Chapter Four
LUKA
The arena is loud in a way that vibrates through your bones.
The kind of loud that hits when the puck drops and thirty thousand people decide, collectively, that they want blood and miracles in the same sixty minutes.
This is the last home game before the bye-week break. I can feel it in the air. The extra edge. The way the hits land a fraction harder, the way bodies lean into contact instead of away from it. Nobody wants to limp into two weeks off.
The puck snaps across the ice, and I intercept it without thinking, stick blade absorbing the impact like it’s part of me. I pivot, shoulder down, and drive through the neutral zone as a defender closes in. He goes for my hip. I adjust, take the contact high instead, and keep moving.
The crowd roared when I fired the puck toward the net. It deflects wide, but the pressure sticks. I circle back, resetting, scanning. The game slows the way it always does when I’m locked in, like someone turned the volume down on everything except the ice.
"Boards!" Slade shouts.
Aleksi takes a hit from an opposing player and loses the puck, and then I ram the guy clean into the Plexi, popping the puck free. Aleksi recovers from the hit and scoops it up and then sends it down the ice. The bench exploded with cheers.
That’s the thing about hockey. You don’t get to fake effort. You either show up or you show that you’re better suited to warm the bench.
We’re midway through the second period when Olsen, our goalie, makes a glove save on a breakaway that would’ve tied the game, and the building loses its mind.
I tap my stick against the boards in appreciation, chest tight with the familiar surge of pride to be on this rink, playing with this team, and these fans.
This team knows how to fight for each other, and it’s just another reminder that I’m right where I’m meant to be—playing hockey, not doing my father’s bidding.
The third period is a grind. My lungs are burning, my legs are cramping, and the sweat dripping down my forehead is stinging my eyes, but I welcome all of it.
Fatigue strips everything down to instinct.
There’s no room for doubt when your body’s screaming at you to quit.
There’s no room to waste time or energy.
Every move has to mean something, every push off the ice has to earn its keep.
There’s no room to waste whatever fuel is left in the tank.
And we don’t.
With five minutes left, I win a faceoff cleanly and crash the net. The puck finds its mark, skidding past the goalie’s pad. The red light flashes, and the sound is deafening.
Goal.
I don’t celebrate much… I never have, but I let myself feel it. The weight of the moment. The momentum that this game brings to our season. Slade slaps my helmet as we skate past the bench.
"That’s how you start a vacation," he grins.
We hold the lead. The final horn sounds, and the game ends the way it should. With us on top and the other team skating off in silence.
I peel off my helmet as we line up for handshakes, pulse still racing, adrenaline buzzing under my skin.
It’s another win that gets us closer to the playoffs.
Another win means I’ve earned my spot. That I proved again that I belong here when my father’s voice echoes loud enough to be heard over the noise that I’m a disgrace to the Popovich name.
That I’ve failed my family. That I don’t belong on the ice.
He was proud when I won gold for Russia at the Olympics.
I was like a party trick he could use at first. He thought it softened the family image that a Popovich was bringing Mother Russia back her gold.
Patriotic and all that. Then, when I told him…
that I wasn’t coming back home to take over his place as the head of the family, I was cut out.
It doesn’t matter. My sister Katerina is jumping out of her seat, cheering, her eyes moving from Scottie and then to me, making sure to send us each a smile.
It’s annoying how fast Scottie turned my sister into a hockey fan when I’ve been playing hockey her entire life and she never came to a game to watch me.
Though I guess she is married to the guy.
She’s wearing Easton’s jersey, sitting next to my grandmother.
Kat finally convinced her to come down from her private box for one game and sit in Easton’s seats.
My grandmother’s security flanks the top of the stairs as if my sister told them they weren’t invited to sit with the family.
My grandmother is shooting daggers at the half-inebriated fan beside her, clutching a beer like it’s a loaded weapon. One wrong move and she looks ready to make sure he doesn’t leave this barn in one piece.
I guarantee my sister will never convince her to sit in the general seats instead of her private box again.
By the time we head down the tunnel, the noise fades into a distant buzz.
I’m already shifting gears, mentally packing for Switzerland, the mountains, the snow-covered slopes, and the distance from all of this.
