Chapter Thirty-Six
LUKA
The press room smells like damp coats and cheap coffee, like a hundred people came in from the cold and decided breathing the same recycled air was a fair trade for being close enough to ask questions that aren’t really questions.
It’s familiar. The same rows of folding chairs, the same camera tripods, and the same tight cluster of reporters with recorders angled like weapons, each of them hoping they’re the one who gets the quote that turns into tomorrow’s headline.
Only a couple of months ago, before I left for bye-week, this room felt like a trap.
I stood in front of these microphones with a scandal hanging off my name like a shadow I couldn’t step out of, answering the same questions with the same controlled tone while my body stayed on the ice and my mind stayed somewhere else entirely.
Tonight, we won.
It wasn’t a clean or easy win, but a win nonetheless that gets us closer to the playoffs next month. The kind of win that leaves sweat slick on my spine and the echo of the crowd still vibrating in my bones even after I’ve showered and changed and tried to become a normal person again.
Coach gives me a look in the hallway before I step inside, the same look he always gives when he’s deciding whether he trusts you to be careful with your own mouth.
I’m not careful. He already knows that, and he’s already bracing for what I might say.
The door opens and the noise hits me in a wave. Flashes go off. A few voices call my name at once.
"Popovich."
"Luka, over here."
"Luka—question on the third period."
I take my seat behind the table and settle my hands on the surface, posture loose enough to look calm, but it’s not entirely an act. This room doesn’t make my pulse spike the way it used to.
Not because the reporters changed, but because I did.
"Alright," the media coordinator says. "We’ll start with questions."
The first one is predictable.
"Luka, talk us through the final shift. What were you seeing on that breakaway?"
I answer. I talk about the angle, the timing, and the pass. The way the goalie’s glove dipped low a half a second too late. Hockey is easy to explain because it’s honest and because it’s something I’ve been doing for so long, I no longer have to think about it—like muscle memory.
Another question follows.
Then another.
I keep my voice even, the way I always do, but tonight it doesn’t feel like armor. It feels like my choice.
Somewhere near the back, movement catches my eye.
A woman steps into the doorway as if she belongs there, as if she knows the rhythm of this room now, as if she’s not afraid of microphones or men with too much confidence and no boundaries.
Natalia.
A week ago, she was still sleeping at her mom’s place, trying to rebuild her life from the ground up.
Then she started staying over—one night, then another—her boxes appearing in my hallway bit by bit until even she had to stop pretending she was "just staying over.
" I finally convinced her she’d sleep a hell of a lot better naked in my bed, and neither of us looked back.
Maybe to some people it would seem fast, us living together already, but it doesn’t feel fast to me. I’ve waited my whole life for Natalia, and I’m not wasting another night without her.
Now she lives with me.
She moved in quietly… Naturally. Like she didn’t even realize she’d already become permanent.
She stays near the wall of the press room, not pushing forward, not making herself the story.
She’s dressed in dark jeans and an oversized Hawkeyes coat she’s already unbuttoned, my jersey underneath, hair down over her shoulders.
Her expression is bright, open, and for a second, it hits me so hard I almost lose my place.
Because the first time I saw her, she was in the back of a room like this.
Watching me.
Pulling my attention away from questions I should have been answering.
I remember missing a reporter’s question because I couldn’t stop looking at her mouth, at her eyes, at the fact that she didn’t look at me like I was untouchable. She looked at me as if I were a problem she intended to solve.
Tonight she looks different.
Not like she’s not bracing for impact anymore.
Her smile spreads wide when my eyes find hers, and it’s not subtle, not careful, not something she tries to hide. It’s the kind of smile that makes you believe in things you spent years calling weakness.
A reporter asks a question from the front row, and I miss it.
Not because I’m distracted by the room, but because I’m distracted by her. Yet again.
I shake my head once, the ghost of a laugh in my chest, and glance back toward the reporter.
"Can you repeat that?" I ask.
A few chuckles ripple through the room. They think it’s harmless, like fatigue from a professional athlete who put everything he had out on that ice tonight. They don’t know that it’s about her.
The reporter repeats the question, something about the team’s momentum heading into playoffs, and I answer it.
Then another question comes, and another, until the conversation drifts the way it always does when people run out of hockey to talk about and start circling anything they think might be interesting.
"Luka," a woman from a sports network says, leaning forward slightly, "we’ve seen a few changes in your media presence the last month. You’ve been more… visible. More engaged. Is that intentional?"
I hear the underlying question.
Are you being managed again?
Are you still in damage control mode?
I should give a neutral answer. Something about focusing on the team and staying disciplined and taking it one game at a time.
Instead, I let my gaze drift to the back of the room again.
Natalia is still there, arms folded loosely, watching me like she knows what I’m about to do, like she’s trying not to look amused by it.
The reporter follows my line of sight, eyes flicking behind her briefly.
I look back at the microphone.
"Yes," I say simply.
A few heads tilted. Pens pause.
I continue before anyone can twist my words into something else.
