For a second nobody around me moved.
Vasiliev’s gaze alighted on me, and I swore I saw relief in his expression.
Does he really believe he’s won?
I almost smiled.
By the time they reached us, everyone around was paying attention.
Vasiliev stopped in front of me. “Davorin.” His tone suggested we were continuing a discussion rather than beginning one. “The bus is boarding.”
I glanced toward the entrance. “I know.”
His smile looked practiced. “We should go, then.”
I could feel several pairs of eyes on me.
“Thank you, Director, but I will not be joining the team.”
The words came out more calmly than I’d expected.
Vasiliev stared at me. “I’m sorry?”
I smiled politely. “I will not be joining the team.”
Sokolov stared at me. “Luka.”
I recognized that warning note. I’d heard it countless times over the years, usually before an argument, or before I did something he considered foolish.
I returned his stare.
“We supported you,” he said. “We gave you opportunities most skaters never receive.”
Every word of it was true. Sokolov had been there for almost half my life. He’d pushed me harder than anyone, taught me things I still carried onto the ice every day. There had been times when I’d wanted his approval so badly that a single compliment from him could improve an entire week.
I squared my shoulders. “I know what you have done for me. I have never forgotten it.”
Sokolov’s shoulders eased a fraction.
“But that does not mean you get to decide the rest of my life.”
His relief vanished almost immediately, and he scowled. “This isn’t about your life. It’s about one decision.”
I surprised myself by smiling. “I think that is where we have been disagreeing for years.”
His eyes narrowed.
I continued before he could interrupt. “The kiss was not one decision. The gala was not one decision. Staying is not one decision.” I glanced toward the doors Mila had disappeared through less than five minutes earlier. “This started a long time ago.”
Sokolov followed my gaze, then stilled. “You are making a mistake.”
I’d expected anger. What I heard was disappointment.
That hurt more. It would have been easier if he’d shouted, if Vasiliev had threatened me.
Instead, I was standing opposite a man who genuinely believed he was trying to save me from myself. For years that would have been enough to make me doubt my own judgment. But after the conversation with my parents, after everything that had happened in Milan, I found I couldn’t do it anymore.
I shrugged. “Maybe Iammaking a mistake.”
