Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dean
“Tell me it’s a myth,” I murmured into Luka’s tousled hair, breathing in his scent. His skin was warm beneath my fingertips.
“Hmm?” He rolled over to face me, moving carefully, his hand on my chest.
“The whole Friday the thirteenth business, you know, being unlucky.”
Luka smiled. “Then I shall kiss you until you forget what day it is.”
I laughed. “Except I wouldn’t be happy if you did that. I have a date with an ice rink this evening, remember?”
“I will be watching. I will make sure you can find me easily in the crowd.”
I chuckled. “And how will you do that?” Before he could answer, I grinned. “Got it. You could watch me naked.”
Laughter rolled out of him, the sound bright and natural and so fucking relaxed.
“I do not think so. Because then everyone will take one look at me and know exactly what you do to me.”
My phone buzzed, and I grabbed it from the nightstand. One look at the screen had me smiling.
Luka’s breathing hitched. “You are so beautiful when you are happy.”
My breath caught. “And you make me happy.”
Truest words ever.
I pulled him closer, wrapping my arm around him. “That was from my mom. Dad flew in this morning. They’re on their way to the hotel.”
Luka’s face shone. “That is wonderful news. He has recovered?”
“Apparently. I doubt they’d let him fly if he wasn’t.” Then I chuckled. “Then again, I pity anyone who tries to get in his way when he wants something.” Luka sat up, and I stroked his taped hip. “That still feels okay?”
He nodded. “And I will be careful, I promise.”
I sat up too, enfolding him in my arms. “I should go over there,” I murmured against his neck.
“Yes, you sh-should,” he stammered before a shiver coursed through him.
“I mean, they’ll be expecting me.” I kissed his collarbones, his chest.
“Uh-huh.” He tilted his head back, and I laid a trail of kisses to his nipple. “Dean… Neprestávaj.” His voice was rough, his breathing staccato.
“But I have to stop,” I whispered. “They’ll be expecting me.”
Luka swallowed, then pushed me away. “You are right. You need to see your father. I should not be so selfish.”
I tilted his face up, my fingers tucked under his chin.
“You could never be that.” I kissed him, slow and sweet. “So let’s meet here tonight, after my skate.”
He nodded. “You will be wonderful. I know it.” Then his face tightened. “You understand how things must be when we are outside this room?”
I sighed. “Yeah, I understand.” I stroked his hair. “That doesn’t mean I like it.”
There was an elephant in the room, and we both knew what it was.
What happens after the Games?
I shoved the thought aside. I couldn’t afford to think like that, not today.
Luka clambered off the bed and reached for his clothes. “I will see you tonight. And there will be a gold medal hanging around your neck.”
I grabbed his hand and tugged him back to me. “Did you mean what you said last night? About choosing me?”
Luka smiled. “With all my heart.” He stood between my legs, his hands on my face. “Ty si m?j domar.”
“What does that mean?”
He kissed my forehead. “I will tell you tonight.”
My heart felt so full.
“Probably something like ‘break a leg’ which you wouldn’t say out loud in English, because if I did—God forbid—you’d blame yourself forever for putting the idea into my subconscious.”
He laughed. “That is not what I said, I can promise you. Now let me get dressed. You have somewhere you need to be.”
I knew where I wanted to be—and who I wanted at my side.
The trouble was, thousands of miles were about to separate us.
As I entered the hotel lobby, my phone buzzed again.
Another message from Mom.
Now I know your father’s okay. He’s trying to flirt with the concierge, except she doesn’t speak English, and the only Italian he knows are the lyrics to Volare - and he gets those wrong too.
I laughed as I crossed the lobby toward the elevators.
Mom: where are you?
I shook my head, my thumbs sliding over the screen. When you hear the elevator ping, that will be me.
When I reached their room, the door opened, and Mom pulled me inside.
“I expected you an hour ago.”
I laughed. “Hi to you too.”
She pulled back enough to cup my face in both hands as if I was still twelve years old instead of an Olympic medal contender. “You look tired.”
“Hey, two for two. What’s next, telling me I’ve put on weight? That I’m not eating right?”
She grinned.
Then Dad appeared behind her, and in the space of a heartbeat, I took a really good look at him. He seemed a little paler than usual, and maybe a bit thinner.
But he was upright, steady, and beaming at me.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Relief hit so hard it nearly buckled my knees.
I hugged him carefully, my throat tight.
Dad laughed against my shoulder. “Easy. Your mother already thinks I’m made of glass.”
“You did try to have a cardiac event during the Olympics,” Mom pointed out.
“In my defense, that was just bad timing.” Dad pulled back enough to study my face. “You okay?”
