Chapter Thirteen
NATALIA
I've been staring at Olympic bylaws for six hours, and my eyes feel like they're bleeding legal jargon.
The café is nearly empty now, just me and the owner wiping down tables with the passive-aggressive energy of someone who wants to close but is too nice to actually kick me out.
My laptop screen glows between empty espresso cups—three, maybe four, I lost count around the third appeal precedent—and my notes have devolved from organized bullet points to increasingly unhinged margin scrawls.
Multiple different cases of assaults inside the Olympic village all covered up. What the fuck?
"We’re closing soon," the barista says, apologetic but firm.
"Right. Yes. Sorry." I snap the laptop shut, gathering my papers into something resembling order. The cold hits immediately when I step outside. The level of cold that I’ll never get used to, but at least I’m getting used to bracing for properly.
After he saved me on the slopes yesterday and our conversation over lunch, Luka didn’t come back to the chalet until after I was asleep.
Or at least, I assume he came back since the sheets on his side of the bed were flung over towards me as if he had tossed them off him this morning in a hurry to get out of bed, and the bathroom was damp from an early morning shower.
He must have gotten up before first light and left to make sure he was gone before I woke up.
I’m walking the edge of the village with my hands shoved in my pockets, trying to pretend I’m not scanning for him, when a sound stops me.
It's the sound of skates on ice, a puck hitting boards, and then laughter.
Bright young laughter that sounds like a group of children, and they must be playing hockey, which piques my interest.
An indoor rink sits near the edge of the resort village, tucked behind pines heavy with snow. I wasn’t looking for it. I wasn’t looking for him. Still, my feet angle that way as if my body decides before my brain can argue.
I step up to the glass and peer in.
Luka is out there in a hoodie and sweatpants, skating like the ice belongs to him. Kids dot the rink in oversized helmets and jerseys, clutching hockey sticks too tightly, and their cheeks pink from the cold.
A group of what I presume to be the father's are leaning up against the boards watching closely, barking out instructions, while the mothers cluster together on the benches with something warm in the to-go mugs in their hands.
He’s not looming over them. He’s down in it with them, knees bent, showing them something with his stick, waiting while they try. One kid fumbles the move and almost eats it, and I brace without meaning to—expecting irritation, expecting that hard edge of him.
Instead, Luka skates over and helps him up, patting the kid's shoulder with a soft smile and then points towards the net as if to tell him to try again. The kind of patience I wasn’t expecting to see with his level of intensity.
Then he nods at the other kids like it’s nothing. Like failing isn’t a crime, but is part of the sport.
This version of him doesn’t match the man who stalks out of rooms before dawn. Or the one who stares down Olympic committees like they’re gnats.
One of the kids takes a shot. It wobbles, but it goes in.
The rink erupts.
Luka throws both arms up, exaggerated and ridiculous, and the kid beams like he just won the Stanley Cup. Luka skates over and bends down, touching his forehead to the kid’s helmet, like pro-athletes do, then gives him a quick, proud high five.
I smile at the moment happening in front of me.
I head for the doors and walk inside. The woman at the front kiosk window hands me a hot toddy and a folded, warmed blanket without asking questions, like she’s done this a thousand times for people who need a place to sit and watch something they weren’t expecting to see.
I find a quiet spot on the metal bleachers on the opposite side of the rink where he is less likely to spot me. I’m grateful for the scarf tucked into my coat. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and watch.
Luka laughs when one of the kids tries to take him down and actually manages it—catching him off guard enough that they both end up sprawled on the ice.
Parents on the sidelines clap and cheer.
Luka stays down for a beat longer than necessary, mock-defeated, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes.
The kids pile on him.
For a moment, he looks… light. Unburdened as I’ve never seen him before. So unlike a man who seems constantly bracing for impact.
I don’t realize how long I’m staring until he stands and his eyes sweep the bleachers. They land on me. His smile is instant, and then it fades, and I have no idea why.
I stood quickly, heart doing something stupid and fast.
By the time I return to the blanket and toddy, he’s off the ice, sitting on the bench to unlace skates that look suspiciously like his own. Of course he brought them. Of course, this isn’t some spur-of-the-moment resort activity.
I walk up to the bench he’s sitting on.
"You’re stalking me again, Bunny Hill," he says without looking up.
