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Six weeks of pain.
And now, he was here?
What did it mean?
Nothing, given that he hadn’t stuck around to speak to her. It was the tying up of a loose end, that’s all. She’d spoken about the importance of this medal, perhaps it would assuage his guilt if she won. Maybe he imagined this would make her happy, would compensate for the pain of losing him?
She stared at the screen, until her score was announced, but it took her coach standing and wrapping her in a hug for Mila to realized she’d broken the world record. It was a great victory, something she’d fought for almost her entire life, and yet, the success in that moment felt hollow.
She smiled her way through the applause, until she could finally leave the ice arena and move backstage. There were congratulations from other skaters, from coaches, looks of envy that she blotted out. She nodded at each, murmured ‘thanks’ as was appropriate, but kept her head ducked until she could grab a tracksuit from her bag and head to the showers.
As an afterthought, she lifted out her phone, and felt her heart bang into her ribs when she saw Leonidas’ name on her screen. With a shaking finger, she flicked the screen to open and read his text message.
Congratulations. You were amazing.
Anger had her wanting to hurl the phone against the wall. How dared he? How dare he contact her out of the blue like that? How dare he send a message that made it sound as though he gave a damn about her? How dared he?
Turning her phone off before she could pen an ill-conceived, angry reply, she hit the showers, letting the hot water pummel her skin, rubbing her body all over with soap, until it was pink, then flicking off the faucet and standing there for several moments.
He’d come to Milan.
He’d come there to see her.
He’d texted her.
Six weeks after their allegedly meaningless affair, he’d done all those things, and yet, it wasn’t enough. Nothing made sense. She was tired, and just wanted to go home.
It costher dearly to do the obligatory post-meet interviews with the press. The record she’d sought all her life was a big deal, and there was a lot of emphasis on it from all the journalists she spoke to, so Mila had to concentrate hard to give the right answers, when all she wanted was to be far away from Milan, her team, the crowds, the public.
Finally, at almost midnight, she slipped out of a side entrance of the stadium, flanked by her coach and manager, towards a waiting team car. She simply had to go through the motions for a few more hours, then she’d be on a flight back to London.
Even the thought of that brought little joy.
It was onlyas she settled into the comfortable bed of her hotel, she remembered to switch her phone back on. She held her breath as she waited for it to buzz to life then explode with the predictable congratulatory messages. Her agent had sent her a schedule of media requests—more than ever—and she eyed the list with a sinking heart.
She was in no headspace to go out and talk about this.
She couldn’t trust herself.
It was like wading through mud.
She lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, but his message wouldn’t go away. She felt it in each throbbing of her heart, every twist of her being.
With a groan, she reached for her phone and typed out a reply.
Why did you come?
She sent it, rolling onto her side and staring at the screen. Despite the lateness of the hour, three dots appeared immediately, to indicate that he was typing.
I wanted to see you.
She squeezed her eyes shut against that. To see her. Not to be with her. To see her from a distance, to see her skate. It would never be enough for Mila.
She turned her phone off again and closed her eyes, even when she knew sleep would continue to elude her, just as it had since leaving Porto Mezi.
If Leonidas hadany doubts remaining about how badly he’d screwed up, then the agonizing wait for her reply would have spelled it out, loud and clear. Ten minutes after sending his message, he accepted he hadn’t given her enough to reply to. He loaded up a new message, finger pressing at the screen for several minutes, typing letters then deleting them, then finally giving up. This wasn’t a conversation to be had over text message.
He had to see her, just as he’d said. He had to see her, to touch her, to speak to her, to be near her. He had to fix this.
