Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Luka
The envelope rested in my hand, thick cream paper already softening beneath the pressure of my fingers.
Canadian postmark. Official seal. My name printed across the front.
I turned it over once even though I already knew exactly what it was.
Everybody did.
Rumors about the Montreal intensive had been circulating through the locker rooms for days, quiet conversations cut short whenever coaches walked too close, athletes pretending not to care while tracking every invitation that arrived.
Six weeks of elite international coaching.
New choreography teams. Technical specialists from three different federations.
Opportunity packaged carefully enough to sound harmless.
So far, nobody from Velkarya had received an invitation.
Until now.
“Open it,” Mila demanded beside me, breathing fast enough to reveal her excitement despite every attempt to stay composed.
I slid a thumb beneath the seal. At first, I handled the envelope carefully out of habit, then impatience took over and I tore the letter free quickly enough to wrinkle the edge.
We would be honored to host Davorin/Kadanek for a six-week elite training block—
My heart raced.
Six weeks.
I saw the possibilities instantly. Faster transitions, cleaner lift entries, better rotational efficiency. Different choreographic structures. International exposure that would force us beyond the rigid systems we’d spent years training inside.
For one dangerous moment, excitement broke through enough that I forgot to suppress it.
Mila leaned over my shoulder reading at the same speed I was. “This is real.”
“Yes.”
The word barely made it out.
Because alongside the technical possibilities came another thought I didn’t know what to do with.
Distance.
Different coaches. Different oversight. Weeks spent somewhere nobody tracked every movement outside official sessions, or analyzed every public interaction for correctness.
Nothing except skating.
“Davorin. Kadanek.”
Sokolov’s voice cut across the corridor behind us before either of us spoke again.
I folded the letter, composure snapping back into place before I even turned around. “Coach.”
“The Director received communication from Montreal this morning.”
I should have anticipated that.
Mila stepped forward before I could stop her. “We meet the selection criteria?” Hope sharpened her voice despite the care she took trying to hide it.
Sokolov’s expression remained unreadable. “International training environments introduce unnecessary variables.”
I’d been deluded enough to expect congratulations, or perhaps excitement about the opportunity.
Of course Sokolov saw only risk.
I kept my face neutral. “Their lift specialists are among the best in the world.”
“Our technical standards remain more than sufficient domestically.”
I suspected that response had been prepared long before we opened the envelope.
Sokolov’s eyes settled on me next, cool and unwavering. “Consistency matters. Particularly regarding presentation and messaging.”
That last word landed exactly where he intended it to.
Mila heard it too. I saw the reaction flicker across her face before she buried it again.
“It is only six weeks.”
I marveled at her effort to keep the disappointment from her voice.
I didn’t trust myself to say anything else.
“And in those six weeks,” Sokolov replied, “you would be exposed to influences outside federation structure.”
He wasn’t talking about external choreography or even alternate coaching philosophies.
The implication sat there between us while nobody acknowledged it directly.
I couldn’t remain silent any longer.
I swallowed before speaking. “Many European teams train internationally.”
“And many European teams do not represent Velkarya. You are symbols,” Sokolov continued.
“Your partnership contributes directly to public trust in the federation. We do not make changes lightly.” He never reached for the envelope in my hand, but his gaze lingered on it with visible dismissal.
“We appreciate the invitation,” he said. “We will decline.”
Mila inhaled sharply beside me. I kept still.
“This is not aligned with your current objectives,” Sokolov added while looking directly at me.
I knew what those were.
Win. Obey. Represent correctly.
I nodded because there was nothing else to do. “Understood.”
Officially, that should have ended the conversation.
The envelope remained in my hand. Sokolov noticed.
“That is not your focus,” he said in a calm tone. No trace of anger entered his voice, no hint of threat.
Which made the certainty in it far worse.
I looked down at the envelope again, long enough to feel the weight of what I was holding and how deliberately it was being taken away.
Then I dropped it into the nearest trash receptacle without hesitation visible enough to be questioned.
Sokolov’s smile held approval without warmth.
“We continue.”
“Yes,” I replied. I touched Mila at the elbow before either of us said something reckless. “We have practice.”
Decision made. Path closed.
That was how these things worked.
Back on the ice, Mila watched me through warmups with growing anger she barely bothered concealing.
