“The Director would like a word.”
Cold crept over my skin, but I nodded. “Of course.”
The liaison led me through the lower corridors beneath the arena, away from the noise of the mixed zones and athlete traffic, toward the temporary office spaces allocated to delegations during the Games. The farther we walked, the quieter it became until all I could hear was the distant hum of ventilation and the muted scrape of blades somewhere overhead.
I did my best to keep my pulse steady, a habit acquired through years of training. By the time the liaison stopped outside a narrow door and gestured for me to enter, I knew I appeared completely composed.
Inside was another matter.
Director Vasiliev was waiting for me, seated at one side of a folding table beneath the harsh fluorescence of the temporary office. Coach Sokolov sat beside him, his posture immaculate, hands folded neatly in front of him. Both men smiled when I entered.
That was worse than if they had not.
“Luka,” Vasiliev said warmly. “Please. Sit.”
The chair facing them felt deliberately isolated, a small detail that nevertheless sharpened my awareness of the imbalance in the room.
Vasiliev laced his hands together. “First, congratulations on your contribution to the team medal.”
A statement that should have filled me with nothing but pride, and yet it sat heavy on my chest.
“Thank you, sir.” I kept the tremors from my voice.
Sokolov watched me for a moment too long before speaking. “You understand that expectations are significantly higher now.”
“Yes.”
“That is good.” Vasiliev’s smile remained polished, effortless. “Success creates opportunity. Visibility. National interest.” The words sounded complimentary.
They were not.
A pause settled over the room before Sokolov spoke again, his tone so mild it almost disappeared beneath the buzz of the overhead lights.
“We have noticed that you’ve become… social during these Games.”
Every muscle along my spine tightened, my senses suddenly alert. “With the other athletes?”
“With one in particular.”
No name, no direct accusation.
Vasiliev leaned back in his chair. “The American,” he said, his tone smooth. “Foster.”
Keeping my face neutral required no effort. Neutrality had been built into me long before adulthood. But I was aware of my increasing temperature, that tingling in my chest that wouldn’t disappear.
“We exchange pleasantries,” I said, my voice steady. “As athletes do.”
“Of course.” Vasiliev smiled. “And we encourage cordial international relations. The Olympic spirit and all that.” Another pause followed, longer this time.
That also felt deliberate.
Sokolov cleared his throat. “Optics can become delicate.”
The word settled against my skin like a blade laid flat across the throat.
Optics.
He was talking not about morality or rules, but image, perception…
