Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Luka
The arena lights dimmed section by section as the final warm-up group cleared the ice, leaving the surface below washed in silver and blue.
Beside me, Mila adjusted the sleeves of her team jacket before folding her arms across her chest. Since practice that morning we had spoken mostly in fragments, neither of us especially interested in reopening conversations that had already left bruises.
Marek had already skated, cleanly, technically solid, but without momentum or attack.
Even before the scores appeared, I could see from the set of his shoulders that he understood exactly where he stood.
Sixth place flashed beside his name a moment later, far enough from the podium to make the rest of the competition academic unless half the field imploded.
The crowd shifted restlessly as the next skater was announced.
Ethan Miller.
The American crowd erupted immediately as Ethan burst onto the ice with a grin sharp enough to cut glass, feeding shamelessly off the noise as he skated toward center ice.
And suddenly I noticed the flags.
There were US flags everywhere, but there were also Pride flags, scattered through the audience in flashes of color.
Some were small enough to wrap around wrists, while others draped openly across shoulders or were painted across cheeks.
One spectator near the boards had braided rainbow ribbons through their hair.
I stared longer than I meant to.
Mila followed my gaze into the crowd before looking back at the ice.
“He notices them too,” she said, pointing to Ethan.
He had just skated past one section where a group of fans waved rainbow flags overhead, and his grin widened in recognition.
The envy hit fast and ugly, not because Ethan was freer than me personally, but because he moved through the world assuming freedom belonged to him in the first place.
That difference sat in his posture, in the easy confidence with which he occupied space.
Nobody had taught him to edit himself before entering a room.
Ethan’s music exploded through the arena, fast and aggressive, and he launched immediately into his opening quad-triple combination with reckless confidence that somehow held together through sheer force of personality. The crowd loved him, responding with shouts of joy.
When he finished to thunderous applause, Ethan pointed both finger guns toward the audience before catching himself just short of a full dance move at center ice.
Mila laughed beside me. “Americans are strange.”
I leaned in and whispered, “Or maybe they are simply freer than we have ever been allowed to imagine.”
The final warm-up group gathered at the entrance tunnel.
And then I saw Dean.
He wore a dark blue costume that sparkled under the lights, his shoulders loose in a way that had become familiar to me. His focus appeared outward, although I caught a glimpse of the strain underneath.
Of course I saw it. I had put it there.
The announcer’s voice rolled through the arena. “And now, representing the United States of America… Dean Foster.”
The applause echoed off the walls and the high ceiling.
Dean pushed away from the boards and skated into the center spotlight as the opening piano notes of Experience filled the arena. The music unfolded slowly, restrained at first, carrying quiet emotional weight beneath its simplicity. Dean stood motionless, and I forgot to breathe for a second.
Then he moved.
The first quad landed with brutal precision, clean enough that the audience reacted before he even completed the running edge out of it.
Mila expelled a breath beside me. “Good.”
She was right, it was very good, but I could see the control was tighter. This was not the expansive freedom of his team free skate.
His triple Axel soared, huge and confident, and the landing drew another roar from the American crowd.
Dean did not smile, however, and that was different enough to set my stomach roiling.
The step sequence cut sharply across the full ice surface, intricate turns layered seamlessly into the growing swell of the music. Dean’s skating had always carried power, but tonight there was something else threaded through it too.
Restraint.
It was as if he was wrestling emotion into something manageable instead of letting it own him completely.
His combination came late in the program, quad Salchow into triple toe, tight on the second landing but fully rotated and secure enough that his coach punched the air once at the boards immediately afterward.
That was Dean. Even wounded emotionally, he remained extraordinary.
The spins centered beautifully beneath the arena lights, then the final movement phrase arrived, the music widening at last as Dean accelerated through the closing choreography with sudden openness.
There.
That was him.
The music ended, and Dean stopped center ice, his chest rising hard beneath the dark fabric of his costume while applause crashed through the arena around him.
I realized only then that my hands had been clenched in my lap.
Beside me, Mila glanced sideways at me but said nothing.
Below us, Dean bowed once before skating toward the Kiss and Cry, his coach waiting for him at the boards. He squeezed the back of Dean’s neck in approval.
Dean nodded while the crowd cheered.
Everything about the moment should have looked familiar.
And yet I found myself searching for a smile that never quite appeared.
The numbers flashed at last.
103.09.
Second place.
Enough to stay in the fight.
The crowd cheered loudly again.
Dean nodded once at the score, then glanced up toward the stands.
Mila leaned back beside me. “He still looks for you.”
I knew that when Sunday came, when Mila and I took to the ice for our short program, I would be looking for him too.
Dean
By the time I got back to my room, the adrenaline from the short program had burned itself out completely. Only the ache remained, and that wasn’t physical.
The bright yellow condom packets were still sitting on the desk. I stared at them for a second, then laughed. The sound echoed around the empty room.
That was the problem.
Everything in here seemed to lead back to him.
I’d let him walk away, and the worst part was that I still knew it had been the right thing to do. Luka had spent his whole life being pushed into other people’s shapes.
The last thing I wanted was to become another set of hands doing the same thing.
I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
My chest ached. I closed my eyes, not bothering to look at my phone, because I knew there would be no text from Luka, no knock on the door.
