I stopped thinking about Canada.
Mark followed my line of sight. “The kid can’t stop looking at you.” The words were uttered casually enough.
“Mark—”
“What?” His lips twitched. “I’m observant.”
“Oh my God.” I waited for the focus lecture.
“Dean.” His tone gentled. “Whatever’s going on there?” He glanced toward Luka once more before looking back at me. “It seems to be making you happier.”
I was too shocked to answer.
Mark squeezed the back of my neck once. “Good. Hold onto that.” Then his expression sharpened again into coach-mode. “Now go win me an Olympic gold medal.”
I forced a grin. “You think maybe I’d better wait until it’s my turn?”
Going last was always a pain.
Then both of us stilled as the crowd roared.
Mark sighed. “Damn. Victor’s on fire tonight.”
I took a deep breath. “No pressure then.”
Luka
There was onlyDean left to skate.
My heart was pounding, my palms clammy inside my gloves.
Canada had scored 195.90. If Dean was going to beat that, he’d have to produce the skate of his life.
Mila’s hand found mine, and I squeezed it, thankful for once that the narrative they’d built around us would mean no one gave her action a second thought.
Dean’s name echoed through the building, a roar following, the air heavy with expectation.
I watched as Dean skated out into the center of the rink. The ice reflected pale silver beneath the lights, his deep blue costume creating flashes of brightness each time he moved.
Mila leaned closer. “He looks terrifying.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
The opening notes of Outro rolled through the arena, low and deliberate, and Dean moved. Immediately, the entire building shifted with him.
That was what made him extraordinary. Not only the jumps or the technical difficulty or even the consistency everyone talked about, but his presence.
Dean Foster stepped onto Olympic ice as though he belonged there.
The opening quad exploded upward with astonishing height, the landing clean and effortless enough that the audience reacted before he had even fully exited the edge. Then another followed it, with no hesitation or hint of caution. Every movement flowed directly into the next with relentless momentum, speed carrying him across the rink in huge sweeping patterns while the music built beneath him.
“He’s flying,” Mila whispered.
She was right. Dean was skating like someone aiming wholeheartedly to win.
The Axel landed clean. Then came the combination pass, impossible levels of difficulty stacked together under crushing Olympic pressure, and somehow he held onto every ounce of control while still making it feel alive and never mechanical.
My hands were clenched tight against my arms. I knew what this performance meant: his father watching from a hospital bed; the pressure of the standings; and the weight of expectation from an entire country.
