Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Luka
The arena tightened around me as the week wore on.
Nothing visible had changed. The same corridors looped through the complex in clean geometric lines. Everything operated exactly as it had three days ago.
Yet pressure pressed harder against my skin now, subtle but relentless, and I felt it everywhere—in the split second before elements, in the silence between conversations, in the exhausting effort required to keep my concentration pinned exactly where it belonged.
Training. Review. Reset. Repeat.
It should have been enough.
It wasn’t.
Mila didn’t comment on it, but then she rarely did. If she noticed a shift, she adjusted to it rather than naming it.
We ran the program cleanly. Every element landed where it should. The timing held. The structure remained intact.
The problem was how much effort it took.
By the time we finished, I felt it in places that usually took care of themselves—the transitions, the moments between elements where focus should have settled automatically.
Every lapse led back to the same place.
Dean Foster.
Kvrat.
I was twenty-four years old. This should not have been happening.
“Luka.”
I snapped my attention back to where it should have been.
Mila pushed away from me. “I’m going to take a break.”
What?
I straightened, staring at her. “Now?”
She checked the clock above the boards before answering. “I need to be somewhere.”
That phrasing alone unsettled me. Mila never spoke vaguely unless she was deliberately avoiding specifics.
“You are leaving the session.”
“I said I’m taking a break.” Her jaw tightened on the correction.
I studied her face, searching for context she clearly had no intention of giving me.
“More important than this?”
Her eyes sharpened. “It won’t affect practice.”
That wasn’t even remotely close to an answer, and she knew it. But I recognized the finality in her posture. Whatever decision she’d made had already happened before she spoke to me.
“Fine,” I said at last.
She turned away before the conversation could continue.
I watched her disappear through the rink entrance feeling strangely off balance, though the sensation had nothing to do with training anymore.
By the time I finished removing my skates, restlessness had settled fully into my body, low and constant, impossible to ignore.
I knew where this was leading.
I should go back to my room.
I kept walking.
The corridors twisted through the arena in long sterile stretches, narrowing and widening around security points and athlete access doors while noise rose and faded depending on proximity to the rinks. Usually, the predictability helped.
Today my thoughts kept circling elsewhere.
I slowed at the junction. I already knew which direction I was going to turn.
That was the problem.
“Davorin.”
I stopped and turned.
Marek Iliev approached from farther down the corridor, accreditation badge swinging against his chest while he hurried to catch up.
“Iliev.”
“I thought you’d still be training.”
“So did I.”
That earned a brief laugh from him before we fell into step beside each other.
For several moments we walked in silence while footsteps echoed around us.
“I almost missed warm-up yesterday,” Marek admitted eventually. “Wrong entrance. Coach nearly killed me.”
“That happens.”
“Not to you.”
It sounded like an observation, not an accusation.
I kept my attention forward.
“They told us there won’t be any outside camps this year,” he continued after a moment. “Too many variables.”
The wording tugged at old memories.
“They always say that.”
Marek glanced sideways at me. “You ever think about pushing back?”
“No.”
The answer arrived before I’d fully processed the question. Years of practice, of knowing which answers were safe.
I could feel him weighing my reaction.
“They keep saying consistency matters more. That if we’re doing things right, we don’t need anything outside.”
I glanced at him. “And do you believe that?”
He hesitated. “I think that’s what we’re supposed to believe.”
The honesty of it caught me off guard. Most people learned quickly which subjects were safest to leave alone.
Marek was young, talented, and nervous enough to monitor every word after speaking it aloud. I recognized the behavior because I had spent years doing the same thing.
“You’ve competed internationally longer than I have,” he said after another silence settled between us. “Does it get easier?”
I understood in a heartbeat. The question landed somewhere deep and uncomfortable.
He wasn’t talking about competition.
“Yes,” I told him.
He looked relieved. The expression twisted unexpectedly inside me.
I remembered being his age—was that only four years ago?—and wanting someone to tell me the same thing.
I wasn’t sure why that made me feel worse.
By the time we reached the end of the corridor, colder air drifted faintly toward us from the direction of the practice rinks.
Marek slowed. “You’re heading back?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “I have physio.”
“Then go.”
He lingered a second longer, as though there was another question trapped behind his teeth, then thought better of it. “Good luck.”
“You too.”
I watched him disappear into the crowd.
A few seconds later, I found myself moving again. Not toward my room.
Then music drifted faintly through the corridor, and I stopped.
At first it blended into the arena noise badly enough that I almost dismissed it, but recognition arrived fast and sharp once I listened properly.
Velkarya’s anthem.
The sound drew me toward the smaller training rink before I fully decided to follow it.
Inside, only a few skaters occupied the ice.
Dean Foster stood near center rink beneath the speakers, head tilted upward while the anthem carried across the empty space around him. His posture appeared relaxed, arms at his sides while he listened with obvious concentration.
My pulse stumbled hard enough to irritate me. I hadn’t expected to see him there.
I should leave.
I remained exactly where I was.
Dean looked up, and his gaze met mine.
The smile appeared before I could prepare for it.
He skated toward me. “Hey.” His voice was warm, his gaze direct.
I inclined my head. “Foster.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Davorin.”
The formality should have restored distance.
It failed completely.
Dean glanced toward the speakers. “This is yours, right?”
“Yes.”
“I think they’re testing audio levels before medal ceremonies.”
My chest tightened, the reaction immediate. “Then I hope to hear it again under different circumstances.”
