Chapter Twenty-Eight
LUKA
The first thing I see when I unlock my phone is her name.
Six missed calls and a string of texts.
Please call me. Luka, please.
Then the texts begin to unravel.
I didn’t do this.
I swear I didn’t.
Please let me explain.
I don’t open them. I don’t delete them either, because deleting them would be an admission that they matter, and I have spent my entire life perfecting the art of acting like things do not matter until they stop hurting.
It is easier to stare at the lock screen like it’s a problem I can solve with discipline and distance. It is easier to pretend this is all just noise. An inconvenience. A small consequence of a mistake I will not repeat.
I shove the phone into the pocket of my jacket as if that ends the conversation.
It doesn’t.
Nothing ends just because you refuse to look at it. I should know better than anyone else.
The drive to the rink is familiar in the way a routine becomes its own kind of anesthesia. I park in my usual spot, grab my bag, and head inside.
The smell hits me the second I pass through the players’ entrance—rubber and old sweat trapped between these concrete walls. This is the part of my life that makes sense.
Hockey is simple. You do the work, or you get eaten alive by someone hungrier. You show weakness, and you pay for it.
I step into the locker room and everything looks exactly the same as it did before Switzerland, before the chalet, before her mouth on mine, before I made the stupidest decision of my life and let another person close enough to burn me.
My stall is where it always is. My skates are where I left them. My sticks stand in their rack as if I never left.
The sameness should soothe me. Instead, it makes me feel like an idiot, because nothing here has changed, and yet everything inside me has.
I strip down and start dressing, because it is easier to focus on straps, tape, and base layers than it is to think about the way she looked at me the last time she said she wouldn’t use the email, the way she swore it like she understood what that promise cost.
She said she wouldn’t use it, and I can try to make excuses for why she did it until my throat bleeds, but the truth is simpler, and it tastes like humiliation.
I trusted her with that leverage. I gave her a weapon and asked her not to use it.
My phone buzzes again.
I don’t pull it out.
I don’t need to look to know it’s her.
I don’t need to see the words to know she’s going to keep trying. Natalia Kovac isn’t the kind of woman who walks away from a mess without trying to fix it.
That’s what I liked about her.
A laugh erupts from the other side of the room, loud enough to bounce off the lockers, and the spell breaks.
The room is filling in around me now—guys dropping gear bags, teasing each other, the normal chaos of practice day—like the world is determined to keep moving and that’s the way it should be.
The faster I move on from this… the better.
Wolf drops onto the bench behind me and claps a hand onto my shoulder with the kind of friendly violence that would knock most men forward.
"Look who’s back from the mountains," he says. "Did you scare the tourists? Did you become one with the snow? Did you finally become the Yeti we all know you are inside?"
I don’t react the way he wants me to. I keep taping my stick, my hands steady even though my jaw wants to lock.
JP walks past in socks, hair still damp from the shower, and points at me like he’s been saving this line.
"Penelope found some interesting pictures of you holding hands with your PR agent. She shared it with all the girls. Cammy says you two looked cozy," he says, too cheerful for a man who’s engaged and should be focused on something besides my life.
Slade plops down next to me. "Penelope says congratulations, by the way. She’s already planning your wedding in her head. I’d expect to see your new PR agent in the Everett Kauffman's owner’s box standing with all the WAGs by the next home game."
I glance up slowly.
"What pictures?" I ask.
The room quiets just a little, the way it always does when the guys sense something is worth watching.
Olsen grins. "Don’t play dumb, Popeye. You looked like a man who was one snowflake away from buying matching scarves."
There’s something tight inside my chest that feels like rage, but it’s not directed at them. It’s rage at myself for letting a moment exist where a camera could catch me being anything other than cold and unavailable.
Slade, already dressed and lacing his skates, shakes his head like a disappointed older brother.
"I leave you alone for one trip and you come back with a scandal and a girlfriend," he says. "We’re going to have to put you on a leash."
"A girlfriend," Wolf repeats it like it’s hilarious. "What’s next? Are you going to start smiling in post-game interviews and saying things like, ‘I’m just happy to be here’?"
