No.
Montreal wasn’t safer. I’d buried it, along with the anger, the regret, the memory of what we’d lost.
And with one innocent remark, Dean had unearthed all of it, and made me look at it again.
Chapter Six
Luka
The envelope restedin my hand, thick cream paper already softening beneath the pressure of my fingers.
Canadian postmark. Official seal. My name printed across the front.
I turned it over once even though I already knew exactly what it was.
Everybody did.
Rumors about the Montreal intensive had been circulating through the locker rooms for days, quiet conversations cut short whenever coaches walked too close, athletes pretending not to care while tracking every invitation that arrived. Six weeks of elite international coaching. New choreography teams. Technical specialists from three different federations.
Opportunity packaged carefully enough to sound harmless.
So far, nobody from Velkarya had received an invitation.
Until now.
“Open it,” Mila demanded beside me, breathing fast enough to reveal her excitement despite every attempt to stay composed.
I slid a thumb beneath the seal. At first, I handled the envelope carefully out of habit, then impatience took over and I tore the letter free quickly enough to wrinkle the edge.
We would be honored to host Davorin/Kadanek for a six-week elite training block?—
My heart raced.
Six weeks.
I saw the possibilities instantly. Faster transitions, cleaner lift entries, better rotational efficiency. Different choreographic structures. International exposure that would force us beyond the rigid systems we’d spent years training inside.
For one dangerous moment, excitement broke through enough that I forgot to suppress it.
Mila leaned over my shoulder reading at the same speed I was. “This is real.”
“Yes.”
The word barely made it out.
Because alongside the technical possibilities came another thought I didn’t know what to do with.
Distance.
Different coaches. Different oversight. Weeks spent somewhere nobody tracked every movement outside official sessions, or analyzed every public interaction for correctness.
Nothing except skating.
“Davorin. Kadanek.”
Sokolov’s voice cut across the corridor behind us before either of us spoke again.
I folded the letter, composure snapping back into place before I even turned around. “Coach.”
