We could skate the program. Nobody in this room doubted that.
What worried them was what happened if we failed while the world was watching.
Mila’s fingers moved once against the tabletop beside me, barely noticeable unless you were paying close attention.
“The Team Event gives us an opportunity,” Vasiliev continued. “This country has waited a long time to establish legitimacy in Olympic figure skating. The international response so far has been favorable, but attention creates scrutiny.” His eyes sharpened. “And scrutiny creates risk.”
No words of inspiration or encouragement.
Only warning.
“We expect discipline from every athlete representing Velkarya this week,” he said. “Programs. Media appearances. Public conduct.” His gaze paused briefly on me before moving on. “And we expect nobody to lose sight of why they are here because of unnecessary distractions.”
My heart raced, and I clasped my hands beneath the table.
Cameras. Press. Expectations.
None of those explanations survived contact with the truth.
Dean Foster remained lodged stubbornly in my thoughts, long after I should have dealt with the problem.
Dean
Here we go.
The team meeting had already started sliding off the rails by the time I walked in. Conversations overlapped across the room, phones buzzed against tables, and somebody near the back laughed loudly enough to earn a halfhearted glare from one of the coaches that accomplished absolutely nothing.
It was the usual Olympic energy. Everybody acted differently once the countdown got close enough to feel it in their bones.
I dropped into the empty seat beside Noah Bennett, who sat sprawled back in his chair looking far calmer than anyone had a right to look five days before competition.
“Feels different now,” he said, eyes still on the front of the room.
“Yeah.” I glanced toward the projection screen cycling through practice schedules and media assignments. “Five days out tends to do that.”
Noah nodded. “You good?”
The answer was automatic. “I’m fine.”
He finally looked at me then, one eyebrow lifting like he’d heard the reflex in it too clearly to buy it.
Before he could call me on it, Nathan Cole dropped into the chair on my other side hard enough to rattle the table. His water bottle hit beside my elbow with a dull crack.
“Man, the internet’s getting unbearable.”
I snorted. “Only getting?”
Nathan pointed across the room as though he was presenting evidence in court. “Every article says a different thing. One minute we’re doomed, next minute we’re guaranteed medals, then Brookeand I are either America’s sweethearts or washed-up seniors holding on for dear life.”
Noah deadpanned, “Youareold by skating standards.”
Nathan clutched at his chest. “You see this abuse? This is what I endure.”
“You’re twenty-nine,” Noah replied. “Your knees probably make sounds when you stand up.”
“They absolutely do, and I deserve respect for persevering.”
That pulled a laugh out of me before Nathan leaned closer across the table.