My mouth twitches, but it isn’t a smile.
It’s a warning.
"She’s not my girlfriend," I say, and even I can hear how flat my voice is. "She’s not even my PR agent anymore."
The laughter stutters, then picks up again, because they think I’m being dramatic, or grumpy, or stubborn, and they don’t understand that I’m saying it like a man trying to cauterize a wound so he doesn’t bleed out.
JP’s grin fades just a fraction, as if he senses the shift.
Olsen tilts his head. "Okay, okay. Chill. We’re just messing with you."
Wolf changes direction, sensing I’m not in the mood. "Well, at least the VELVT thing is turning into a bloodbath for them. They had it coming."
I keep my eyes on my skates as I finish tightening the laces. "We’ll see," I say.
And then the room’s energy shifts again, because my phone rings.
That’s Randolph.
I stand, grab my phone, and walk out into the hallway so the guys don’t get a front-row seat to whatever he has to say
The arena corridor is colder, quieter. The noise of the locker room dulls behind a heavy door, and I can breathe again, which is ridiculous because I shouldn’t need solitude to be steady.
But I do.
I answer. "What."
"Don’t ‘what’ me," Randolph snaps, and he sounds like he hasn’t slept. "Where the hell have you been?"
"On a plane," I say, because what else is there to tell him? That I was running? That I left a chalet like a coward because my trust was broken and my pride couldn’t handle it?
"Sponsors are calling me. The press is asking for comments. The Olympic Committee hasn’t released anything official yet, but they’re circling. The good news is that people are buying it. VELVT has a history. I’ve got two brands already saying they feel ‘reassured’ that you were misled."
"Reassured?" I scoff.
"This is a narrative war, and we’re winning it," he continues.
"We," I repeat, and my voice is sharper than I intend. "You’re winning it."
Randolph pauses. "Luka. Don’t start."
The pressure in my skull builds. "They can still come after me," I say. "I’m still the one in the photos with the medals."
"Yes," he admits. "The Olympics may still want to hold someone accountable. Your lawyer agrees. But Weekly Sports can’t name a source, and VELVT can’t risk confirming anything without dragging their own NDA and shady practices into the light. That’s the point. The point is plausible deniability."
Plausible deniability.
"A loophole." I say, reading into what he’s trying to say without saying it exactly.
The kind of loophole I didn’t want.
The kind of loophole Natalia told me she wouldn’t use.
My jaw clenches until my teeth ache.
"Right now I need you focused. We’ll deal with your wounded pride later. Like it or hate it, Natalia and Legacy PR did you a solid here."
"I am focused," I lie.
"Good," he says, not buying it. "Because you have media this week and you are not going to go in there acting like a man who isn’t grateful to the PR team who got him out of a possible lawsuit. You’re going to be calm. You’re going to be professional. You’re going to hold the line."
Hold the line.
As if my entire life isn’t one long attempt to hold a line against people who try to take something from me.
I end the call before I say something ugly.
When I walk back into the locker room, the noise rushes around me again. The guys are halfway dressed, half chirping, half focused on practice.
I force myself back into my stall and finish gearing up.
The phone sits heavier in my pocket now.
Not because of Randolph.
Because of her.
Because the second I let myself think about her, the entire chalet comes back in a rush—firelight, the warmth of her body against mine, the way she smiled at me like she saw something worth staying for.
I don’t let myself sit with it.
I stand, grab my helmet, and head to the rink.
The ice is brighter than the rest of the rink, a clean white expanse that reflects the overhead lights. The chill is calming and the first glide is familiar enough that my body relaxes into it.
This is what I know. This is where I’m dangerous in a way that doesn’t make me like my father. I can do damage out here without remorse.
We run drills. We run systems. We run laps until sweat builds under my pads and my lungs burn in a way I can control. The coach blows his whistle and calls out directions, and I follow them because following directions is easier than thinking for myself right now.
Somewhere in the middle of a scrimmage, I over-commit to a hit and send a rookie off balance hard enough that he slams into the boards and curses loud enough for half the rink to hear.
The whistle shrieks.
