God, I love making him smile.
The rink sat in a spot quieter than the Olympic venues, tucked away from the constant chaos surrounding the Games. There were no crowds gathered outside, no camera crews waiting near the entrance. Inside, the stillness hit me immediately, and relief washed over me.
This was a good idea.God bless Mark Winton.
Luka exhaled beside me when he saw the rink, the area empty except for one maintenance worker near the far Zamboni entrance.
“No one is here,” he said in a tone of awe.
“Yeah.” I grinned. “I really owe Mark, big time.”
The tension in Luka’s shoulders eased, and in that moment I got it.
He’s spent so many years under scrutiny that privacy has become a form of safety.
“Will we have music?”
I pointed to the far end. “That looks fairly technical. Let’s try over there.” I had my music for the gala piece on my phone.
Sure enough, I was able to connect with the sound system.
We spent almost an hour doing absolutely nothing important. I worked through fragments of gala choreography while Luka sat on the boards watching me with his chin propped on one hand, occasionally offering critiques.
“That spin looked… emotionally constipated.”
I froze. “Wow. Seriously?”
He opened his eyes wide. “You asked for honesty.”
“I really didn’t.” I narrowed my gaze. “And I take it back. Your command of English is getting way too good.”
“And there is no one to blame but you.” He grinned. “Now I truly understand why Mila’s English is so much better than mine.”
Later, Luka skated alone while I leaned against the barrier watching him move through the empty rink.
Jesus…
Even now, after all the emotional revelations and confessions and life-altering conversations, watching him skate still felt dangerous. Yes, he was technically brilliant, but when nobody was judging him, Luka moved differently, all rigidity gone, with a freedom that took my breath away. The invisible restraint he carried during competition had loosened, and the result was stunning.
At one point he launched into a jump without warning, landed cleanly, then laughed under his breath. The sound echoed through the near-empty arena, and my chest felt constricted.
I had never heard him laugh on the ice before.
Eventually he drifted back to me, his cheeks flushed, strands of blond hair curled damply against his forehead.
He fixed me with a look. “You are staring again.”
“That’s because you are still very stare-able.”
“You say ridiculous things.”
“Yeah, but you don’t mind them so much now, because you love me.”
His face glowed at that. “This is true.” He cocked his head. “You are smiling at me strangely.”
“I won Olympic gold yesterday. I’m allowed to smile strangely.”
He pretended to peer closely at my chest. “You did not wear it today?”
