“There is no problem.” The answer came out sharper than I intended.
Mila stopped. So did I. Athletes moved around us in both directions, paying no attention.
She studied me for a moment before nodding. “Fine. Then keep it off the ice.”
Before I could respond, she continued toward the locker rooms.
I watched her go.
I should have followed her. I always did.
Instead I remained where I was, staring down the corridor long after she disappeared from sight.
Because for all my irritation, Mila was right.
I knew exactly what was distracting me.
What frightened me was how little that knowledge helped.
Dean
Stop watching him.Someone’s gonna see.
Cameras sat everywhere around the rink now, tucked intocorners, tracking warmups, catching behind-the-scenes footage for Olympic content packages nobody would remember in six months except the athletes unlucky enough to become internet discourse for a week. Add in phones, social media accounts, fan edits, slow-motion analysis threads?—
Yeah. Bad time to develop a fixation on another skater.
And yet here I was again, leaning against the boards watching Luka skate alone.
Only a handful of athletes occupied the ice, most of them running isolated elements while coaches watched from the boards. I should have been doing the same.
Luka was skating at the far end of the rink. At first, I watched the way I always did, taking in technique, edge quality, timing, the things skaters noticed automatically.
He pushed into a step sequence and accelerated enough that the ice seemed to disappear beneath him.
It was effortless.
I found myself following the line of his movement across the rink.
Luka never skated small. Even when he wasn’t performing, there was a certainty to the way he occupied the ice, every turn extending fully, every edge driven with conviction, no hesitation or second-guessing.
The weird thing was how different it looked from the rest of him.
Off the ice, he was careful.
On it, he took up every inch of space he wanted.
He drove through a deep outside edge, shoulders opening as he crossed the rink, and for a second, I forgot I was supposed to be doing anything except watch.
Jesus.
The transition into the jump was almost unfair. Compression, release, and suddenly he was airborne, higher than he had any right to be.
My attention locked onto him.
The rotation snapped into place. The landing followed a heartbeatlater, clean and solid, his blade biting into the ice before carrying him seamlessly into the next movement.
No—heflowedinto it, as though the jump had never truly ended.
