No sign of him.
I should have expected it, but tonight it feels a little lonelier than it ever has before. Maybe I was hoping for another hour of conversation. I didn’t get to ask about his family. About his sister, who’s a prima ballerina in Seattle and married to his teammate. I didn’t get to ask if he learned how to ski as a child in Russia, or if he picked it up in the States. I didn’t get to ask why he likes to ski alone. Why he keeps trying to "lose" every woman who finds him on the slopes when he’s known for being a playboy.
Then I remind myself that distance is good. That professional distance is safer.
I kicked off my boots and set my bag down carefully. I could keep working, but I’m exhausted.
My calves ache from skiing. My shoulders are tight.
Jet lag, extreme stress, adrenaline, and a near-death experience. That’s just a few of the things I’ve experienced in the last few days here.
I shower, alone this time, scrubbing longer than necessary, letting the shower heat burn away the cold, the memory of the slope, the unwanted awareness of how close everything felt today. I don’t think about the morning. I don’t think about steam or proximity or the way my body reacted without my permission.
I don’t think about Luka Popovich naked in a confined space.
I pull on an oversized T-shirt and crawl into bed with my tablet, determined to read something dry and boring until my eyes give out. Olympic regulations. Case studies on past athletes in Luka’s same position. Anything that doesn’t involve feelings.
Trying in vain to stop my thoughts from drifting towards sharing a shower with an aroused Luka, having him save me from crashing into a tree, buying me lunch, and remembering my order. Damn him…
But I’m not attracted to Luka Popovich. Not even close… not even a little. I coach myself.
I’m just here to do a job. That’s all.
I turn off the light.
Eventually, exhaustion wins, and somewhere between one breath and the next, control slips.
Soon, my eyes are too heavy, jet lag still bearing down on me, and before I knew it, I’m drifting off, alone in the chalet.
My sleep takes me into a deep dream.
The billows of steam from the shower are almost so real I can reach out and touch it, feeling the moisture all around me.
I know where I am instantly, before my body catches on.
The bathroom shower.
I look down and realize I’m naked. But I’m not shocked or started, just… aware.
Luka is there.
His back is to me, broad shoulders slick with water, hands braced against tile as the shower runs over the back of his neck and down his back. He doesn’t turn in my dream. He just exists in the space like he owns it.
As much as I want to fight that fact, it’s true.
"Don’t move," he says, his voice is calm—completely controlled. "I’m not looking."
"I didn’t say anything," I tell him, but my voice sounds thin, like it’s coming from too far away.
"You’re in my chalet," he continues, like I haven’t spoken at all, "you follow the rules."
Heat blooms low in my belly.
"I warned you," he says. "You didn’t listen."
I want to argue. Want to tell him this is a misunderstanding, that I thought I had time, that it wasn’t intentional. My body doesn’t care about intentions. It wants something completely out of my control.
I reach out, my hand touching the middle of his back.
