Chapter Thirty-Four
NATALIA
My phone buzzes while I’m standing in my mom’s kitchen, staring into the fridge like it might contain a plan.
I’m not hungry. I haven’t been hungry in weeks, not in any real way. Food has turned into something I do because I’m supposed to, like showering and answering emails, and pretending I’m not grieving a man who is still very much alive and simply chose not to want me.
The screen lights up with an unknown number.
I stare at it for a second, thumb hovering, before I finally open it.
Katerina: Natalia. This is Katerina... Luka's sister. I got your number from Penelope. Luka isn’t answering anyone. Scottie is out of town. Can you please check on him?
My stomach tightens so fast it’s almost comical. Of course, the first message I get connected to Luka is from his sister, because the universe has a sense of humor and it’s meaner than mine.
I read it again.
Then a third time, because my brain keeps snagging on the part where Luka isn’t answering anyone, as if that’s somehow my business again.
It isn’t.
The only problem is that Katerina doesn’t text like a woman who’s being polite. She texts like someone who’s already picturing worst-case scenarios and refuses to sit with them alone.
I type back:
Is he sick or just being… Luka?
Her reply comes in immediately.
He’s not showing up. He's missed a run with Scottie and that's not like him. I’m worried.
My heart does something unpleasant in my chest.
Because she’s right.
For all his stubbornness and brooding and terrifying ability to go quiet for days, Luka is disciplined in a way that borders on obsessive. The man treats rest as a moral failing. He doesn’t "miss" things. He doesn't "forget."
I stare at the message until the letters blur slightly, then drag in a breath that feels too shallow.
Me: I can check. I don’t think he’ll want to see me.
Katerina: I don’t care what he wants right now. I care that he’s alive. Please.
My fingers tightened around my phone. Does she truly think he's in danger?
The idea of him lying lifeless on his apartment floor is enough for me to forget everything else and agree to go. Now I have to know if he's okay too.
Me: Okay. Send me the address.
The reply pings instantly with his building name and unit number.
My pulse quickens because now it’s real. Now I’m doing this.
I grab my coat and step into the hallway, catching my reflection in the mirror by the door at my oversized sweatshirt, leggings, and hair twisted up in a messy bun that’s more functional than cute.
I look like someone who has spent the last three weeks mourning in private and only recently remembered the outside world exists.
I almost go back and change into something that looks less like I crawled into a dark hole and then I stop myself. If she's that worried about him, I don't have time to waste.
Luka’s building, The Commons, is one of those downtown places that tries to disguise luxury as minimalism, all neutral tones.
It's proximity to the arena is probably why all the players live here.
Another fact my mother shared earlier this week as if she was hoping I would drive by like a stalker to run into Luka.
I ride the elevator up, my stomach tightening with each floor. What if he is hurt and I got here too late?
I step out of the elevator, and before I know it, I’m standing in front of his door, staring at the wood grain like it’s about to either open or swallow me whole.
I knock once.
Then twice.
Then, because the silence stretches too long, I knock again.
"Luka?" I call, keeping my voice low so the neighbors don’t get a show. "It’s me."
No answer.
I press my forehead briefly against the door and exhale.
Of course he isn’t answering. Of course he’s making me stand out here like an idiot.
I text Katerina:
No answer.
Katerina: Please go inside. I’m sending you the code.
I stare at the message and then at the keypad. I bite down on my lip as I anxiously type in the code.
My heart starts pounding in a way that has nothing to do with professionalism and everything to do with the fact that Luka Popovich is going to murder me if he catches me breaking into his apartment. If he's still alive…
The door unlocks but before I can push it open, I text Katerina back one last time. Maybe for confirmation. Maybe for emotional support. I'm not sure which.
He will hate me.
Katerina: He already hates everyone. Go inside. Please.
That makes something in me loosen, not because it’s funny, but because it’s true. Luka is an equal-opportunity grump. If he’s going to be furious, at least let it be because he’s alive enough to be furious.
The moment I push the door open, I sense a level of wrongness that is anything but comfortable.
