And when Dean spoke about them, there was never caution in his voice, only certainty.
The contrast hit so sharply it hurt.
“They’re just stories,” my father said. “They’ll pass.”
I swallowed. What they meant was perfectly clear.
Do not respond to them. Do not explain. Do not become the story.
“Of course,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
I’d spent years answering that way because it kept life smooth.
Of course I understand.
Of course I will behave correctly.
Of course I will not create problems.
The call continued after that, but its shape had already been set. My parents were not worried about lies. They were worried about visibility, about attention.
Eventually the conversation ended with more congratulations, more reminders to rest, more carefully restrained affection.
I told them I loved them before hanging up.
I did love them, that was the worst part.
I sat motionless for a long time afterward, the silent phone still in my hand. Then I found myself thinking about Dean’s father. He was proud of his son, simple and uncomplicated. Not because Dean had maintained an image correctly or protected a narrative, but just because he was Dean.
My throat seized.
I have spent most of my life being loved for remaining manageable.
And I no longer knew how to fit myself back inside that shape.
My phone buzzed, and this time it was Mila, asking where I was, and did I want to skate. I had to smile. Mila was never off the ice for long. Our success in the team event would have fueled her need to improve, to succeed.
I typed quickly.I am in the Village. Give me an hour.
Enough time to wash away the feeling of that meeting from my skin.
Marek stoodnear the far end of the training corridor outside the secondary practice rink, one shoulder against the wall, still wearing his team jacket half unzipped over black training clothes. Athletes and officials moved around him constantly, but Marek somehow remained separate from all of it, detached in the way he often was during competitions, watching and waiting.
The moment our eyes met, however, I knew he was waiting for me.
Marek pushed away from the wall. “You have a minute? Somewhere quieter?”
I nodded, and we moved farther down the corridor, away from most of the foot traffic. The sounds of the arena softened there until only distant music and the scrape of blades filtered through concrete walls.
Marek stopped first, and for a few seconds, he simply looked at me.
I stared at him. “Well?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “You really did it.”
I frowned. “Did what?”
“Made them notice.”
