when someone throws away a career because they're too proud to accept help."
"And you think you can fix that?"
"I know I can. If you stop being stubborn enough to let me."
The standoff stretches. Neither of us moves. Around us, other skiers glide past, voices carrying on the cold air, but they mightas well not exist. There's only her steady gaze and the set of her shoulders and the way she refuses to back down, even though every signal I'm sending tells her to leave.
"Fine," she says finally, breaking the silence. "Then I'll keep following you. Every run. Every bar. Every blonde who pats your arm and strokes your ego. I'll be there, waiting, until you're ready to have an actual conversation about fixing this mess you've made."
The words land like a challenge, and I know she means it. I can see it in the way she squares her shoulders, in the determination written across her face. She'll actually do it—shadow me across this resort, a constant presence I can't shake.
Most people threaten things they won't follow through on. The fact that she flew this far to chase me down already shows me that she's not most people.
I might not like it or want it, but I can respect an opponent who won't concede the fight. Even if the fight is the last thing I want.
"You're persistent," I say.
