I stop skating and glide to the bench, chest heaving. I grab the phone.
"Katerina," I answer.
Her voice hits my ear like sunshine. She’s so much like our mother now that she’s happy with Scottie. It’s almost painful to be reminded of the woman who birthed us, but it also makes me happy to hear it in Katerina’s voice now.
"Luka," she says, and I can hear the smile. "Tell me you're not doing something stupid."
"I'm skating," I say.
"You're always skating." A pause. "Are you alone?"
I glance at the empty rink. "Yes."
"You're supposed to be on vacation," she says, as if she's scolding me for working too hard. Like she doesn't know that rest is something I know nothing about. "You know… normal stuff like pedicures at the luxury spa. Eating bonbons in the hot tub. Ordering room service and eating until you puke."
I almost laugh at the word normal.
"Our ideas of a vacation are vastly different," I say.
"Yeah, that’s because I know how to relax and you don’t."
I don’t argue her point. It’s probably true.
"Playoffs are in three months. I can’t afford to get soft. Neither can Scottie, by the way. Is he with you?" I ask.
A muffled voice in the background that’s both too cheerful for how early it is there.
"Tell him if he's being an asshole to stop ruining the view," Scottie calls.
Katerina laughs. "I looked up your little PR friend. She has quite the resume."
"Kat—" I start until Scottie interrupts.
"Yeah, leave the guy alone, KitKat. Your brother is a dirty hockey slut when he’s on vacation. She’s out of his league… literally."
"Eew gross…" she mumbles.
"Thanks, asshole…" I say back to Scottie.
I hear his chuckle over the line. "Just keeping it real."
"Scottie, you’re doing the opposite of helping," I hear my sister say, attempting to muffle the speaker so I can’t hear her berate her husband.
"Kat, nothing is going on with Natalia," I lie. "Besides, Scottie’s right, she’s out of my league."
Which I won’t challenge. Arguably, she is.
Kat's voice softened again. "Luka… you deserve to love and be loved."
I let out a deep sigh. Of course my sister thinks that.
"Katerina—"
"You're not Dad," she says, firmer now. "You're not him."
The words punch straight through the places I keep locked up.
"I don't want to talk about this," I say, voice flat.
