Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Luka
The press conference room felt hotter than the arena.
There were bright lights and so many cameras. My impression was of too many people watching for reactions instead of listening to answers.
Mila sat beside me behind the long table, immaculate as always in her team jacket, bronze medal gleaming in the harsh white glare. Sokolov sat to her left, and his expression was that of someone who considered press conferences something to be endured.
The first questions were expected, covering technical content and the pressure of skating last. Whether Velkarya had anticipated reaching the team podium.
Mila handled most of them while I answered where required, my voice calm and measured, years of media training sliding into place. Outwardly, everything remained controlled.
Inside, I was on edge.
Suddenly I felt more visible, and that made things dangerous.
A journalist near the center raised his hand again. “Luka—quick follow-up.”
I flashed him a polite, practiced smile.
“We’ve seen you spending quite a bit of time with Team USA’s Dean Foster this week.”
It took everything in me not to react. My heart raced, and I resisted the urge to wipe my palms on my pants.
It might have been my imagination, but the energy in the room shifted a little. Beside me, Mila sat so still.
The journalist continued before either of us answered.
“You’ve both spoken positively about the atmosphere in Milan and the friendships developing between athletes.” His smile widened. “Would you say Foster has become one of your closer connections during these Games?”
‘Closer connections.’
The words were safe enough.
I kept my expression neutral. “We all interact,” I said in an even tone. “It’s the Olympics. Everyone trains in the same spaces.”
Adrenaline shot through me, and I fought to breathe.
The journalist nodded, as though he’d expected that answer. Then he leaned forward, his eyes bright, and I knew he wasn’t done.
“But specifically with Foster… People have noticed you together quite often.”
A few reporters glanced up from their laptops and tablets, clearly interested.
The journalist tilted his head. “Some fans online are already calling it an unexpected Olympic bromance.”
Laughter flickered through parts of the room, harmless. I played along, laughing, but my heartbeat went into overdrive, hard enough that I felt it in my throat.
Bromance. It was said as a joke.
That did not make the situation any better.
“Do you think those kinds of cross-team relationships help performance?” the journalist continued, his voice clear. “Foster seemed especially invested in your skate last night.”
I kept my smile in place, my chest tingling.
Beside me, Mila spoke before I could.
“We’ve known many of these athletes for years.” She spoke calmly. “Competitions overlap constantly. You build familiarity.”
A professional, contained response, far better than I was capable of producing in that moment.
The journalist smiled again. “Of course. But Luka and Foster seem particularly comfortable together.”
Comfortable.
That word carried weight, because he was right. I had become comfortable with Dean.
That was the problem.
I forced myself not to glance anywhere beyond the press line, especially not toward the back of the room where delegations and media staff clustered together in blurred movement and shadow.
Then I realized the journalist expected an answer.
“We respect each other as competitors.” My tone was firm, still neutral.
Another reporter leaned forward immediately, as if sensing momentum.
“Would you say there’s a rivalry developing between Velkarya and Team USA beyond the ice?”
That was safer territory, and what felt like intentional redirection.
I seized it with both hands. “The team event naturally creates competitive energy. That is normal.”
The room shifted onward with it, and questions moved elsewhere, to scores, training, the upcoming individual events.
On the surface, the moment disappeared into the constant churn of Olympic media noise, but by the time the conference ended, my shoulders ached from holding tension I could no longer pretend was imaginary.
Mila and I stepped away from the table together while officials guided us toward the corridor outside the mixed zone. The noise followed behind us in fragments.
We turned the corner, the hallway quieted, and I expelled a shuddering breath.
“That was not random,” I ground out.
Mila didn’t look at me. “No.”
I dragged a hand across the back of my neck. “They wouldn’t ask unless—”
“They’d heard something,” Mila finished.
My jaw tightened.
Media didn’t move this fast without material.
How did Dean watch me skate last night? What did I miss while I was on the ice?
What had they seen?
‘Foster seemed especially invested in your skate last night.’
Behind us, the mixed zone carried on exactly as before: athletes laughing, reporters shouting questions, the usual Olympic chaos continuing uninterrupted.
But it was not the same.
My pounding heart and nausea were proof of that.
Mila glanced at me as we reached the elevator. “You need to be smarter,” she said in a low voice.
