The frightening part wasn’t that I could see it now.
It was that I wasn’t sure I wanted it to stop.
Chapter Twelve
Dean
The cafeteria had beenloud since dawn.
Coffee machines hissed nonstop, chairs scraped across tile, athletes drifted between tables in national team jackets while conversations collided hard enough to blur into static. I stood just inside the entrance scanning the room anyway, looking for somewhere—anywhere—that didn’t involve another hour of thinking about Luka Davorin.
I knew I’d be back on the ice later—Mark Winton would have my ass if I didn’t—but right then I needed distance from my own head more than another run-through of choreography I could skate half-asleep.
Then I spotted Nathan hunched over a table near the far wall, completely locked into his phone.
Perfect.
I threaded through the crowd and dropped into the chair opposite him.
Nothing.
“Nate.”
No reaction.
I leaned across the table and smacked his shoulder. Nathan nearly launched out of his seat, yanking one earbud free with a glare.
“Jesus Christ, Foster.”
I chuckled. “That’s what you get for ignoring your surroundings.” My gaze dropped toward the phone in his hand. “What are you watching that’s got you this hypnotized?”
“Research.”
“That sounded suspiciously defensive.”
Nathan rolled his eyes. “I’m scouting competition, asshole.”
“Sure you are.”
“I am.” He turned the screen toward me. “Look.”
The headline filled the display.
VELKARYA’S GOLDEN PAIR: A LOVE STORY ON ICE?
Below it sat a photo of Luka and Mila during a lift dismount from last season’s Europeans, her body angled close against his, his hands firm at her waist while both of them stared at each other with enough intensity to feed a thousand fan edits.
Beneath the image:
Their connection is undeniable. Years of shared sacrifice have created a bond deeper than partnership.
Nathan snorted. “Sports journalism really does write fanfiction for adults.”
I barely heard him. “When was this taken?”
“Europeans last year.” He scrolled lower. “Oh, this gets worse. Listen to this one.” He cleared his throat theatrically. “‘In a sport built on trust, trust sometimes becomes devotion.’” Nathan looked up. “What the hell does that even mean?”
I stared at the screen.
