Chapter Twelve #2
For a second, the world goes quiet. The space between us is shrinking. His gaze holds mine as if he’s measuring whether I deserve an answer at all. For the first time since I met him, I catch it—the war behind his eyes, the constant tension there, like he’s always fighting something.
Internal battles. External battles. I’m not sure which, or maybe it’s both. My stomach twists in a way I don’t like.
I want to ask him something I shouldn’t. Who hurt you?
But I don’t. He’s a client and I’m not his therapist. I’m his PR agent. "What do I want?" he repeats.
I nod as he goes quiet for a second. He’s thinking about my question. I’m not sure if he’s debating whether to respond or if he’s considering his answer,
Then he cleared his throat. "I want to play hockey every day until the day I die," he says. "I want my father sent to Siberia so he can never be a threat to my sister—or anyone else—ever again. I want to win a Stanley Cup for myself and every player on my team."
Then he pauses.
"I want to sleep butt naked in a bed I rented a year in advance." Another pause, his eyes sharpening. "And I want to be left alone."
My throat tightens. Not because I feel sorry for him, but because I can hear the steel in it. The way he’s built his world like a fortress and expects everyone to bounce off.
"I’ll leave," I say quietly. "Just give me what I need to make the Olympic Committee and your agent happy. Then I’m gone. You’ll never hear from me again after this is over."
We stare at each other like that means something. As if it’s a promise either of us believes. We’re in a stalemate, and we both know it. Neither of us is willing to budge.
"So what can I get for you two?" the bartender asks, breaking the moment.
I blink, mind scrambling back to the menu.
Before I can answer, Luka speaks.
"She’ll have a pub burger, garlic fries with ketchup, and a Shirley Temple with extra cherries."
I stare back at him. He remembered my order… all of it and it surprises me.
The bartender nods. "And for you?" he asks Luka.
Luka and I both glance at the empty plate in front of him. The aftermath of whatever lunch he had already eaten. He looks back at the bartender.
"Make that two. Put it on my tab."
The bartender is gone before I can protest.
"You don’t have to buy my lunch," I say automatically. "I can pay for it."
"Blame years at prep school," Luka says, eyes forward. "A woman doesn’t pay when she’s with me."
"With you?" I scoff. "You left me a sticky note telling me to call the airport every hour until it opens back up and berate me every time I set foot outside of the chalet. I don’t see how I’m ‘with you’ at all."
His head turns sharply, eyes cutting to mine.
"You’re sleeping in my bed and we shared a shower this morning, while you stared at my erection. I’d say that’s close enough."
My cheeks heat instantly, and I make a sweeping glance around, suddenly hyper-aware of people nearby, the way that sentence could mean something it doesn’t.
"Thanks," I manage instead of arguing like we usually do.
"Don’t mention it."
I know I should take this as a win. Having lunch with my arch nemesis who hasn’t given me the time of day since I got here. I should keep my mouth shut and let him get comfortable with me before trying to pull more information out of him, but damn it, I’m not that kind of person.
"So… prep school. Where did you go for that?"
His eyes are on the tv watching a highlight sports reel on some sports media channel.
"England," He says flatly with no sign of divulging more information.
It’s on-brand for him, at least.
"Hmm. An all-boys prep school. Is it as insufferable as I’m imagining?"
"It was worse," he says without hesitation.
"Why?"
"Because everything has a rule."
"But you love rules," I tease.
"That’s true. Rules keep things clean and tight. But these rules were more than that. How you stand. How you speak. How you eat. How you fold your clothes."
I raise a brow. "Do you still fold your clothes like that?"
His gaze shifts to mine and holds. "Yes."
I laugh under my breath. "Why am I not surprised?"
He takes a sip of his ice water that was there before I walked up. "It wasn’t all bad. I have some good memories there too."
Now we’re getting somewhere.
"Really?" I lean back on my stool’s backrest. "Like what? Sneaking out at night to climb into the windows of the all-girls school next door?"
A ghost of a smirk crosses his mouth, so quick I almost miss it. The kind of smirk I’m starting to realize I secretly live for.
"No," he says. "There wasn’t a town that close. It was remote."
I wait because I can feel there’s more, and he’s deciding whether I’ve earned it.
Then he sighs, like he’s annoyed with himself for even letting the memory surface.
"When I was ten, my dorm floor smuggled in a one-eyed tabby cat."
My eyebrows shot up. "You’re kidding."
