I ran through all of it now: ice time, lift entries, timing adjustments from yesterday’s run-through. Everything lined up where it belonged.
Then Dean Foster appeared in my head without permission.
Dean in the showers. Damp hair. Water sliding down bare skin while I tried—and failed—not to stare like a teenager with no self-control.
I sat upright.
No.
I dragged both hands down my face and forced the image away before it could root itself more deeply.
This was becoming dangerous in ways I did not have time for.
By the time I left for the arena, I’d rebuilt enough composure to trust myself again.
Mostly. Not achieving one hundred percent was becoming a bad habit.
Cold air hit my face during the walk from the metro while Milan moved around me in a blurred motion of morning traffic, accompanied by voices and steam rising from street vendors setting up for the day. I barely registered any of it. My focus narrowed as the arena came into view, every part of me settling into familiar routines the closer I got to the ice.
Thank God that still worked.
The rink smelled the same as every major competition arena in the world, and the familiarity steadied me. Skaters were already warming up when I stepped inside. I tracked them without thinking, eyes moving automatically toward weak landings, unstable edges, small technical errors hidden inside otherwise polished programs. Mistakes always drew my attention first. Years of training had wired my brain that way.
I did not look for Dean.
Mila stood near the boards tightening the tape around one wrist when I joined her. She glanced at me once before looking back toward the ice again.
No greeting was necessary. With Mila, silence rarely meant absence of communication.
We started the short program run-through without delay. The first pass felt clean beneath me, our timing centered, Mila’s weight exactly where I expected it during the lift entry. My body settled into repetition while movement drowned out the lingering noise in my head.
Sokolov stopped us after the third run-through. “Again.”
He never raised his voice. He didn’t need to.
Mila exhaled beside me while we reset position, though I knew her well enough to recognize the sound for what it was, a sign of readiness.
We pushed off together.
The lift rose cleanly. Mila hit position above me while I adjusted beneath the weight and momentum, every correction precise enough to remain invisible. By the exit, my breathing had steadied again.
“Better,” Sokolov said.
Approval from him always sounded clinical.
Then his gaze settled on me, and my skin prickled.
“You are being watched.”
I stayed still.
“There is increased media attention,” he continued. “Commentary. Expectations.”
That was normal at the Olympics. Cameras followed momentum aggressively, especially when smaller federations threatened podium placements.
But I knew Sokolov wasn’t talking about scores.
“They call you reliable. Disciplined. Precise.” His eyes narrowed. “Do not give them a reason to reconsider that assessment.”
