Chapter Seven
LUKA
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket just as I'm about to push off for another run after shaking off the last woman who tried to keep up with me on the slopes.
Maybe I should have let up. Let her think that she could keep up with me. But it’s just not how I do things. If you can’t keep up… you can’t. It’s as easy as that. I’m here to ski. The extracurriculars come second or not at all, and that’s fine with me.
Having held Natalia most of the night until the power kicked back on, dealing with her and skiing, it's about all I can handle at this point.
She fell asleep fast. Twenty minutes, maybe less—back against my chest to conserve body heat, out cold like she'd decided that if she was going to be cold and miserable, she was at least going to be unconscious for it. She’s practical, I'll give her that.
She'd also had the presence of mind to wedge a pillow between us before she drifted off, placing it low and specifically. She didn't say anything about it, and neither did I.
It was a practical solution to an inconvenient problem. Natalia is a beautiful woman. That's a fact, not an opinion, and it changes nothing. My body reacted the way bodies do. The pillow handled it.
She and I didn’t discuss it further.
I consider ignoring the phone call. The mountain doesn't care if I answer. The snow doesn't ask questions. That's why I came here. For the silence, the space, the absence of voices telling me what I need to do.
But discipline wins. It always does.
I pull off my glove and fish out my phone, wiping snow off the screen with my thumb. Randolph’s name is there, and my jaw tightens before I even read the message. If anyone can get a text through a blizzard with spotty reception, it’s my agent.
Have you met Natalia yet? She's there to help, and she's very good at what she does. She's the best of the best, and no one else will take on your case.
If she were the best, she wouldn't have followed me here. She would've understood the first time I said no. That’s the worst trait of a PR agent. They think persistence is a virtue instead of a weapon.
Maybe she’s the solution to make this all go away, but she's the solution to a problem I didn't ask them to solve. Now my phone is lighting up on a mountain six thousand miles from Seattle, because apparently distance means nothing when people decide they know what's best for you.
Then another text:
She paid for her plane ticket out of her own pocket. Don't blow this, Luka.
I stare at the words until the cold bites into my bare fingers.
She paid for her own plane ticket to get here? Why the hell would she do that?
My phone begins to ping again. Screenshots from Randolph of gossip magazines, podcasts, and sports media outlets:
Luka Popovish: In trouble with the Olympics?
Seattle Hawkeyes’ Left Winger Spreading It All Wide Open
Three Time Hawkeyes Olympian May Have Medals Stripped
I shove the phone back into my pocket without responding.
I came to Switzerland because the mountains don't want anything from me.
Trust is leverage. My father taught me that before I was old enough to understand the words. Every person who claims they want to help wants something in return. Every opened door is a vulnerability waiting to be exploited.
I pull my glove back on and adjust my goggles. The slope stretches below, pristine white cut with dark lines where other skiers have carved their paths. The sun hits the snow at an angle that makes everything gleam, sharp and clean.
This is what I need. No conversations. Not crisis management. Not some woman with dark eyes and expensive suits telling me she can fix what isn't broken.
I push off.
The first few seconds are always the best. That moment when gravity takes over and the only thing that matters is the line I'm carving through the snow.
Speed builds as the wind cuts across my face where the goggles don't cover.
My thighs burn in the good way, the way that means muscle working exactly as trained.
I take the run aggressively. Tighter turns than necessary, pushing the edges of my skis until they bite deep and send up sprays of powder. My heart rate climbs. My breathing finds its rhythm—in through the nose, out through the mouth, controlled even as I accelerate.
Pushing my body to its limits… this is what I understand.
The mountain doesn't care about Olympic medals or magazine photos or what the press thinks I should apologize for. It doesn't care about my father or the careful distance I maintain between myself and everyone who thinks they deserve access to my life.
On the mountain, there's only physics and instinct and the simplicity of downhill motion.
I carve left, then right, weaving between slower skiers who hug the center of the run. Someone shouts something—probably cursing me for cutting too close—but the words dissolve in the wind before they reach me.
