Her eyes sharpened. “It won’t affect practice.”
That wasn’t even remotely close to an answer, and she knew it. But I recognized the finality in her posture. Whatever decision she’d made had already happened before she spoke to me.
“Fine,” I said at last.
She turned away before the conversation could continue.
I watched her disappear through the rink entrance feeling strangely off balance, though the sensation had nothing to do with training anymore.
By the time I finished removing my skates, restlessness had settled fully into my body, low and constant, impossible to ignore.
I knew where this was leading.
I should go back to my room.
I kept walking.
The corridors twisted through the arena in long sterile stretches, narrowing and widening around security points and athlete access doors while noise rose and faded depending on proximity to the rinks. Usually, the predictability helped.
Today my thoughts kept circling elsewhere.
I slowed at the junction. I already knew which direction I was going to turn.
That was the problem.
“Davorin.”
I stopped and turned.
Marek Iliev approached from farther down the corridor, accreditation badge swinging against his chest while he hurried to catch up.
“Iliev.”
“I thought you’d still be training.”
“So did I.”
That earned a brief laugh from him before we fell into step beside each other.
For several moments we walked in silence while footsteps echoed around us.
“I almost missed warm-up yesterday,” Marek admitted eventually. “Wrong entrance. Coach nearly killed me.”
“That happens.”
“Not to you.”
It sounded like an observation, not an accusation.
I kept my attention forward.
“They told us there won’t be any outside camps this year,” he continued after a moment. “Too many variables.”
The wording tugged at old memories.
“They always say that.”
Marek glanced sideways at me. “You ever think about pushing back?”
