Narrative.
I said nothing. I didn’t trust myself.
Vasiliev’s gaze remained fixed on me, calm and unreadable. “There has already been media commentary regarding your chemistry with your partner.” A slight emphasis rested on the final word. “We would not want unnecessary speculation to distract from your performance.”
Heat crept beneath the collar of my jacket, though my breathing remained perfectly controlled. “There is no distraction,” I affirmed.
Sokolov’s eyes sharpened. “We trust that remains true.”
I became acutely aware of the fluorescent lighting overhead, the stale recycled air in the room, the fact that somewhere above this office the Olympics continued uninterrupted while my entire nervous system tightened around the shape of what wasnotbeing said.
Finally, Vasiliev clasped his hands together once more. “You are a symbol for our country, Luka. A symbol of discipline, excellence, stability…”
Each word tightened the invisible band around my chest.
His eyes glinted. “Symbols must remain clear.”
I understood him perfectly.
“After the Games,” Vasiliev continued, “there will be opportunities available to athletes who represent the federation well. We are talking funding discussions, international tours. Perhaps even expanded media presence.” He smiled again. “We invest where we see longevity.”
I understood exactly what he was offering.
And exactly what would happen if I became inconvenient.
“We would be disappointed if that investment were compromised by misinterpretation,” Sokolov added.
That final word hung in the room like smoke.
I met my coach’s eyes. There was no warmth there, no concern, only calculation. Risk management.
My heart sank.
The medals. The funding. The praise. Every piece of itdepended on remaining easy to display. None of it had ever belonged to me. It belonged to the version of me they could present safely to the world.
“I understand,” I said in a low voice.
I truly did.
Vasiliev rose from his chair, signaling the end of the meeting. “We have every confidence in you.” Then his gaze narrowed. “Do not give the press anything to invent.”
I stood. It seemed we were done.
The meeting had never been about discussion, only warning.
I left the office without another word.
The change in temperature in the corridor made me shiver, the recycled air biting against overheated skin. For a moment I stopped beside the concrete wall and pressed my palm flat against it, grounding myself against the sudden rush of pressure building beneath my ribs.
They had not accused or threatened me, not that they had needed to. The message had been perfectly clear.
Win, obey, remain useful. Anything else will be interpreted for you.
I closed my eyes.
Somewhere above me, the Games continued. Life moved forward regardless of whether I was ready for it.
I sucked in a deep breath and straightened away from the wall.