A nickname… great. All I can do is hope it isn’t permanent, but something tells me I’m not getting rid of this one that easily.
"More like doing my job," I argue.
He doesn’t look up as he continues to loosen the laces on his skates. "That’s where we disagree."
I don’t argue because I have so many questions about his impromptu children’s hockey clinic that he just conducted in the middle of the Swiss Alps.
"So," I say, nodding toward the rink where the kids are being helped off the ice by parents. "The kids. Do you coach back in Seattle? You seem like a natural."
His shoulders tensed at my words.
"My answer depends," he says, glancing up at the rink and the kids for a moment and then back down at his skates, "on whether this is part of your PR crisis plan."
I blink. "What?"
"Are you going to spin this?" he continues. "Use it. Because if so, save your breath."
I shake my head. "No. I’m not asking for work reasons. I just… don’t know much about you."
He pauses, then reaches into a bag beneath the bench and pulls out snow boots.
"My mom says you’re a big deal in Seattle," I add, softer. "That people love you."
He scoffs quietly. "People love goals. They don’t love me."
I hesitate, then try again because something about his comment seems to come from bitterness or experience, and I’m not sure which one it is. "You’re good with them. The kids."
He pulls on one book at a time, tying the laces. "I help coach sometimes—The Little Hawks is the Hawkeyes kids’ league. Most of the ex-players’ children play on it."
"And you like it?"
There’s a beat where he’s deciding whether to answer or not.
"I never had anyone who supported my love of hockey," he says. "I want to give back what I didn’t have."
The words hang between us.
He clears his throat, as if he’s said too much, and finishes lacing up his last boot.
I don’t push. I’ve learned that about him—push too hard and he disappears. Instead, I ask, "Do you ever want a family of your own?"
He looks up then. Really looks at me.
"No."
It’s immediate, uncompromising, and completely unexpected. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone answer with such a definitive decision.
"What do you mean, no?"
"I mean no… I won’t."
Something about the finality of it catches me off guard. It shouldn’t take me off guard based on his reputation with women, but even the biggest players assume they will settle down… eventually. "Why?" I ask and then realize that maybe he can’t. "Are you… unable to?"
He looks back out at the rink, where a little girl is struggling to remove her gloves, her dad kneeling patiently in front of her.
"I don’t know, but I don’t plan on finding out," he says. "I don’t go without a condom."
I blink, surprised into a short laugh. "Well. That’s… thorough."
He doesn’t smile.
"What if you meet someone who wants kids?" I ask.
"I won’t meet anyone," he says. "That’s not the plan."
My phone vibrates in my pocket before I can ask a follow-up question. I pull it out and glance down. Carey calling…
Of all the times my cell service decides to work properly in this place, it’s conveniently right now. I silenced it without thinking and slid it back into my pocket.
"You need to take that?" Luka asks.
"No," I say quickly. "It’s not important."
His eyes flick to my pocket. "She’s your boss, right?"
I frown. "Temporarily, yes, and she likes to remind me."
"She calls late," he says.
"How do you know that?" I ask.
"Your phone lights up. You sleep through it. I don’t."
"I’m sorry if she woke you up. Our relationship is… complicated."
"Why is helping me so important to you, Natalia? Why did you fly all the way to Switzerland on your own dime? It can’t just be the money."
My eyebrows crease together. How could he know that?
"How did you know I paid for my flight?"
"Randolph’s got a big mouth. Be careful what you tell him if you don’t want anyone to know."
This is the moment I should tell him. Luka can smell disingenuous people, and I’m losing time. Being honest about losing my job is the only thing I haven’t tried.
"Luka… I—" I start.
The call ends and then she calls again.
He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "You should take that. I have to hit the gym. The playoffs are in three months. Bye-week is a good opportunity to get lazy."
"Right… the playoffs," I say.
"And Natalia… don’t use the kids in whatever plans you have. They’re off-limits, do I make myself clear?"
I suck in my lower lip and then nod. "Crystal clear."
"Good." Then he turns and leaves.
My phone vibrates for a third time. It’s Carey again. I exhale and answer it, eyes still on Luka’s retreating back.
I still have no idea how I’m going to break through to him, but with three days down, I’m losing time.
But it’s not over yet.