Chapter 25 #2
“We would be disappointed if that investment were compromised by misinterpretation,” Sokolov added.
That final word hung in the room like smoke.
I met my coach’s eyes. There was no warmth there, no concern, only calculation. Risk management.
My heart sank.
The medals. The funding. The praise. Every piece of it depended on remaining easy to display. None of it had ever belonged to me. It belonged to the version of me they could present safely to the world.
“I understand,” I said in a low voice.
I truly did.
Vasiliev rose from his chair, signaling the end of the meeting. “We have every confidence in you.” Then his gaze narrowed. “Do not give the press anything to invent.”
I stood. It seemed we were done.
The meeting had never been about discussion, only warning.
I left the office without another word.
The change in temperature in the corridor made me shiver, the recycled air biting against overheated skin. For a moment I stopped beside the concrete wall and pressed my palm flat against it, grounding myself against the sudden rush of pressure building beneath my ribs.
They had not accused or threatened me, not that they had needed to. The message had been perfectly clear.
Win, obey, remain useful. Anything else will be interpreted for you.
I closed my eyes.
Somewhere above me, the Games continued. Life moved forward regardless of whether I was ready for it.
I sucked in a deep breath and straightened away from the wall.
I will skate. I will deliver. And for now, I will be careful.
But deep beneath the control they had spent years teaching me, a small and dangerous part of me had already begun resisting the word.
By the time I returned to my room in the Village, the federation meeting still lingered in me like something toxic I had not fully managed to expel.
Breathe, Luka.
My phone rang as I sat down on the edge of the bed. When I saw it was home, relief moved through me for a second. Caution replaced it a heartbeat later.
“Mama.” I knew she would be the first to speak. It was always this way.
Her voice was warm. “Luka.”
My father greeted me a moment later, more restrained but I couldn’t miss the note of pleasure in his voice. “Congratulations.”
The word settled strangely inside my chest, even though I knew they spoke with sincerity. My parents loved me in the only way they understood.
“You made history last night. The whole country watched.”
“We are very proud of you,” my father added.
Pride had been conditional so often throughout my life that even genuine moments of it now carried weight instead of comfort.
“Thank you,” I replied.
My mother began describing the atmosphere back home, the celebrations already unfolding, commentators replaying our free skate repeatedly on television. I listened while staring across the room toward the window overlooking Milan.
At this distance, the city glowed, alive and uncontained. People moved freely along its streets.
I wondered what it would feel like to exist somewhere without calculation attached to every interaction.
My father cleared his throat. “You’ve been in the news.”
The shift happened instantly, the conversation changing flow.
I closed my eyes. “Yes.”
Another pause followed.
“Some commentary,” my father said at last. “Western outlets.”
“I know.”
My mother rushed in quickly. “They’re making observations about your composure. Your partnerships. It’s nothing official.”
That last phrase sent a chill through me.
Nothing official meant still manageable. Do not force escalation.
“You don’t need to concern yourself with it,” my father continued. “Your federation will handle the narrative.”
“I understand.” What pained me was hearing that word on my father’s lips.
“Just focus on the short program and free skate,” my mother said gently. “That’s what matters right now.”
My eyelids grew hot. My limbs felt heavy.
Somewhere in this city, Dean was with his team still celebrating gold. His father had probably watched him skate from a hospital bed. His mother had flown across an ocean simply because she refused to let him face this alone.
And when Dean spoke about them, there was never caution in his voice, only certainty.
The contrast hit so sharply it hurt.
“They’re just stories,” my father said. “They’ll pass.”
I swallowed. What they meant was perfectly clear.
Do not respond to them. Do not explain. Do not become the story.
“Of course,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
I’d spent years answering that way because it kept life smooth.
Of course I understand.
Of course I will behave correctly.
Of course I will not create problems.
The call continued after that, but its shape had already been set. My parents were not worried about lies. They were worried about visibility, about attention.
Eventually the conversation ended with more congratulations, more reminders to rest, more carefully restrained affection.
I told them I loved them before hanging up.
I did love them, that was the worst part.
I sat motionless for a long time afterward, the silent phone still in my hand. Then I found myself thinking about Dean’s father. He was proud of his son, simple and uncomplicated. Not because Dean had maintained an image correctly or protected a narrative, but just because he was Dean.
My throat seized.
I have spent most of my life being loved for remaining manageable.
And I no longer knew how to fit myself back inside that shape.
My phone buzzed, and this time it was Mila, asking where I was, and did I want to skate. I had to smile. Mila was never off the ice for long. Our success in the team event would have fueled her need to improve, to succeed.
I typed quickly. I am in the Village. Give me an hour.
Enough time to wash away the feeling of that meeting from my skin.
Marek stood near the far end of the training corridor outside the secondary practice rink, one shoulder against the wall, still wearing his team jacket half unzipped over black training clothes.
Athletes and officials moved around him constantly, but Marek somehow remained separate from all of it, detached in the way he often was during competitions, watching and waiting.
The moment our eyes met, however, I knew he was waiting for me.
Marek pushed away from the wall. “You have a minute? Somewhere quieter?”