He shakes his head once, deadpan. "We named him Lord Whiskers."
I make a sound that is absolutely undignified. "Stop."
"It’s true," he says, and there’s the faintest shift in his voice—like the boy he used to be is standing closer to the surface than he likes. "Seventeen boys under the age of ten. We ran feeding schedules. Lookout shifts. Like we were running a goddamn intelligence operation."
I’m laughing now, fully, and he watches me like he’s pretending he doesn’t enjoy the sound.
"How did you get caught?" I ask because, of course, this ends badly.
"The litter box," he says flatly. "Three months in. That’s what finally gave us away."
"Oh my God," I wheeze, wiping at my eyes. "You had a litter box in an all-boys dorm? You really are full of surprises, Popovich."
He shrugs like it’s obvious. "He was our responsibility."
My heart stutters at that. Luka Popovich was the kind of boy who would risk punishment for a stray cat and then call it responsibility instead of kindness.
It has me wondering what happened between then and now that made Luka who he is today?
Then the number catches up to me.
Ten.
He was ten years old at a remote all-boys boarding school, running "lookout shifts" like a little soldier because that’s what life demanded of him. No home to go back to at the end of the day. No soft place to land. Just rules and discipline and a system that taught him early that need is weakness.
It connects too many dots at once—why he’s obsessed with control, why he sleeps like he’s ready to bolt, why he looks at kindness like it’s a trap.
He watches me for a beat. "What about you?" he asks. "Have you always been this… mouthy?"
"Only when I’m being terrorized by a six-foot-four hockey player in a ski village," I say, still grinning.
His mouth tilts again—barely.
And the fact that I got that out of him feels like a win I shouldn’t want as badly as I do.
His eyes narrow slightly. "If I recall, I didn’t force you here. You came of your own free will."
"More like I had to chase you down."
He nods as the waiter comes by and drops off our order. "So, where in Arizona are you from?" he asks, like it matters.
"I live in Scottsdale, but I’m from Seattle originally."
His eyebrows lift for a moment as he reaches for the salt, sprinkling it on his fries. "Is your family still there?"
"My mom is. I stayed with her when I came into town. I moved to Scottsdale for college and never left."
"Why that school?" he asks, and I wish he hadn’t but he’s talking and I’m not about to slow him down.
"It's the college my father went to." I say quickly, hoping he doesn’t ask any more questions about it.
I reach for one of my own fries and plop it into my mouth. They're just as delicious as I'd hoped they would be.
"Was it important to him that you attended his alma mater?" he asks, and then takes a bite of his burger.
"I don’t know. He didn’t show up to graduation, and I haven’t talked to him in over twenty years," I answer honestly, dripping my next french fry into the ketchup.
"I don’t know anything about your father," he says. "But it looks like you’re doing just fine without him."
I nod, mostly to myself, but I don’t want to focus on myself right now. Not when he is giving up information.
"What do you miss about Moscow?" I ask before I can stop myself.
His jaw tightens, barely. "My mother."
He doesn't give anything else as a follow up. He says it like it’s enough, and maybe it is.
"What is she like?"
"She was like warm sunshine after the longest winter. She died… eight years ago this spring."
"I didn’t know. I’m sorry to hear that."
"It was harder on my sister. She was only fourteen. I was training for my second Olympics, and I still regret not being there for Katerina during our mother’s funeral."
"You can’t hold yourself responsible for that kind of thing."
"Maybe not…" he trails off.
"I met your sister and Penelope Matthews at Oakley’s. Katerina seems lovely."
"You don’t know her yet. Trust me, if she and Penelope have their way, you will know soon enough. They’d be more than happy to pull you into the WAGs group."
"What’s the WAGs group?" I ask, and then pick up my burger and take a bite.
It tastes like salvation against my tongue. This is exactly what I needed.
"Just the wives and girlfriends of the players. They hang out at the home games together, picking on the players as their own personal sport. They’re mostly inseparable as far as I understand it. Brunch, pedicures, away game nights at Penelope’s house… that kind of thing."
"Okay," he says, voice calmer now, "real question." He leans an elbow on the bar, eyes on me. "Why are you really here? What does getting me out of trouble actually get you? Because I have a suspicion, it’s more than just money."
I set down my burger and wiped the bit of ketchup at the corner of my mouth.
"I need this to be a success because Legacy PR is making cuts. If I don’t get you out of this mess, I will lose my job."
His eyebrows furrow together. "You’re serious? You’ll lose your job over this?"