Luka laughs when one of the kids tries to take him down and actually manages it—catching him off guard enough that they both end up sprawled on the ice. Parents on the sidelines clap and cheer. Luka stays down for a beat longer than necessary, mock-defeated, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes.
The kids pile on him.
For a moment, he looks… light. Unburdened as I’ve never seen him before. So unlike a man who seems constantly bracing for impact.
I don’t realize how long I’m staring until he stands and his eyes sweep the bleachers. They land on me. His smile is instant, and then it fades, and I have no idea why.
I stood quickly, heart doing something stupid and fast.
By the time I return to the blanket and toddy, he’s off the ice, sitting on the bench to unlace skates that look suspiciously like his own. Of course he brought them. Of course, this isn’t some spur-of-the-moment resort activity.
I walk up to the bench he’s sitting on.
"You’re stalking me again, Bunny Hill," he says without looking up.
A nickname… great. All I can do is hope it isn’t permanent, but something tells me I’m not getting rid of this one that easily.
"More like doing my job," I argue.
He doesn’t look up as he continues to loosen the laces on his skates. "That’s where we disagree."
I don’t argue because I have so many questions about his impromptu children’s hockey clinic that he just conducted in the middle of the Swiss Alps.
"So," I say, nodding toward the rink where the kids are being helped off the ice by parents. "The kids. Do you coach back in Seattle? You seem like a natural."
His shoulders tensed at my words.
"My answer depends," he says, glancing up at the rink and the kids for a moment and then back down at his skates, "on whether this is part of your PR crisis plan."
I blink. "What?"
"Are you going to spin this?" he continues. "Use it. Because if so, save your breath."
I shake my head. "No. I’m not asking for work reasons. I just… don’t know much about you."
He pauses, then reaches into a bag beneath the bench and pulls out snow boots.
"My mom says you’re a big deal in Seattle," I add, softer. "That people love you."
He scoffs quietly. "People love goals. They don’t love me."
I hesitate, then try again because something about his comment seems to come from bitterness or experience, and I’m not sure which one it is. "You’re good with them. The kids."
He pulls on one book at a time, tying the laces. "I help coach sometimes—The Little Hawks is the Hawkeyes kids’ league. Most of the ex-players’ children play on it."
"And you like it?"
There’s a beat where he’s deciding whether to answer or not.
"I never had anyone who supported my love of hockey," he says. "I want to give back what I didn’t have."
The words hang between us.
He clears his throat, as if he’s said too much, and finishes lacing up his last boot.
I don’t push. I’ve learned that about him—push too hard and he disappears. Instead, I ask, "Do you ever want a family of your own?"
He looks up then. Really looks at me.
