Chapter 26 #2
What filled my head was Dean. His laugh, his smile. The way he looked at me as though I was a person instead of a project.
They weren’t talking about a narrative.
They were talking about him.
One careless moment, one visible fracture, and suddenly Mila would carry consequences she had never asked for.
The representative sat next to Sokolov, his hands folded loosely in front of him.
“This ends.”
He spoke calmly without raising his voice or showing any sign of anger.
Neither was necessary.
When I didn’t react, he narrowed his eyes.
“This association with Foster ends.”
Silence filled the room.
I did not answer.
For one reckless second, I wanted to tell them no.
The impulse shocked me almost as much as the order itself.
This was the moment Mila had warned me about in quieter words. Marek too, only not so quiet. The one I had been moving toward since the first moment Dean Foster looked at me as if I mattered outside the ice.
“You are here to win medals,” Vasiliev said smoothly, “not invite unnecessary scrutiny.”
Another carefully sanitized word.
I inhaled slowly before answering because they watched everything now: posture, tone, hesitation, resistance. Years of conditioning settled over me like a familiar weight.
“Yes,” I said at last.
Every instinct I had spent the last two weeks developing recoiled from that single word.
The response satisfied them. I saw it happen in subtle ways—the slight easing around Vasiliev’s mouth, the shift in Sokolov’s posture, the sense of tension loosening now that compliance had apparently been restored.
The meeting ended there. Nobody raised their voice. Nobody threatened me.
Somehow that made it worse.
I stood and left without another word. The air in the corridor outside hit me like ice water.
Noise rushed back immediately—voices, footsteps, distant music from the arena overhead.
Athletes moved past carrying equipment bags and coffee cups, laughing about scores and training schedules while volunteers hurried between events.
The world continued normally.
Only mine had changed.
I stopped beside the concrete wall for a moment, my pulse ragged.
The choice no longer felt abstract, something waiting in the future.
This was immediate.
Unavoidable.
I pulled out my phone, opening messages. I saw the conversation with Dean, and my throat seized.
I cannot see him like this.
Quickly, I typed. I should not have messaged you.
Because he would want to find me, to discover what was wrong.
My chest tightened to the point of pain at the thought of him walking toward me right now, probably still carrying concern in his expression because he cared enough to notice the difference between my usual restraint and genuine distress.
I stared down at the screen for several long seconds at my unsent message. I deleted it, then slowly, carefully, I typed:
Do not come.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
I couldn’t send it.
My vision blurred, and I closed my eyes.
The federation believed this could still be contained because they assumed survival instinct would win.
Until now, it always had.
My thumb remained frozen above the screen until at last I came to a decision.
I deleted the three words.
My heart quaked as I typed a final message.
And sent it.
Dean
Mom put down her coffee cup and studied me for another moment before leaning back.
“So, are you ready for tomorrow?”
The question grounded me immediately. Men’s short program. The real start of the individual event.
Pressure tightening all over again.
And somehow, beneath all of that, I felt steadier than I should have.
“Yeah,” I said honestly. “I am.”
She arched her eyebrows. “No dramatic spiraling? No existential athlete crisis?”
Mom knew me far too well.
“Oh, there’ll be some of that later, I’m sure,” I said with a smile.
“Good.” She nodded approvingly. “I’d worry if you suddenly became emotionally well-adjusted.”
I laughed. My phone buzzed, and the sound barely registered at first. I took it from my pocket and glanced at the screen.
Luka.
Everything inside me sharpened.
Mom noticed the change immediately. “Are you okay?” Her English teacher brain had probably devised classes around describing facial expressions.
“Yeah.” It was an automatic response. My attention was already fixed on the screen.
Can I see you?
No greeting, no teasing.
Another message appeared almost immediately.
Please.
Cold slid through me. Luka never sounded like this.
I typed back quickly. Of course. What happened?
His reply was swift. I do not want to discuss it here.
My pulse quickened.
Something’s wrong.
I could feel it bleeding through the words.
Mom’s voice broke through. “Dean.”
I looked up too quickly, and whatever had just moved across my face—concern, fear—she saw it. I knew that in a heartbeat.
“I have to go,” I blurted.
Mom blinked. “Is everything all right?”
I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair. “I don’t know yet.”
That was the terrifying part. I didn’t know, but every instinct in my body was suddenly screaming that something had shifted badly.
Mom stood too, reaching out to catch my arm before I could bolt fully into motion. “Dean.” I stopped, and her expression softened when she saw mine. “Go,” she said quietly.
Panic caught in my throat. “I’ll call you later.”
“You better.” Her eyes grew warm. “Sweetheart?”
“Yeah?”
Whatever teasing curiosity she’d carried earlier was completely gone now.
“What matters most?” she asked, her voice gentle. “Take care of it. And I hope he’s okay.”
I nodded, and then I was already moving, striding fast across the hotel lobby while my pulse climbed with every second.
Another message buzzed against my palm before I even reached the doors.
I should not have come to you.
I stared at the words.
Not messaged—come to you. As if reaching for me had been the mistake.
I stopped dead in the middle of the revolving entrance, the door bumping my butt as my thumbs slid over the screen.
Too late. I’m already coming to find you.