The way he held everything so tightly.
I headed into the shower.
It’s probably nothing. I’m overreacting.
Maybe.
There was a part of me that doubted this.
The same part that had started wondering what Luka was trying so hard to keep hidden behind those doors.
Luka
I should have gone straight backto the rink.
That would have been normal. Another session, another hour spent concentrating on problems I actually knew how to solve.
I slowed in the corridor without meaning to.
Athletes and coaches flowed around me toward their next sessions. Voices echoed. Doors opened and closed. Blades scraped against rubber flooring.
I barely noticed any of it.
The conversation with Dean stayed lodged in my head.
I thought I saw you at the Montreal training camp last year.
A harmless statement, but enough for me to shut the conversation down so fast that even he noticed.
I drifted toward one of the smaller practice rinks before realizing where I was going. Only a handful of skaters occupied the ice, running isolated elements beneath dimmer lights.
The quieter space suited me.
I sat against the far wall and closed my eyes.
What came to mind was not Dean’s simple statement about Montreal, but his hand.
The memory returned with humiliating clarity: his fingers closing around my arm after the near collision, the warmth of his grip through my sleeve, and the momentary stillness before either of us moved away.
My jaw tightened.
I bent to remove my skates, focusing on the laces beneath my fingers.
Montreal was safer.
I hadn’t thought about it in years.
One second I was sitting beneath fluorescent lights in Milan.
The next I stood in a narrow office thousands of kilometers away, winter pressed white against the windows.
An envelope rested in my hands.
Official seal.
Opportunity.
A letter that could have changed everything.