It's not subtle wrongness. Or even a "he’s in a mood" wrongness.
I glance around the scene before me. His boots looking like he kicked them off in the middle of the entryway instead of lined up by the door like he always did in Switzerland. His jacket is crumpled on the floor, half inside-out, as if he shrugged it off and didn’t care where it landed.
Luka does not leave things disorderly.
My throat tightens.
"Hello?" I call, stepping inside slowly. "Luka?"
Then silence stretches on, the apartment smells faintly sour, like sweat and something stale.
I move farther in, scanning the kitchen and living room.
Still no Luka.
My brain tries to stay calm, but it’s already sprinting.
This is how every true-crime podcast starts. A woman enters a quiet apartment with evidence of disturbance. She calls out cheerfully before she becomes a cautionary tale in episode two.
I can already hear my mother sobbing into a microphone: She was so capable. She was so smart. We never thought—
Carey would give a statement in her most polished tragic voice: Natalia was brilliant but reckless. I always worried—
"Stop it," I mutter to myself. "You’re being insane."
But my heart doesn’t believe me.
I walk toward the bedroom hallway, the air feeling heavier the closer I get.
The bedroom door is closed.
I knock lightly. "Luka?"
Nothing.
I knock again, firmer this time. "If you’re in there, I just need a quick proof of life, okay? I’ll leave immediately. I will even stop existing in your general vicinity if you want. I just need to know you’re not dead."
Still nothing.
I reach for the handle and it’s unlocked. I turn the handle and the door swings open, but the bedroom is dark… and empty. Thankfully I didn't want in on something else. My heart would never have recovered.
Then I see it. A warm strip of light coming from beneath the bathroom door.
My pulse spikes.
I cross the room quickly and knock. "Luka?" but there's no response.
I swallow hard, hand hovering over the handle.
"Last warning," I call out. "If you don’t answer, I’m coming in and then you’ll have to live with the fact that you forced me to commit a felony out of concern."
Again, no answer.
I push the door open. And there he is. Laying on the bathroom floor.
Not dead-on-the-floor, thank God, but collapsed, curled on his side against the bathtub with his arm tucked under his head like a makeshift pillow. His face is pale in a way I’ve never seen on him before, hair damp and stuck to his forehead, his breathing too fast and shallow.
"Oh my God."
I’m across the tile before I finish the thought, dropping to my knees beside him.
"Luka. Hey." My voice comes rough, too scared. "Can you hear me?"
His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t open his eyes.
I press my palm to his forehead, and my stomach drops. He’s burning up.
"Say something," I demand, firmer now, because I need him awake.
His eyes crack open slowly, glassy and unfocused, taking several seconds to find my face.
And then he finally speaks.
"Bunny Hill," he rasps, like he’s still half asleep in Switzerland. "How did you get in?"
I stare at him. "Don't worry about that now. How long have you been on the floor?"
He blinks slowly, as if the question requires effort.
"I don’t know," he murmurs. "Sometime after my massage."
My blood runs cold.
"Define sometime."
His eyes drift shut again. "Massage was… two."
I glance at my watch. It’s after nine. I look back at him.
"Luka," I say, forcing my voice steady even though my heart is hammering, "it’s nine o’clock. You’ve been on this floor for seven hours. Why didn't you call anyone?"
He makes a sound that could be a groan or a shrug, though he has barely enough energy left in him to do it. "Phone’s…" He gestures vaguely toward the counter. "In my jacket."
Of course, the stubborn, self-destructive hockey player spent seven hours violently ill and didn’t reach for help because the phone was in another room and he refused to crawl for it.
I take a breath, steadying myself.
Crisis mode clicks in, that part of my brain that can handle anything as long as it becomes a problem with steps.
"Okay," I say. "We’re getting you off this floor."
"I’m fine here," he says, his eyes closing like he's about to pass out again from exhaustion.
He has to be dehydrated. I need to get him to drink something.
"You’re not fine anywhere," I shoot back. "Come on."
I slide an arm under his shoulders and try to lift him.
He’s dead weight at first and I already know there's no way I am going to get all six-foot-four of him to that couch all by myself.