The question landed with habitual parental precision.
Apparently everyone in my life had become terrifyingly perceptive this week.
“I’m okay,” I assured him. And that was the truth—now.
Dad nodded. “Well, get in here before your mother starts crying again.”
“I cried once,” she retorted.
“You cried at baggage claim.”
“It was emotional baggage claim.”
I laughed out loud then.
Thank God.
Dad led me into the suite that contained a couch, an armchair, and a coffee table.
“How was your flight?” I asked as I sat down.
“Oh my God. Don’t get me started on airline coffee. Or the kid who wouldn’t go to sleep when everyone else was trying to. If I could’ve dropped a sleeping tablet into his juice, I’d be feeling a lot more awake right now.” He settled carefully onto the couch.
The knot that had lived in my belly since the hospital call finally started loosening for real. This felt normal.
Mom started unpacking snacks as though she was preparing for a small siege.
“You know,” I said, eyeing the table, “most people come to Milan for fashion.”
“Most people don’t have Olympic-athlete children who forget food exists under stress,” she replied.
Dad stretched his legs out with a quiet sigh before catching me watching him.
“What?”
“You sure you’re okay?”
His expression relaxed as he leaned back against the cushions. “I had a scare, not a near-death experience.”
Mom pointed a cracker at him. “Don’t become dramatic just because you’re in Italy.”
He gasped. “I’m wounded by this lack of support.”
I shook my head, smiling despite myself. The thing was, he really did look okay. I’d expected fragile, and its absence sent a wave of relief crashing through me.
Dad studied me for another moment. “So, you ready for tonight?” His tone was casual.
I leaned back in the armchair. “Yeah,” I said after a second.
I meant it. I’d never felt more ready in my life. What came to mind was a line from a song Mom used to sing when I was little.
What a difference a day makes.
Dad cocked his head. “I watched the team free skate again this morning. And for the first time in years, you looked…” He searched for the word. “Free.”
I stared at him.
“And you want to know what else I think?” he said.
I arched my eyebrows. “That this is a terrible moment for a motivational speech?”
“I think,” he continued over me, “that you finally stopped skating like someone trying to earn permission.”
The words hit me so hard I went completely still.
Mom blinked. “Well. That got profound unexpectedly fast.”
Dad kept his eyes on mine, and my throat tightened. “You’ve changed this week,” he observed.
Mom looked between us, her eyes narrowing with interest. “Oh, now I definitely want details.”
“Mom.”
“What? I’m observant.”
“You’re nosy.”
“True. Not going to deny it.”
Dad smiled before leaning forward. “Whatever’s going on, it looks good on you.”
You have no idea.
And right then, I wasn’t about to tell him a damn thing.
“Do you know the order for tonight?” Mom asked.
“Yeah. I’m up last.”
Which was kind of a double-edged sword. Apart from the prospect of degraded ice, Mark always said the whole good thing/bad thing argument depended on the skater’s state of mind. For anyone susceptible to pressure, it could be a nightmare.
I considered myself more adaptable.
“I’ll be there to cheer you on.” Dad glanced at Mom. “And to supply your mother with tissues, because you know she’s gonna start crying the minute you skate onto the ice.”
I hugged them both. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Will we see you after?” Mom asked.
“Once she’s reapplied her make-up, of course,” Dad added. “You don’t really want her meeting your teammates looking like a raccoon.”
Mom glared at him. “You keep that up, mister, and you won’t even make it out of the hotel. I’ll let you watch it on TV.”
I stood. “Well, now I know Dad’s okay—for the moment—I’ll get back to the arena.”
He frowned. “You expecting me to have a relapse?”
I snorted. “No, but right now you’re skating on pretty thin ice. Pun intended.” I glanced at Mom. “Try not to let him bug you too much. I’d like a full set of parents to watch me step onto that podium.”
“And you will be up there.” Mom’s face glowed.
“That’s right. Talk it into existence.” Dad’s voice shook a little.
I left them still arguing about airline coffee and emotional baggage claim.
The contrast with Luka’s family was impossible to ignore.
I’ll be his cheerleader.
And if I knew my mom, once she met him, she’d be right there with me.
I emerged from the tunnel and onto the ice, skating toward the center, accompanied by the roar of the crowd. I didn’t look for anyone. I forgot about Canada being in first place, and concentrated on my breathing.
This time, Dean. This is your time.
The first note of the music settled through the arena like a pulse beneath skin.
I pushed into motion, blades whispering across the ice while the low strings built around me, dark and restrained and full of gathering momentum.
Everything narrowed into focus.
The crowd disappeared first, then the judges, and finally the pressure that had sat on my shoulders since Milan began.