Chapter Seven #2
The wind picked up, sending powder skittering across the packed snow between us.
I focus on that instead of the way her cheeks are flushed from cold and exertion, or the way her breath comes out in small clouds that dissipate in the air, or how there are droplets of frost on the tops of her eyelashes, and how her lips are cherry red from the cold.
"So let it get worse," I say. "Eventually, they'll find something else to care about."
"That's not how crisis management works."
"Then maybe I don't want crisis management."
"Too bad," she says, that steel underneath the professional polish that she shows every once in a while. "Because you need it whether you want it or not. And I flew six thousand miles to help you, and your agent is begging, so you're going to talk to me."
"I didn't ask you to follow me. Maybe I should file a restraining order when we get back to the US."
She folds her arms over her chest, her head tilting just slightly as she glares back, but I can see a smirk on her lips.
"How cute. A restraining order. Why don’t you do that?
I’m sure all the boys in the locker room will get a kick out of how a six-foot-four hockey player is scared of a five-foot-five PR agent.
I don’t think that would look good for your reputation on the ice, do you? "
"They’ll side with me once they realize you flew halfway across the world when I never retained your services," I say coolly. "That’s not dedication, Natalia. That’s unhinged."
"You didn’t have to hire me. Your talent agent took the liberty of doing so for you.
And ever since we met at the stadium, you’ve dismissed me as if I am an inconvenience instead of the person who’s trying to save your career.
" She takes a step forward, wobbling slightly in her boots.
"But here's what you need to understand, Luka.
I don't quit. Not when I'm confident that I can fix this, I know I can fix this. You just have to give me a shot."
Something flickers between us. Most people back down when I freeze them out. They take the hint and leave, but she doesn't. I could respect that if it didn't piss me off so much.
"You don't know what I need or what I want." I say, keeping my voice flat and cold. The tone that makes teammates shut up during practice. "You're here because Randolph is paying you, not because I asked for help."
"You're right. I don't know what you want or what you need because you refuse to talk to me.
" She holds my gaze unflinching. "But I know what happens when athletes ignore PR crises.
I know how fast sponsors disappear and endorsements dry up.
I know what it looks like when someone throws away a career because they're too proud to accept help. "
"And you think you can fix that?"
"I know I can. If you stop being stubborn enough to let me."
The standoff stretches. Neither of us moves.
Around us, other skiers glide past, voices carrying on the cold air, but they might as well not exist. There's only her steady gaze and the set of her shoulders and the way she refuses to back down, even though every signal I'm sending tells her to leave.
"Fine," she says finally, breaking the silence. "Then I'll keep following you. Every run. Every bar. Every blonde who pats your arm and strokes your ego. I'll be there, waiting, until you're ready to have an actual conversation about fixing this mess you've made."
The words land like a challenge, and I know she means it. I can see it in the way she squares her shoulders, in the determination written across her face. She'll actually do it—shadow me across this resort, a constant presence I can't shake.
Most people threaten things they won't follow through on. The fact that she flew this far to chase me down already shows me that she's not most people.
I might not like it or want it, but I can respect an opponent who won't concede the fight. Even if the fight is the last thing I want.
"You're persistent," I say.
"I'm good at my job."
"Those aren't the same thing."
One of her eyebrows lifts. "Sometimes they are."
I'm about to respond when she shifts her weight again, turning slightly like she's going to walk away. Her outside ski catches on something, and suddenly she's tilting backward, balance gone.
My body reacts before my brain catches up.
I move with muscle memory from years of hockey, from reading plays before they happen, and catch her before she hits the ground.
My hands close around her waist, steadying her, and suddenly she's pressed against my chest, and every point of contact burns through the layers of winter gear between us.
She fits against me perfectly. I shouldn’t notice, but I do.
Her breath hitches just slightly, just enough that I feel it through her jacket, and for a stretched second neither of us moves. My fingers are still spread across her waist. Her weight is still supported by my grip. Everything crystallizes into this single moment of contact.
I can smell her shampoo. Lavender and something like sandalwood.
I notice the way her breathing shifts. The tension in her spine and the way she's holding herself carefully, like she's afraid any movement will break whatever this is.
I notice all of it, and I don't want to, because it would be too easy to bend down and kiss her right now.
Her eyes search mine for a moment, as if she senses how easy it would be too. I lick my lips at the thought of pressing them to her warm pink mouth. The feeling of my tongue gliding against her lower lip to ask for access to tangle together with hers.
I lean in closer and then the moment shatters, I see it in her eyes. It's panic, or uncertainty at some level. She's at war with what she wants, and I can see it right then. Or maybe I read her all wrong from the start. Either way, I have no intention of kissing Natalia if she isn't interested.
I set her back on her feet and released her immediately, stepping back to put space between us. Cold rushes in where the pressure of her body against mine used to be, and I force my expression into something controlled.
"Be more careful, Natalia," I say, voice ice to mask whatever just slipped for a moment. "I won't always be there to catch you."
She steadies herself, finding her balance on her boots. For a moment she just breathes, and I can see her composure reassembling. Then she meets my eyes, only determination left in them.
"I don't need you to catch me," she says quietly. "I need you to stop running."
Stop running. She has no idea what she’s asking for. And I’ll never tell her.
So, I do exactly that. I turn and walk away.
"Wait—" she calls after me.
I don't.
Instead, I leave her standing there in her brand-new gear with her persistent questions and her refusal to quit.
My hands are flexing inside my gloves. My jaw is tight enough to ache. The place where I touched her waist feels like it's still burning, phantom heat against my palms.
This morning I thought I could escape her on the slopes. Now I know the truth. She's not going anywhere. And the worst part—the part that pisses me off more than her following me, more than her refusing to leave—is that some buried piece of me doesn't want her to.
I shove that thought down deep where it belongs and focus on the lift ahead.