"It’s intentional," I say. "Because I’m done letting other people write my story."
The room stills slightly, that subtle hunger for something quoteworthy sharpening. I can feel it. I don’t flinch from it.
Another reporter jumps in. "Is this related to your recent… situation? The VELVT controversy and Olympic Committee discussions?"
I feel the old instinct to shut down and deflect. To freeze them out with silence. But that isn’t what Natalia taught me, not directly, but by refusing to play the same game.
"It’s related to everything," I answer honestly. "I made choices I regret. I trusted the wrong people. I learned from it."
That’s all I give them. I don’t throw blame, and I don’t apologize into the void. Healing isn’t easy, but I’m working on it. Natalia deserves the best version of me, and so do I.
The coordinator calls time a few questions later. Chairs scrape. Reporters stand. The room begins to break apart in a rush of movement and murmurs.
I stand, sliding my chair back, and I don’t wait for the last person to leave before I look at her.
Natalia is still in the back, still smiling like she’s keeping something bright inside herself.
I walked toward her without hesitation.
I can feel eyes tracking me. I can hear the flick of cameras trying to catch whatever this is.
I don’t care.
Natalia’s smile softens as I get closer, her eyes shining with something that makes my chest tighten in a way that isn’t painful.
"You didn’t even answer half the questions," she teases quietly when I stop in front of her.
"I answered enough," I say.
Her brows lift. "And the part where you stared at me like you forgot where you were?"
"That was intentional, too."
She huffs a laugh, shaking her head. "I still have my work cut out for me when it comes to you."
"You knew that," I reply.
Her expression shifts, just slightly, and I see the echo of everything we had to survive to get here. The days when I didn’t believe I deserved her patience.
Then I reach out and take her hand. Her fingers curl around mine instantly, as if she doesn’t hesitate anymore either.
"Ready?" I ask.
"For what?"
I tilt my head toward the exit, toward the hallway that leads back to the rink, toward the world outside this room.
"Home," I say, and the word feels different now. It isn’t a place I return to alone. It’s a door I open and expect her to be on the other side of.
Her smile widens, warm and real. "Yeah," she says softly. "I’m ready."
I lace our fingers together and lead her out of the press room, past cameras, past reporters, past all the noise that used to make me feel cornered. The space where we first met, and I thought she was a reporter looking for more than a story.
The hallway is quieter. The arena hums around us like a living thing. Somewhere behind us, someone calls my name, but I don’t turn.
Natalia squeezes my hand once. "You did well tonight," she says.
"We did," I correct automatically.
She makes a small sound—half laugh, half scoff. "You can accept the praise."
"Isn’t that what I did?" I ask, though we both know that’s a lie.
We pass a framed photo on the wall—team history, old wins, old men who look like they’ve never let themselves be happy about anything. I used to think that was real strength. I used to think needing someone meant you’d already lost.
Now I know better.
Outside, the cold hits us in the face the second we step through the arena doors. Natalia tucks closer, her shoulder brushing my arm. It’s instinctive now. Like she doesn’t have to check whether she’s allowed to be here.
My chest tightens with something I don’t fight anymore.
"I’m glad you decided to move in on your own time. I don’t want you to leave," I say quietly.
She turns her head, eyes searching my face. "That sounds permanent."
I stop walking. Not fully, just enough to make her stop with me. I face her, still holding her hand like letting go is no longer an option.
"Yeah," I say. "I plan to make it permanent."
I can see the hope flash across her expression before she tries to hide it behind composure. I’m relieved to see that we’re on the same page.
"As soon as I know you’re ready to say yes," I add, because she’s on her way to big things and I don’t want to distract her… not yet.
Her eyebrows lift slowly. "How do you know I wouldn’t say yes right now?"
The question hits me straight in the ribs. The part of me that still expects something good to be taken away tries to flinch. I don’t let it.
"Because you’re building something," I say instead. "You’re building your empire. You’re finally doing it for yourself, not to prove anything to anyone.
And I’m not going to be the next man in your life who makes your world smaller.
I don’t want a wedding to distract you from what you’re doing. We have time."
Her throat works as she swallows. The arena lights throw gold into her eyes. She looks like she’s trying not to blink too fast.
I step closer, lowering my voice. "I want you. I want all of it. I just need you to know that."
I brush my thumb across her knuckles like it’s the only way I can keep myself steady.
"I’m sure I could manage both," she says, but I can see it in her eyes that the idea of two manager life changes at once is daunting.
I smirk down at her. "I know you can. You can manage me, which means you can manage anything." She lets out a chuckle that feels earned. "But I’m giving you space to do this first. And then…"
Her lips part. "And then what?"
I lean in just enough that my mouth is close to her ear, close enough to make her shiver.
"Then you’re all mine, Nattie," I murmur. "Mine to love. Mine to protect."
She lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh. "Possessive."
"With you?... Always," I admit. "But I’m patient."
"You don’t have to be for long," she says.
"I know."
We started walking again.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel the urge to run.
I feel the urge to stay.