Chapter One
Milano Ice Skating Arena, Assago, Milan
January 26, 2026
Luka Davorin
The ice wasthe only place where my mind stopped turning against me.
Most days, that was enough.
Cold air burned through my lungs while my blades carved deep, clean lines beneath me, every movement exact enough to drown out the rest of the world. Out here, my body always knew what to do before thought could interfere. There was comfort in that certainty.
The rink made sense in ways people rarely did.
If I stayed disciplined—inside the lines, inside the rules—nothing slipped loose. Nothing revealed itself accidentally. I could skate for hours without thinking about the parts of myself I spent the rest of my life trying to contain.
By the time I stepped onto the practice ice in Milan, the arena was already awake beneath the pale wash of overhead lights. Half adozen skaters moved through drills and jump entries, most of them American judging by the jackets thrown over the boards.
I barely looked at them.
I’d come here to skate.
My blades bit cleanly into the ice, and the familiar certainty of movement returned. One push, then another, speed gathering beneath me while muscle memory settled the noise in my head into quieter territory.
Mila wasn’t there yet, though she would be eventually despite complaining repeatedly that civilized people shouldn’t be conscious this early after international travel. I already had a sarcastic reply prepared for when she arrived.
Predictability had its comforts.
I circled the rink again, leaning deeper into the edge while repetition wore my thoughts down into manageable shapes.
That was when I noticed the people gathered along the boards. They weren’t officials, or even coaches with clipboards and sharp eyes.
Partners.
One man leaned over the barrier watching a skater drift toward him across the ice. I couldn’t hear whatever he said, but the skater laughed, changing direction without hesitation until their hands brushed together as he passed, an easy contact, no caution attached to it.
Such a small act, yet it stayed with me for the length of the rink.
I pushed harder into my next turn, forcing my attention back toward technique, but moments later I saw two women standing near the gate with their shoulders pressed together while one adjusted the other’s glove. The gesture looked absentmindedly intimate, followed by a quick kiss before they separated again.
Nobody stared.
Nobody cared.
My edge wavered beneath me, and I corrected automatically before anyone could notice.
Focus.
I should have been concentrating on my skating.
Instead, the image lingered, a hand brushing another, a kiss against a cheek. Small, ordinary things that most people never had to think about at all.
I forced my attention back to the ice.
This was not new. I’d seen couples like this at Worlds, at Europeans, in countries where people moved through public space without carrying fear inside every gesture.
It had nothing to do with me.
