The Village was quiet when I left. So was the metro. The city still felt half-asleep, suspended in that brief stretch before morning properly began.
I welcomed it.
The arena was quieter still. No crowds, no media, just cold air, distant music, and the familiar sound of blades cutting fresh ice.
I stepped onto the rink and skated.
For a while, it worked.
Movement narrowed everything down to simple things: edges, timing, balance. The ice demanded attention, and usually that was enough.
This morning it almost was.
Then Dean Foster walked into the rink.
The effect was immediate.
My concentration fractured, not completely, but enough that I felt it.
I watched him glance toward the far end, toward the other skaters, and then back to me. A few seconds later he did it again.
My stomach tightened. I pushed harder through a sequence.
It didn’t help.
The irritating part was that I had known it wouldn’t.
Some reckless part of me had noticed him the moment he walked through the doors.
And had been waiting for him to look my way.
I finished the sequence I was working on and headed for the boards.
When I stopped, Dean was already watching me.
I stopped close enough to him that the distance between us felt intentional.
Dean looked exhausted.
“You’re here early,” he said.
“So are you.”
A smile touched his mouth. “Couldn’t sleep.”
The rink was nearly empty. A few skaters worked through warmups at the far end, their blades whispering across the ice beneath distant music. Everything else felt unnervingly still.
“About yesterday,” Dean said.
My grip tightened on the barrier. “What about it?”
His gaze dropped to my hand before returning to my face. “You know.”
“No.” I spoke too quickly.
Whatever patience he had brought onto the ice with him seemed to thin.
“Luka.”