A knock sounded against the door.
Hope surged through me so violently that I was already halfway off the bed before my brain caught up.
It wasn’t Luka. Of course it wasn’t.
Ethan stood outside holding two cans of soda. He took one glance at my face, and huffed. “Wow. You look like shit.”
I snorted. “And you wonder why no one has proposed to you yet.” I stepped aside and let him in.
He handed me one of the cans before dropping backward into the desk chair. “You look like somebody just canceled Christmas.”
I sat back down on the bed, rolling the cold can between my palms. “I didn’t realize it was that obvious.”
“To me? Yeah. To the media? You still look like America’s emotionally resilient golden retriever.” He took another glance. “Well, mostly.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He folded his arms across the backrest. “And how come you get a room to yourself?”
I smiled. “Someone likes me, I guess.”
He snorted. “In which case, they must hate me, because I got Noah, who snores like a lawnmower.”
“You were great tonight, by the way. In case I didn’t mention it when you came off the ice.”
“You did, and I know.” Ethan cracked open his soda. “But thank you for confirming what I already believed about myself.”
I chuckled. “You’re not a man plagued by a lack of modesty, are you?”
He didn’t smile, but stared at me long enough that goosebumps started to emerge. “What happened? And I’m not talking about how you ended up second tonight when everyone knows you should be in the lead right now.”
I should’ve known he’d cut to the chase.
I stared down at the unopened soda in my hands. “He pulled away.” It was the kindest way of putting it.
“Federation?” I looked up, and he gave me a hard stare. “Dean. Come on.”
I shuddered out a breath. “Yeah.”
“They got in his head?”
“Yeah.” The word came out rougher than I intended. “Nobody threatened him outright. They didn’t have to. They just kept talking about image and reputation and national responsibility until he walked out of there feeling like wanting the wrong person could burn his entire career down.”
Ethan went very still after that.
“And now he thinks staying away from me fixes it.” I laughed under my breath, exhausted already by the whole conversation. “Worst part is, I get why he thinks that.”
“Of course you do.”
I leaned forward, elbows braced on my knees. “He asked for space, so I gave it to him.”
Ethan studied me long enough that I could practically hear the gears turning in his head before he finally nodded once. “You handled it right.”
“Doesn’t feel right.”
“No. Usually the right thing feels terrible.”
I groaned. “Who turned you into a therapy podcast?”
“Natural talent.” Then he pushed himself upright from the chair. “Okay. You’ve suffered enough for one evening. Now get your ass downstairs. Everyone’s hanging out.”
I stared at him blankly. “Absolutely not.”
“Dean.”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot emotionally perform friendship right now.”
“You don’t have to perform anything. Noah’s already halfway drunk on Italian wine and Keisha’s trying to convince Nathan to get an eyebrow piercing. Trust me, nobody is adulting in that room.”
I had to smile that that. Then I swallowed. “I can’t.”
Ethan watched me for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”
No argument, no lecture.
Somehow that made it harder to look at him.
I blinked. “That’s it? You’re giving up?”
“No, I’m changing the subject. We’re going into Milan tomorrow.”
I blinked again. “What?”
“Tourist day. Mom-level sightseeing. Coffee. Shopping. Noah wants authentic Italian pasta which is apparently different from regular pasta because he’s an idiot.”
I bit my lip. “I should practice.”
Ethan stared at me. “Dude.”
“What?”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“So?”
“You don’t skate again until Friday.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It means if you try to spend the next three days stress-practicing yourself into organ failure, I’ll physically remove your skates.”
I snorted. “You couldn’t take me.”
“Emotionally? No. In a fight? Absolutely.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
“I mean it. I am not gonna let you turn into one of those terrifying Olympic robots who cope by overtraining.”
I grimaced. “Too late.”
“Nope. Not allowing it.”
“I need ice time.”
“You need sunlight and carbohydrates,” he corrected.
“You also need one day where nobody talks about component scores or medal projections or whether your quad edge was under review for six milliseconds. Right now your entire vibe screams man one heartbeat away from buying a cabin in the woods and communicating exclusively through grunts.”
“You know what? That sounds restful.” I tipped my head back against the wall. “I just don’t know how to stop thinking.”
Ethan nodded as though that answer made perfect sense to him. “Then let other people interrupt it for a while.”
God. Why were all my friends suddenly emotionally intelligent?
He stood. “I’m going to leave you to enjoy your own company, but I’ll expect you to join us in the morning. I’ll text you the details.” He walked over to the door, and paused. “Oh—and before you ask, yeah, other skaters are joining us too.”
I stared. “Who?”
He shrugged. “People. You’ll survive the mystery.” Then he grinned. “Try not to spiral too hard tonight, okay? We need your face symmetrical for the free skate.”
I snorted despite myself.
Ethan saluted mockingly before disappearing into the corridor.
I sat there staring at the closed door. Before I could stop myself, I reached for my phone.
No messages. Nothing from him.
I set it face down on the nightstand and switched off the light. For a while I listened to the sounds of the Village drifting through the open window.
Then I rolled onto my side.
The room was exactly the same as it had been yesterday.
I wasn’t.
.