“To be honest, I always assumed you and Mila would’ve ended up there at some point.”
“We were invited.”
“When?”
A moment’s hesitation. “A while ago.”
“And you didn’t go?”
“No.”
Pain flickered across his face, and my heart sank.
“They wouldn’t let you.”
For a moment he said nothing, then gave a small nod.
“The concern was that external influence could dilute cohesion.”
The phrasing was so absurd I almost laughed.
“Dilute.”
“Yes.” Even Luka sounded unconvinced by the word.
I leaned back against the boards. “You know Montreal isn’t actually magical, right? Half the time it’s freezing, overcrowded, and running twenty minutes behind schedule.”
That finally earned a real smile.
The difference was startling. Without all the restraint, even briefly, he looked younger. Less tired, somehow.
“But it’s loud in a good way,” I continued. “Everybody steals ideas from everybody else. Coaches argue in three languages. Nobody cares who you’re talking to.”
“That sounds chaotic.” There was an almost wistful note beneath the amusement.
I grinned. “You mean not optimal.”
I swore I saw a twinkle in those blue eyes. “Very not optimal.”
That one got an actual laugh out of me, and the sound seemed to surprise him as much as it did me.
“Careful,” I told him. “You’re starting to look relaxed.”
“I am not relaxed.”
The speed of the denial made me laugh again.
Eventually I pushed away from the boards before the conversation settled into something neither of us could handle.
“But seriously,” I called out, circling toward him, “I think you would’ve liked Montreal.”
The effect was immediate.
The warmth disappeared from his face so quickly it was almost jarring. Whatever openness had emerged over the last few minutes vanished behind the familiar reserve I’d come to associate with him.
I stopped skating.
Fuck.Whatever I’d said, I’d hit the same bruise again.