“That had nothing to do with lifts,” she muttered eventually.
I didn’t bother replying. We both knew it was true.
I looked down at my empty hands while cold air burned inside my lungs.
The envelope was gone.
Practice continued.
Life continued.
Over the following weeks I told myself the same things often enough that they began to sound reasonable.
I will improve anyway.
I will succeed here.
I do not need Montreal.
Eventually I learned how to repeat those thoughts without hearing the doubt underneath them.
That night I had lain awake staring at the ceiling of an apartment that never once felt fully mine and allowed myself a single dangerous thought.
What if they are afraid of what happens when I leave?
I’d buried it before morning.
The memory lingered anyway.
The scrape of blades returned first, then voices. My hands still gripped the edge of the bench.
I had thrown the envelope away exactly as instructed. I had done everything correctly.
Yet when Dean Foster’s hand closed around my arm earlier that day, I hadn’t stepped back immediately. I’d stayed exactly where I was.
For years, obedience had been automatic.
Now there were moments when it wasn’t.
Dean
I told myself I wanted extra ice time.
The explanation was reasonable enough. Fewer skaters meant cleaner run-throughs, more room to work, fewer people drifting into your path halfway through a sequence. Every serious athlete looked for quieter sessions once competition week settled into its rhythm.
Whether that was actually why I was there was a different question.
I stepped onto the ice before I could examine the answer too closely and pushed immediately into motion.
For a while, skating did what it always did.
My body settled into familiar patterns, thought narrowing around timing and edge quality and the thousand small adjustments that usually left no room for anything else.
Then I looked up and found Luka Davorin watching me from the opposite side of the rink.
Well, that didn’t help. My train of thought derailed on impact.
I made it through another sequence before looking again. He was still there.
Most people would have glanced away after being caught staring. Luka didn’t seem particularly interested in pretending he hadn’t been doing exactly that.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I changed direction and skated toward him.
“You came back.”
The words sounded more casual in my head than they did out loud.
A faint smile touched his mouth. “I prefer fewer variables.” His gaze drifted across the sparsely occupied rink. “And fewer collisions.” His lips twitched. “Collisions are not… optimal.”
“Not optimal,” I repeated. Then I laughed. “So your official review is that almost getting taken out was inconvenient?”
“It interrupted practice.”
He uttered the reply so seriously that I had to fight another smile.
“That might be the most Luka Davorin sentence I’ve heard all week.”
“You are translating incorrectly.”
“Give me time. I’m still learning the language.”
His expression warmed a little then. Not by much, but enough that I noticed.
The conversation should probably have ended there.
“No elements today?”
Luka blinked. “What?”
“Every time I’ve seen you on the ice, you’ve been drilling something with your partner.”
“Her name is Mila,” he corrected.
I nodded. “You changed the lift entry yesterday.”
That caught his attention. For the first time since we’d started talking, he looked genuinely surprised.
“You noticed?”
“You’re loading earlier through the shoulder now.”
He studied me for a moment. “It is faster.”
“We used to work on variations like that in Montreal.”
The name didn’t produce the reaction I’d expected. Encouraged, I kept talking.
“To be honest, I always assumed you and Mila would’ve ended up there at some point.”
“We were invited.”
“When?”
A moment’s hesitation. “A while ago.”
“And you didn’t go?”
“No.”
Pain flickered across his face, and my heart sank.
“They wouldn’t let you.”
For a moment he said nothing, then gave a small nod.
“The concern was that external influence could dilute cohesion.”
The phrasing was so absurd I almost laughed.
“Dilute.”
“Yes.” Even Luka sounded unconvinced by the word.
I leaned back against the boards. “You know Montreal isn’t actually magical, right? Half the time it’s freezing, overcrowded, and running twenty minutes behind schedule.”
That finally earned a real smile.
The difference was startling. Without all the restraint, even briefly, he looked younger. Less tired, somehow.
“But it’s loud in a good way,” I continued. “Everybody steals ideas from everybody else. Coaches argue in three languages. Nobody cares who you’re talking to.”
“That sounds chaotic.” There was an almost wistful note beneath the amusement.
I grinned. “You mean not optimal.”
I swore I saw a twinkle in those blue eyes. “Very not optimal.”