I watched the video, my stomach clenched.
“See that?” He paused the replay. “You’re skating like you’re trying to get somewhere faster than the music allows. You stop listening to the program when your head’s somewhere else.”
I opened my mouth automatically, ready to argue out of reflex, then shut it again because he was right and we both knew it.
I’d spent the entire session trying to overpower hesitation instead of skating through it. Every turn carried too much force behind it. Every landing felt driven instead of natural. My body kept trying to outrun thoughts I couldn’t shut off long enough to settle properly into the ice.
Mark studied me for another second. “Whatever’s going on, handle it now. Don’t drag it into competition.”
“I’ve got it.”
He held my gaze for a moment, then nodded.
“Good. Because if you skate like this in four days, you’ll bleed points everywhere.”
No lecture followed. No drawn-out speech about pressure or Olympic expectations.
Mark never wasted words like that.
The US needed points from me in the team event, and the media had already crowned me before I’d skated a single Olympic program. Gold favorite. America’s best shot. The guy who supposedly thrived under pressure.
Right then I felt one bad thought away from skating straight into the boards.
Mark headed for the exit just as Ethan swaggered through the rink doors carrying his guards in one hand.
“There he is,” Ethan called. “Golden Boy himself.”
I left before he could start a conversation I wasn’t equipped to survive.
Out in the corridor, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.
Usually that was enough. Mark pointed out a problem. I fixed it.
Simple.
This time I already knew what the problem was.
I pushed away from the wall and headed for the exit.
Training wouldn’t help. Another run-through wouldn’t help. Neither would talking to Ethan, Tomasz, or Mark.
The city moved around me in a blur of traffic and late-afternoon light.
I barely noticed.
I’d spent the last twenty-four hours trying to convince myself this was a bad idea. Bad timing.Supremelybad timing.
It hadn’t worked.
All I could think about was kissing Luka.
And, God help me, doing it again.
Luka
Mila didn’t saya word during practice, which told me immediately how bad it had been.
She always noticed. A hesitation half a beat too long. Timing that failed to settle properly. A lift entered with too much force because my concentration fractured at exactly the wrong moment. After years skating together, she could read the smallest inconsistency in me before I registered it myself.