It’s time for a break and to recharge. Friendships are a new concept for me…
trust is too. I never had either growing up under my father’s rules.
Media is a shit show, like usual, with all the same questions. But there’s one thing different tonight. There’s a woman in the back of the room, and just like that, she steals my attention.
Sharp eyes… the ones I kept finding in the back of the press room, staring back at me.
My eyes drop to beautiful, full lips that have me curious how they taste.
Now I want to know everything about her.
Which outlet does she report for? Why did she choose sports media?
If she had a boyfriend? What does she like in bed?
A reporter asks a question, and I miss it altogether. My eyes are still locked on her.
I shake my head to loosen the distraction. "Can you repeat the question?" I ask.
"Do you regret the photoshoot?"
I cross my arms in front of me and lean forward on the press table, and speak slowly into the mic to make sure he hears me. "Next. Question."
My threat doesn’t land, and the next three minutes are a barrage of the same questions from other journalists.
"Did the Olympic Committee explicitly approve the use of the medals?"
"Are you prepared for potential sanctions?"
"Will you issue a formal apology?"
Apology.
There it is again.
They want remorse. They want me to bow my head and say I made a mistake. They want blood, preferably mine.
"I’ve already said everything I’m going to say about it," I answer.
The rest of the press interview goes about the same, and then I’m out of there. I head back to the locker room to change out of my suit and head for Oakley’s with the team for drinks before we all take off in different directions for our two-week break.
The media waits near the exit, microphones raised, cameras ready. I don’t slow down. I never do.
I’ve given them enough of my time in the press gauntlet already.
I’m almost past them when something stops me short.
A hand, firm and deliberate, lands on my chest.
It’s not aggressive, but it’s not timid either, especially for the small figure I’m currently towering over. I glance down.
Press badge. Dark hair. The woman from the press room is now standing right in front of me.
I check her left hand against my chest… no wedding band.
A purple power suit that, with any luck, will be lying in a heap on her apartment floor with me in her bed, because I never bring anyone back to my place.
My mouth curves automatically, reflex kicking in before reason.
A woman with a badge isn’t unusual. A woman who isn’t afraid to stop me is.
"If you have more questions," I say smoothly, leaning in just enough to be heard over the noise, "you’ll have to come back next game. Unless," I add, letting my gaze dip briefly to her mouth, "you’re angling for a one-on-one interview. And in that case, how far away is your hotel room?"
I wink.
She doesn’t smile. In fact, she looks confused and slightly disgusted.
That’s not the usual reaction I get. Not that I don’t strike out once in a while. It’s happened to us all. But her reaction to my one-on-one "interview" suggestion alone makes me pause.
Most of them are angling for it before they even walk through the arena doors. Even the ones who pretend they’re above sleeping with players. Especially the ones who are. This woman just looks at me like she’s deciding whether I’m worth the oxygen I’m using.
"I’m not here for interviews," she says, her voice calm and steady. Not the breathless flirting I’m used to.
I straighten slightly, reassessing. Up close, she’s sharper than I thought. Not just pretty, but determined and intentional. The kind of woman who doesn’t waste movement or words.
I lean back into it, anyway. Old habits die hard.
"Autograph, then?" I ask, glancing deliberately at the badge swinging between us. Natalia Kovac–PRESS. "Natalia?"
Her name feels unfamiliar on my tongue, but it’s Russian. It’s soft, but not weak.
"Are you Russian?" I ask.
"No, I was named after my mother’s best friend. And an autograph won't be necessary," she says. "Actually, your agent sent me."
The words hit like a puck to the ribs.
Everything inside me goes still. My smile dies instantly. The flirtation evaporates like it was never there, replaced by coldness. I take a step back, putting space between us like a line drawn in the ice.
Randolph called another agent. I shouldn’t be surprised.
Now it all makes sense… She's PR. Yet another firm my talent agent hired. And yet another agent I’ll dodge like all the rest. I’m sure her firm saw that Randolph was desperate, and Natalia saw the dollar signs and thought I would be an easy payday.
I don’t bother hiding the irritation. There’s no point. "Your services won’t be required, Miss Kovac," I say flatly. "I’m sorry my agent wasted your time. Thanks anyway."