"This means nothing," I whisper to the quiet room. "It's just… physical."
But even as I say it, something deeper twists in my chest. I'm a professional. I've built my entire career on control, on reading people, on staying three steps ahead. I don't lose my head over clients—especially not the difficult, arrogant ones who treat every interaction like a power play.
This dream isn't just embarrassing. It's a warning sign.
If I can't even control my subconscious around Luka Popovich, how am I supposed to manage him in real life? How can I trust my judgment when my body is apparently staging a coup against my better sense?
Chapter Thirteen
NATALIA
I've been staring at Olympic bylaws for six hours, and my eyes feel like they're bleeding legal jargon.
The café is nearly empty now, just me and the owner wiping down tables with the passive-aggressive energy of someone who wants to close but is too nice to actually kick me out. My laptop screen glows between empty espresso cups—three, maybe four, I lost count around the third appeal precedent—and my notes have devolved from organized bullet points to increasingly unhinged margin scrawls.
Precedent: 2018 curling team disqualification (equipment tampering)
Precedent: 2014 figure skating judge misconduct (also Russian, ironically)
Multiple different cases of assaults inside the Olympic village all covered up. What the fuck?
"We’re closing soon," the barista says, apologetic but firm.
"Right. Yes. Sorry." I snap the laptop shut, gathering my papers into something resembling order. The cold hits immediately when I step outside. The level of cold that I’ll never get used to, but at least I’m getting used to bracing for properly.
After he saved me on the slopes yesterday and our conversation over lunch, Luka didn’t come back to the chalet until after I was asleep. Or at least, I assume he came back since the sheets on his side of the bed were flung over towards me as if he had tossed them off him this morning in a hurry to get out of bed, and the bathroom was damp from an early morning shower.
He must have gotten up before first light and left to make sure he was gone before I woke up.
I’m walking the edge of the village with my hands shoved in my pockets, trying to pretend I’m not scanning for him, when a sound stops me. It's the sound of skates on ice, a puck hitting boards, and then laughter. Bright young laughter that sounds like a group of children, and they must be playing hockey, which piques my interest.
An indoor rink sits near the edge of the resort village, tucked behind pines heavy with snow. I wasn’t looking for it. I wasn’t looking for him. Still, my feet angle that way as if my body decides before my brain can argue.
I step up to the glass and peer in.
Luka is out there in a hoodie and sweatpants, skating like the ice belongs to him. Kids dot the rink in oversized helmets and jerseys, clutching hockey sticks too tightly, and their cheeks pink from the cold.
A group of what I presume to be the father's are leaning up against the boards watching closely, barking out instructions,while the mothers cluster together on the benches with something warm in the to-go mugs in their hands.
He’s not looming over them. He’s down in it with them, knees bent, showing them something with his stick, waiting while they try. One kid fumbles the move and almost eats it, and I brace without meaning to—expecting irritation, expecting that hard edge of him.
Instead, Luka skates over and helps him up, patting the kid's shoulder with a soft smile and then points towards the net as if to tell him to try again. The kind of patience I wasn’t expecting to see with his level of intensity.
Then he nods at the other kids like it’s nothing. Like failing isn’t a crime, but is part of the sport.
This version of him doesn’t match the man who stalks out of rooms before dawn. Or the one who stares down Olympic committees like they’re gnats.
One of the kids takes a shot. It wobbles, but it goes in.
The rink erupts.
Luka throws both arms up, exaggerated and ridiculous, and the kid beams like he just won the Stanley Cup. Luka skates over and bends down, touching his forehead to the kid’s helmet, like pro-athletes do, then gives him a quick, proud high five.
I smile at the moment happening in front of me.
I head for the doors and walk inside. The woman at the front kiosk window hands me a hot toddy and a folded, warmed blanket without asking questions, like she’s done this a thousand times for people who need a place to sit and watch something they weren’t expecting to see.
I find a quiet spot on the metal bleachers on the opposite side of the rink where he is less likely to spot me. I’m grateful for the scarf tucked into my coat. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and watch.