The coach’s voice cuts across the ice. "Popovich! Are you trying to murder your own team, or are you just bored?"
I skate back, chest heaving, pulse too high for a standard practice.
"I’m fine," I call, because that’s the answer men like me give even when we’re bleeding out internally.
The coach watches me, and his gaze knows more than I’d like it to.
"Control," he says, quieter now. "You’re an asset when you’re controlled."
I nod as if I didn’t just feel that sentence hook into my ribs.
Because control is the entire problem.
Control is what I had until I let Natalia touch the parts of me I usually keep locked behind steel doors.
It’s what I lose every time I convince myself I can trust someone and then learn I was wrong.
We finish practice and head off the ice. The guys return to their stalls, and the room fills with the usual post-practice energy—complaints, laughter, music, talk about dinner plans.
I shower fast, the water hot enough to sting, as if I can burn the last forty-eight hours off my skin.
When I come back to my stall, my phone is buzzing again.
I pull it out before I can stop myself.
Two more calls from Natalia.
Another text.
Please, Luka. I am begging you to hear me out, just once. She was wrong in that text. I didn’t sleep with you to get you to crack. Some part of you has to know that wasn’t true.
My hand tightens around the phone.
My chest feels hollow.
Because a part of me, the part I hate, wants to call her back. Wants to believe there is an explanation that will make this hurt less.
But if I call her back, I have to risk something, and I have spent too many years learning what it costs to risk something with the wrong person.
I shove the phone away again and finish dressing.
By the time I’m walking out to the parking lot, my nerves feel scraped raw. I can still hear the coach’s voice in my head. I can still hear Randolph’s. I can still see her smile.
I hate that my mind holds onto her like she’s unfinished business.
My sister called as I’m unlocking my truck. I’d like to ignore her phone call, but she’s the only person in the world that I would never do that to. If Katerina is calling, it’s for a good reason.
"Hello," I say.
"You’re alive," she says immediately, like she’s been waiting. "I saw the news."
Of course she did.
"Which part?" I ask dryly. "The part where I’m a reckless idiot, or the part where I’m a reckless idiot who got ‘duped’ by the PR agent that my agent hired?"
She huffs out a laugh. "Don’t pretend you don’t love the drama."
"I don’t," I say, annoyed that she thinks I would.
"Mm," she hums. "Sure. Because tricking Scottie into marrying me by beating him in a game of pool while all your teammates watch was as boring as a saltine cracker."
Maybe she has a point… maybe. I did it because I couldn’t be sure he would have agreed to it, and my father was already threatening my sister’s visa to stay in the states. I didn’t have a choice.
"I think that one turned out okay, wouldn’t you say?"
"Obvious… I’m happily married, but you’re not yet." Her tone shifts into something sharper. "Speaking of.... Let’s talk about Switzerland and gorgeous PR agents..."
I close my eyes briefly. "What about it?"
"You held hands," she says, enjoying it too much. "In public."
Turns out that Slade and Penelope aren’t the only ones who saw the photos.
"It was cold," I say, and I even hear how weak that excuse is.
Katerina laughs. "You are a liar. You have never held anyone’s hand because it’s cold. In fact, I’m confident that I’ve never seen you hold anyone’s hand… ever. Except when you were seven, and I was three and you were holding my hand to teach me to ice skate. Do you remember that?"
I nod. The days before things turned cold. The year before our father sent me to boarding school to ‘become a man’.
"It was the last time I truly remember being happy… before Mom got sick. Before our father went from being an asshole to a massive asshole." I say.
"Yeah…" she says, with sadness in her voice too. "I want to meet her."
My sister and Natalia together? That’s never going to happen, and I will see to it that it doesn’t.
"She’s of no consequence," I say, and the sentence comes out too fast, like I’ve been rehearsing it to convince myself.
Then Katerina says quietly, "You sound like Papa."
My grip tightens on the truck door handle, and for a moment I can’t breathe properly because she said the exact thing I spend my life trying not to be.
I don’t answer.
Katerina exhales. "Luka—"
"I have to go," I cut in.
And I hang up before she can say anything else that might crack the walls.