I knew she was being neither cruel nor critical, but honest.
The doors slid open, and I stepped inside beside her, my pulse still uneven as I forced calm into my system. I cursed myself for not realizing sooner.
This was no longer private, no longer safe. Because once a narrative began moving during the Olympics?
It did not stop.
I headed for the practice rink, alone, conscious now of every glance.
Skating will clear my thoughts. It always did.
But as I neared the door, I saw the team liaison waiting for me, his expression revealing nothing.
I knew better.
Apparently, there was to be no letup.
“The Director would like a word.”
Cold crept over my skin, but I nodded. “Of course.”
The liaison led me through the lower corridors beneath the arena, away from the noise of the mixed zones and athlete traffic, toward the temporary office spaces allocated to delegations during the Games.
The farther we walked, the quieter it became until all I could hear was the distant hum of ventilation and the muted scrape of blades somewhere overhead.
I did my best to keep my pulse steady, a habit acquired through years of training. By the time the liaison stopped outside a narrow door and gestured for me to enter, I knew I appeared completely composed.
Inside was another matter.
Director Vasiliev was waiting for me, seated at one side of a folding table beneath the harsh fluorescence of the temporary office. Coach Sokolov sat beside him, his posture immaculate, hands folded neatly in front of him. Both men smiled when I entered.
That was worse than if they had not.
“Luka,” Vasiliev said warmly. “Please. Sit.”
The chair facing them felt deliberately isolated, a small detail that nevertheless sharpened my awareness of the imbalance in the room.
Vasiliev laced his hands together. “First, congratulations on your contribution to the team medal.”
A statement that should have filled me with nothing but pride, and yet it sat heavy on my chest.
“Thank you, sir.” I kept the tremors from my voice.
Sokolov watched me for a moment too long before speaking. “You understand that expectations are significantly higher now.”
“Yes.”
“That is good.” Vasiliev’s smile remained polished, effortless. “Success creates opportunity. Visibility. National interest.” The words sounded complimentary.
They were not.
A pause settled over the room before Sokolov spoke again, his tone so mild it almost disappeared beneath the buzz of the overhead lights.
“We have noticed that you’ve become… social during these Games.”
Every muscle along my spine tightened, my senses suddenly alert. “With the other athletes?”
“With one in particular.”
No name, no direct accusation.
Vasiliev leaned back in his chair. “The American,” he said, his tone smooth. “Foster.”
Keeping my face neutral required no effort. Neutrality had been built into me long before adulthood. But I was aware of my increasing temperature, that tingling in my chest that wouldn’t disappear.
“We exchange pleasantries,” I said, my voice steady. “As athletes do.”
“Of course.” Vasiliev smiled. “And we encourage cordial international relations. The Olympic spirit and all that.” Another pause followed, longer this time.
That also felt deliberate.
Sokolov cleared his throat. “Optics can become delicate.”
The word settled against my skin like a blade laid flat across the throat.
Optics.
He was talking not about morality or rules, but image, perception…
Narrative.
I said nothing. I didn’t trust myself.
Vasiliev’s gaze remained fixed on me, calm and unreadable. “There has already been media commentary regarding your chemistry with your partner.” A slight emphasis rested on the final word. “We would not want unnecessary speculation to distract from your performance.”
Heat crept beneath the collar of my jacket, though my breathing remained perfectly controlled. “There is no distraction,” I affirmed.
Sokolov’s eyes sharpened. “We trust that remains true.”
I became acutely aware of the fluorescent lighting overhead, the stale recycled air in the room, the fact that somewhere above this office the Olympics continued uninterrupted while my entire nervous system tightened around the shape of what was not being said.
Finally, Vasiliev clasped his hands together once more. “You are a symbol for our country, Luka. A symbol of discipline, excellence, stability…”
Each word tightened the invisible band around my chest.
His eyes glinted. “Symbols must remain clear.”
I understood him perfectly.
“After the Games,” Vasiliev continued, “there will be opportunities available to athletes who represent the federation well. We are talking funding discussions, international tours. Perhaps even expanded media presence.” He smiled again. “We invest where we see longevity.”
I understood exactly what he was offering.
And exactly what would happen if I became inconvenient.