“Stop.”
Sokolov’s voice cut across the rink.
I hadn’t made a visible mistake. The edge remained clean, the timing correct. Mila stayed perfectly aligned beside me.
We both slowed and skated toward the boards where Sokolov waited without moving.
That was worse than anger.
I stopped in front of him, my breathing already controlled again.
His eyes settled on me. “You are ahead of your partner.”
I blinked. “Within tolerance.”
“Yes.” Nothing changed in his expression. “But you are no longer fully present in the program.”
I couldn’t argue. He was right.
Beside me, Mila shifted. I felt the movement through the sleeve of my training jacket.
Sokolov’s gaze didn’t leave mine. “You are compensating, overcorrecting to conceal distraction.”
My chest tingled, and breathing became a chore.
“There is no technical failure,” he continued. “That is why this concerns me.”
I understood then how visible this had already become to him.
“Focus,” I answered.
Sokolov’s gaze sharpened. “Focus is maintained before disruption occurs, not repaired afterward.”
There was no point pretending he’d missed it.
“You are allowing external interference into the ice.”
External.
My stomach clenched.
Mila’s shoulder brushed mine, a gesture of warning or support. Maybe both.
“It will not happen again,” I assured him.
Sokolov studied me long enough that my skin prickled beneath the scrutiny.
Then he folded his arms. “See that it doesn’t.”
We returned to the program, and this time I kept my eyes fixed firmly ahead while the routine rebuilt itself beneath me with sharp, disciplined precision.
The movements stayed clean.
My concentration did not.
The ice had always been simple.
Then Dean Foster had walked onto it.
