Now I can't even fake interest with these women who find me in the bar or on the slopes.
The thought sits bitter on my tongue as I walk, hands still shoved deep in my pockets.
The rental shop is still open—barely. The lights dim, and a bored attendant scrolls through his phone behind the counter. Outside, near the equipment racks, a cluster of teenagers jostled each other, laughing loudly. That particular brand of teenage invincibility that hasn't learned consequences yet.
Then I see him… a bright orange beanie. Blue-and-white zebra jacket.
Too memorable to miss the description of the asshole kids who made Natalia fall. My vision narrows, and I move without hesitation towards them.
One of them looks up. His face went still, eyes widening.
"Oh, shit," he mutters.
The others follow his gaze. Recognition rippling through the group.
"No way… that's him." The kid in the orange beanie blurts it out. "You're Popovich. Holy shit—dude, you're a monster on the ice."
I stop an arm's length away. Close enough, that they can see my face clearly in the dim light. Close enough, that they can feel the shift in my demeanor, the way their laughter dies and their shoulders tense.
They start talking over each other, words tumbling out in a nervous rush.
"I saw your hit on Johansson last season—"
"My dad says you fight like you're trying to kill someone—"
"They say you're secretly Russian mafia or something. Is that true—"
I lift one hand.
Instant silence.
I reach out slowly, deliberately, and rest my palm on the zebra-jacket kid's shoulder. Not hard, but not gentle. Just enough pressure that he understands—viscerally, instinctively—that he's not moving unless I allow it.
His eyes go wide.
"You were here two days ago," I say, my voice calm. The same tone I use right before a fight, when the ref is still between us and I'm deciding exactly how this is going to go. "On the upper runs."
The kid nods, "Yeah."
"You came down fast and out of control. There was a woman near the trees."
A flash of knowledge glazing over their faces.
One of the other boys exhales sharply. "We didn't hit her."
"No," I agree. My hand stays where it is… steady. "You scared her. She fell and got hurt."
The kid under my palm goes pale.
"I—I didn't mean—" His voice cracks. He's maybe sixteen, seventeen. Old enough to know better. Not old enough to have learned it yet.
I lean in just enough that he has to hear me over the wind. "You don't get to decide what you meant. You only get to live with what you did."
His breath comes shallow and rapid.
I glance at the other two. They're frozen, watching. "If I see any of you anywhere near her again," I say, letting each word land separately, distinctly, "I will make sure the next time someone goes looking for you, they won't find anything until the snow melts."
Then I straighten, lifting my hand from the kid's shoulder as if nothing happened. "Understand?"
