Around us, commentators were already building the story again. The story people always wanted from them.
Luka turned toward the Kiss and Cry, and for a second, before he moved, his gaze swept the crowd and found me. The look lasted no time at all. Then it was gone, swallowed by cameras and applause and the thousands of people who believed they knew exactly who he was.
Luka had spent years making himself smaller to fit inside other people’s expectations.
Nobody could do that forever.
Luka
The applausestill echoed through the arena as Mila and I stepped into the Kiss and Cry beside Sokolov. Cameras tracked us, lenses swinging toward our faces as volunteers settled the national flag across our knees.
I smiled automatically. Years of training had made that part easy.
Breathe. Sit straight. Don’t look exhausted. Don’t look nervous. Don’t give anyone anything they can use.
Mila leaned closer beside me, still flushed from the skate, one hand gripping mine. “That was good,” she murmured.
Her words barely registered. My pulse still hadn’t slowedproperly. Adrenaline lingered beneath my skin, sharp and electric, but something uglier sat underneath it now, tension wound so tight across my shoulders it hurt.
Sokolov was already dissecting details in a low voice.
“Landing on the throw was slightly forward. You corrected well. Step sequence levels should hold.” His eyes flicked toward me. “Expression was controlled today. Better.”
Better.
There was always a compliment hidden inside that word. It never felt like one.
The giant screen above the arena replayed highlights from the program: the twist, the death spiral, Mila smiling during the final pose. From a distance we looked perfect together, and I knew the audience believed every second of it.
I glanced toward the boards. Dean was sitting beside Ethan several rows down from the barrier. Even from across the arena I knew his posture, the line of his shoulders, the way he leaned forward when he was anxious. For a moment, everything else faded: the cameras, the officials, the flags hanging from the rafters, the pressure crushing my ribs.
Dean looked relieved and proud.
Bože, I am so tired.
Tired of pretending his gaze meant nothing to me, of editing myself.
Then I realized I’d let my gaze linger too long, and I looked away. I could feel the weight of Sokolov’s scrutiny even without turning my head.
The cameras zoomed closer as the scores prepared to come up. Mila shifted beside me, her knee giving a tiny bounce against mine.
I should have been focused on the numbers too.
Instead all I could think about was how badly I wanted one moment—just one—where looking at Dean didn’t feel dangerous.
The score flashed onto the screen.
75.92.
A strong score. The audience reacted immediately, applause swelling around us as our placement appeared beneath it.
Mila exhaled sharply beside me, smiling in relief. “We are second.”
Even Sokolov managed a nod of approval.
I smiled too as the cameras flashed.
Across the arena, Dean was still watching me. I held his gaze for half a second before looking away.
