Now she wasn’t.
Chapter Eight
Dean
My room should have feltlike a reset.
Training stayed at the rink where it belonged, and once the door closed behind me, my brain stopped running programs on repeat long enough to recover. Shower. Food. Review notes. Reset. By the time I dropped onto the bed, the noise in my head had usually burned itself out.
Today it had followed me out of the arena and all the way to the Village.
Forty minutes after leaving the rink, I was still replaying a conversation that should have been over.
The anthem.
Montreal.
I don’t know what I’d be allowed to like.
And then there was Mila.
Jesus.
My phone buzzed against the bedside table hard enough to snapme out of it. I ignored it for all of three seconds before it buzzed again.
With a sigh, I pushed away from the window and grabbed it off the table, unlocking the screen automatically.
The name hit first.
Claire.
For a second my brain stalled hard enough that everything else disappeared.
Then I opened the message.
Please tell me you’re actually in Milan right now and not stuck in airport purgatory somewhere.
That dragged a real smile out of me before I could stop it.
I’m here. Wait. Here? Why are YOU here?
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Long story. Flight disaster. At least one airline employee probably hates me now. Can we meet?
The answer came without hesitation.
When?
I started pacing before she even replied, restless energy redirecting itself into a different lane entirely now that my brain had finally found another target.
ASAP. I need caffeine and a person I actually like.
Yeah. That sounded like Claire.
I hit call instead of texting back.
She answered immediately. “Please tell me that was you replying and not some Olympic scam account pretending to be Dean Foster.”