His smile softened. “Yeah. Me too.”
The anthem continued around us, steady and restrained, carrying none of the aggressive triumph many countries built into theirs.
Dean listened another moment before speaking again.
“It’s different than I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
He shrugged. “Louder, maybe. More performative.”
I shook my head. “It is not written for performance.”
That held his attention immediately.
I raised my chin. “It is written to endure.”
Dean looked at me more carefully after that, studying my face with the same focused attention that had become increasingly dangerous over the past few days.
“What does it mean?”
There was an official explanation for that question. I knew it by heart.
I ignored it.
“It speaks about endurance,” I said slowly, translating in my head before speaking aloud. “Continuing forward because stopping is not an option.”
Dean stayed silent, waiting.
“There is also a line about remaining where you are placed, even if you did not choose that place yourself.”
His brow furrowed. “That doesn’t sound voluntary.”
“No.”
“Then why accept it?”
Because eventually survival and acceptance begin resembling each other closely enough that separating them becomes difficult.
I could not explain that properly in English.
“Because after enough time,” I said, choosing my words with care, “endurance begins to feel natural.”
His brow furrowed. “And you’re okay with that?”
In Velkaran there were separate words for acceptance freely chosen and acceptance forced by circumstance.
English blurred them together badly.
“Yes,” I said.
Dean looked unconvinced. I couldn’t blame him.
It was not the answer I would have given in my own language.
He watched me for another long moment before the corner of his mouth lifted.
“So this is your version of ‘not optimal.’”
The line caught me off guard badly enough that a reluctant smile escaped before I could suppress it.
“Yes. That would be correct.”
His expression brightened at the reaction. “Wow. My translations are improving.”
“Marginally.”
“Give me another week.”
“You remain overconfident.”
His grin widened.
Mine threatened to do the same.
His smile is like sunshine.
The warmth that followed felt unfamiliar, as though I’d spent so long bracing for cold that I’d forgotten there were alternatives.
The anthem moved toward its final orchestral swell while another track queued beneath it.
Dean tilted his head. “Definitely doesn’t sound like the Star-Spangled Banner.”
I hesitated before asking the question forming in my head.
“Does your anthem feel heavy to you?”
His expression changed, surprise flickering there before thoughtfulness replaced it.
“It matters,” he said slowly. “Representing your country always matters. But…” He searched briefly for the wording. “Not like this.”
Not obligation.
I held his gaze. “You call yourselves the land of the free.”
Dean nodded. “That’s the idea.”
“Free to be what?”
The question settled between us heavily enough that his posture changed almost immediately.
“Yourself.”
“Even here?”
“Yeah.” His eyes stayed fixed on mine. “Here too.”
I thought about Ethan Miller. The others. Athletes who moved openly through the Village without fear stitched into every interaction.
“There is a word in Velkaran.” I hesitated. “Svobren.”
Dean waited.
“It means freedom.” I frowned. “Not exactly.”
“Okay.”
“More like...” I searched unsuccessfully for the English. “Something that already belongs to you.”
His focus sharpened visibly after that.
“Your anthem says freedom belongs to everyone,” I continued. “I am still trying to decide whether that is true.”
Dean didn’t answer right away, but he looked like he wanted to.
That unnerved me more than an easy response would have.
Finally he said, “Sometimes we fail at it.” It felt like an honest answer. “But we’re supposed to keep trying.”
I looked away after that because part of me wanted to believe him.
Another anthem began playing overhead, British this time.
Neither of us moved.
“How does it feel before you compete?” I asked eventually. “Hearing your anthem.”
Dean leaned against the boards while considering the question.
“It pushes,” he said after a moment. “Makes you want to skate harder. Better.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “I’ve never felt crushed by it.”
I nodded. “One anthem is carried. The other is chosen.”
No accusation entered the words, only recognition.
Dean studied me carefully after that.
“You carry yours like it costs nothing.”
A sharp laugh nearly escaped me before I managed to suppress it. “That is the objective.”
He stayed silent long enough that unease crawled slowly across my skin.
Then he said, “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t show anyway.”
I froze. The observation struck far too close to truths I had spent years ensuring nobody noticed.
How much do you see?
The distance between us suddenly felt dangerously small again.
Before I could answer, Dean glanced past me toward the doorway.
“I think you’re wanted.”
I turned.
Mila stood just inside the entrance watching us both with unreadable focus.
“Coach is looking for you,” she said. “You need to come now.”
The wording sounded neutral. The tone underneath it did not.
I nodded. “Of course.”
Dean stayed near the boards. “Good luck.”
“You too.”
Mila ignored him. That felt deliberate.
We left the rink together in silence, footsteps echoing through the corridor while arena noise gradually swallowed the quiet space we’d occupied moments earlier.
Usually Mila spoke quickly after noticing a problem.
This time she said nothing.
The silence stretched long enough that tension started coiling beneath my ribs again.
Finally I asked, “What did you see?”
She didn’t answer right away.
“Enough.”
We reached the main corridor before she stopped walking and turned toward me fully.
“You need to be careful.”
My heart thumped. “About what?”
Mila held my gaze steadily. “About who is watching you.” She uttered the words with no emphasis, no sense of drama.
That made the warning far harder to dismiss.
She studied my face another second before continuing down the corridor without waiting for me to respond.
I followed automatically, though the rhythm between us felt subtly wrong now, alignment fractured in ways I could not repair easily.
For years, Mila had been the only person who saw past the performance.
Now she wasn’t.