Finally, he seems to register what I’m doing and attempts to help, but it’s sloppy, uncoordinated. His muscles tremble as if they don’t trust him to stand upright.
We make it to his feet with me practically holding him up.
"Couch," I decide. "I need you where I can see you."
We shuffle out of the bathroom, his weight heavy against my side, my arm locked around his waist. He’s shaking, small tremors running through his whole body.
"Almost there," I tell him, as if he were a patient and not a man who could bench-press me. "You’re doing great."
He mutters out something but it's barely coherent.
"Couch in three, two—"
He collapses more than sits, and I nearly go down with him.
I manage to pry myself free and grab the throw blanket from the chair, tucking it around him while he slumps sideways against the cushions like he can’t decide which way gravity is pulling.
I grab his phone from the jacket on the floor, then step into the kitchen and order electrolyte drinks, broth, crackers, anti-nausea meds, and whatever else the grocery delivery app can get to me in under an hour.
When I drop my phone on the couch and press my palm to his forehead again. He's still too hot.
"Stop checking," he mutters. His eyes opening just a slit.
"Stop being sick and I will."
"Working on it," he mumbles.
"Work faster."
The corner of his mouth twitches, a ghost of a smile, and it hits me—how much effort he must have had to come up with for that to surface.
Then his face tightens, and he curls forward, arm tightening around his stomach. I grab the trash can and slide it closer.
"Bucket’s not necessary," he says, voice strained. "Think I’m empty."
"Better to have it and not need it."
"Crisis manager logic," he murmurs.
"Seven-hours-on-the-bathroom-floor logic," I shoot back.
That shuts him up. Not because he’s chastened but because he’s too tired to argue.
I head to the bathroom, grab a clean washcloth, soak it with cold water, and fold it across his forehead. He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping.
"Better?" I ask.
"Mm."
I sit on the coffee table across from him, close enough to reach him if he needs help, far enough not to hover. My knee bounces with leftover adrenaline from finding him in that condition on the bathroom floor.
Still feel the flash of terror when I thought—
No. I'm not going there. He’s going to be fine. It’s probably food poisoning. Horrible, miserable, violent food poisoning, but manageable if I can keep him hydrated.
When the delivery arrives, I unpack it quickly, lining things up on the counter like I’m staging a medical kit. I mix electrolyte powder into water, then bring the glass back to the couch.
"Hey," I say, tapping his shoulder gently. "I need you to drink this."
He lifts his head just enough to take a small sip, grimacing immediately.
"That’s better than nothing," I tell him. "But you’re going to have to do more soon."
He lets his head sink back, eyes closing again.
Then his arm slides across my lap.
It happens so casually that I barely realize how he manages to do it so smoothly.
His hand curls over my thigh, anchoring himself, and then he shifts—heavy but surprisingly uncoordinated—and lays his head on my lap like it’s the most natural place in the world to rest.
I freeze.
The intimacy of it steals my breath in a way I can’t prepare for.
His head is warm in my lap, his shoulders finally loose, his breathing calmer and yet stronger, and I can’t bring myself to move, because the truth is still the same as it's been since Switzerland.
I love this man and he's needs me, even if he might wish I were someone else. Anyone else.
"Natalia?" he murmurs, voice barely audible.
"Yeah?"
He swallows, eyes still closed.
"Just… stay with me," he says quietly. "Please."
The words hit deep.
Not the romantic part… the wounded part. The part that’s spent his whole life trying to be worth staying for.
"I’m not going anywhere," I tell him, and I mean it more than I want to.
His shoulders drop the rest of the way, like his body finally believes it. Within minutes, his breathing shifted into the deep, steady rhythm of real sleep.
I should move. I should slide out carefully and let him sleep alone.
I should maintain professional distance and emotional boundaries and all the other things I’ve always been good at. I should guard my heart from being ripped out of my chest again.
Instead, I settle back against the cushions, fingers threading gently through his hair, and let myself stay exactly where I am. Because for the first time in weeks, he's letting me in, and I'm too desperate for even one more minute with him this close.