The slope levels out near the bottom, and I slow, letting momentum bleed away as the run ends. My thighs are screaming now, lactic acid building the way it does after a hard practice. I welcome the burn because it means I did something right.
I glide to a stop near the edge of the slope, breathing hard, and for maybe thirty seconds, there's silence in my head.
Then I see her.
At first, it's just a figure in brand-new ski gear. That particular stiffness that marks someone who's never worn the equipment before. Expensive jacket in navy blue, matching pants, everything crisp and unused. She's standing near the base lodge, talking to a guy in an instructor's jacket.
My brain processes who it is… Natalia.
Dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. The delicate curves of her body that I already know are there, despite the bulky gear. The way she gestures with her hands when she talks, even in ski gloves.
My jaw tightens before I understand why. She said she hates the cold, and she should be back in the chalet calling the airport until it opens. So why the hell is she talking to a ski instructor if she hates the snow?
I watch them for another moment. The instructor is probably early-twenties, with the kind of easy smile that Americans seem to perfect in childhood. He's leaning in slightly, body language open and friendly, saying something that makes her laugh.
Her laugh echoes around me, and it hits hard against my ribs, but I don’t understand why, nor do I want to stand still long enough to come to a conclusion.
The snow crunches under my boots, my skis tucked under my armpit. They don't notice me at first—too engaged in whatever conversation they're having. I catch the tail end of the instructor's words as I get close enough to hear.
"... a little accident getting off the lift, but no harm done. You did great for your first time."
First time?
Of course. She bought all that gear this morning and went straight up the mountain with zero experience. Brilliant… absolutely brilliant. That’s how you get yourself killed.
"Luka? Luka Popovich, right?" The instructor noticed me first, his smile widening with recognition. "Hey, man. Huge fan. Caught your game against Vancouver last month—that third-period assist was insane."
I nod once, not quite acknowledging the compliment, and shift my attention to Natalia.
She's watching me with that same steady gaze. No apology for ignoring the fact that I don’t want her here. That my sticky note told her not to wander. Just calm assessment, as if she's waiting to see what I'll do next.
"You told me that you don’t ski," I say.
"Turns out that I just needed a reason to learn." She says, as if challenging me.
"And that would be because…?"
"Because we need to talk."
I caught the instructor's name on his jacket as he glanced between us—Zack.
His smile falters slightly as he picks up on the tension.
"Right, well. I should head to my next lesson.
Natalia, remember what I said about keeping your weight forward.
And if you want that free morning session, just text me. "
He pulls out a card with the resort’s logo on it and hands it to her. She takes it with a polite smile that has me biting the inside of my lip. She slides the card into her pocket, and I don’t know why that pisses me off.
Zack gives me another starstruck grin. "Great to meet you, Luka. Maybe I'll see you around the resort?"
"Maybe." I say, with no intention of seeing him anywhere.
He takes the hint and leaves, glancing back once before disappearing toward the lift.
Then it's just us.
Natalia crosses her arms. I mirrored the gesture without thinking.
"Can’t you be nice to anyone besides women who want to sleep with you?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, she just shakes her head as if I’m playing games. "Oh, you mean him?"
"And me, and reporters asking you questions during post-game interviews, where it’s their job to do so."
"You’re kidding, right? They’re vultures."
I don’t admit that part of the reason I stumbled through those press questions after the game she attended was because I couldn’t concentrate on anything except her standing in the back of the room.
That’s the kind of ammunition she doesn’t need to know she has. That her proximity throws me off my game.
"Just forget it, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about."
"There's nothing to talk about," I say.
"Your agent disagrees. So does the Olympic Committee. And possibly soon, the NHL as well."
"I don't care what they think."
That part is true. I don’t care. Because it was worth it. Sanction me, strip me of my medals, fine me… whatever they have to do. As long as my father is still simmering in his big mansion all alone, I’ll take whatever punishment comes my way.
"That's evident." She shifts her weight, adjusting her stance on the skis. Still awkward with the equipment. "But your lack of caring doesn't make the problem disappear. The Olympic Committee is demanding a response, the press is circling, and every day you refuse to address this, it gets worse."