Today every detail registered. Conversations. Movement. People.
I tightened my grip on my bag and turned the corner toward the locker rooms.
Then stopped.
Luka stood several feet ahead near the wall.
For a second I thought he hadn’t noticed me. He looked kinda distant, staring down the corridor without really seeming to see it.
Then his gaze found mine.
The reaction was immediate.
His chest rose sharply. The reaction vanished a second later, composure sliding back into place so fast I might have questioned it if I hadn’t been looking straight at him.
“Foster.” His voice stayed perfectly level.
“Davorin.”
That should have been the end of it, two athletes acknowledging each other in passing before continuing on with their day.
Instead, I heard myself say, “I thought I saw you at the Montreal training camp last year.”
The moment the words left my mouth, Luka changed.
Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed anything at all. But I watched his expression close off, like a door sliding shut just before I could see what lay behind it.
“No.” The word came out flat.
I blinked. “I thought?—”
“I was not there.”
The pressure beneath the words was harder to miss than the words themselves.
“Okay.” I cocked my head. “Did I say something wrong?”
His gaze held mine for a second longer. “No.”
Another answer that was far too quick.
“Right.”
Luka stepped back. “Good luck in your next session.”
A second earlier he’d felt almost approachable.
Now he sounded like someone addressing a reporter.
“You too.”
He nodded, then walked past me.
I watched him disappear down the corridor, then continued toward the locker room, wondering why a simple question about Montreal had felt so much like crossing a line.
It was just a training camp, one of dozens that took place every year. Different coaches, different ice. The same promise of improvement if you worked hard enough to take advantage of it. It hadn’t been a loaded question. I’d meant nothing personal by it.
But the way he shut me down.
