Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dean
I sat next to Ethan, watching as Nathan and Brooke skated toward the Kiss and Cry. Mark seemed happy, but I knew by the line of Nathan’s shoulders that he wasn’t.
“What do you think?” Ethan murmured.
I sighed. “You know Nate. He wants this so bad. They both do. So if he thinks they’ve skated anything less than gold…” I shrugged. “I think they can do it. That was way better than Hungary. They could still be in with a chance of a medal.”
Georgia was the team to beat. So far they were in the lead with 80.04.
I glanced toward the boards, where Luka and Mila waited, the next to skate.
“You seem so calm,” Ethan remarked. “How’d you do it?” He dropped his voice. “Because if my boyfriend was about to skate, I’d be a hot mess.”
I huffed. “Trust me, I am anything but calm.”
Then the announcer started talking, and both of us watched the monitor.
“Hey, that’s pretty good,” I said as the technical score flashed up, 41.43. I crossed my fingers, waiting for the final mark.
74.60
That put them in second place.
Luka and Mila had skated out to center ice, accompanied by the roar of the crowd.
Luka wore a costume of red and gold, a dragon splayed across the back, its wings glittering.
Mila’s gold dress with flashes of red was almost the reverse of his.
They took their opening position, blades aligned, bodies angled toward each other with the effortless precision that only came from years skating together.
The arena fell quiet around them, and my chest tightened.
You can do it, baby.
The music began, and their opening twist lift exploded upward, clean and controlled, Mila rising high above him before Luka caught her securely against the swell of applause, his movements measured and steady, practiced into instinct.
The side-by-side jumps landed in perfect unison, drawing an immediate reaction from the crowd, but I barely heard it. I was too busy watching Luka himself, the calm focus in his expression, the careful composure that never cracked under cameras or pressure.
Don’t give them anything. Just get through tonight.
The throw jump was flawless. Mila floated through the landing while Luka guided the exit with quiet strength, and for a moment the familiar ache returned hard enough to make breathing uncomfortable. Watching Luka look at Mila that way should have hurt.
Somehow it didn’t.
Now it felt complicated, because I knew the truth.
Their spins centered beautifully, their bodies moving together with seamless precision, and the audience leaned into the intimacy of it exactly the way they were supposed to.
When the lasso lift hit the musical crescendo, the arena erupted. Mila opened above him while Luka anchored the movement beneath her, solid and unshakable, and pride swelled my chest.
“Oh my God, they’re awesome,” Ethan murmured.
When the program ended, the arena erupted.
I got to my feet with everyone else, applauding while Luka and Mila stood beneath the lights, breathing hard, their costumes catching flashes from a hundred cameras.
Around us, commentators were already building the story again. The story people always wanted from them.
Luka turned toward the Kiss and Cry, and for a second, before he moved, his gaze swept the crowd and found me. The look lasted no time at all. Then it was gone, swallowed by cameras and applause and the thousands of people who believed they knew exactly who he was.
Luka had spent years making himself smaller to fit inside other people’s expectations.
Nobody could do that forever.
Luka
The applause still echoed through the arena as Mila and I stepped into the Kiss and Cry beside Sokolov. Cameras tracked us, lenses swinging toward our faces as volunteers settled the national flag across our knees.
I smiled automatically. Years of training had made that part easy.
Breathe. Sit straight. Don’t look exhausted. Don’t look nervous. Don’t give anyone anything they can use.
Mila leaned closer beside me, still flushed from the skate, one hand gripping mine. “That was good,” she murmured.
Her words barely registered. My pulse still hadn’t slowed properly. Adrenaline lingered beneath my skin, sharp and electric, but something uglier sat underneath it now, tension wound so tight across my shoulders it hurt.
Sokolov was already dissecting details in a low voice.
“Landing on the throw was slightly forward. You corrected well. Step sequence levels should hold.” His eyes flicked toward me. “Expression was controlled today. Better.”
Better.
There was always a compliment hidden inside that word. It never felt like one.
The giant screen above the arena replayed highlights from the program: the twist, the death spiral, Mila smiling during the final pose. From a distance we looked perfect together, and I knew the audience believed every second of it.
I glanced toward the boards. Dean was sitting beside Ethan several rows down from the barrier.
Even from across the arena I knew his posture, the line of his shoulders, the way he leaned forward when he was anxious.
For a moment, everything else faded: the cameras, the officials, the flags hanging from the rafters, the pressure crushing my ribs.
Dean looked relieved and proud.
Bo?e, I am so tired.
Tired of pretending his gaze meant nothing to me, of editing myself.
Then I realized I’d let my gaze linger too long, and I looked away. I could feel the weight of Sokolov’s scrutiny even without turning my head.
The cameras zoomed closer as the scores prepared to come up. Mila shifted beside me, her knee giving a tiny bounce against mine.
I should have been focused on the numbers too.
Instead all I could think about was how badly I wanted one moment—just one—where looking at Dean didn’t feel dangerous.
The score flashed onto the screen.
75.92.
A strong score. The audience reacted immediately, applause swelling around us as our placement appeared beneath it.
Mila exhaled sharply beside me, smiling in relief. “We are second.”
Even Sokolov managed a nod of approval.
I smiled too as the cameras flashed.
Across the arena, Dean was still watching me. I held his gaze for half a second before looking away.
Half a second.
That was all I allowed myself.
Even that felt rebellious.
We stepped off the elevator onto our corridor.
Somewhere farther down the hallway, voices echoes. Music played. Everything felt so normal.
Mila stopped outside my door. “Luka…”
I looked at her, already exhausted enough to feel hollowed out from the inside. I should have felt relief after the short program.
Instead, I felt stretched unbearably thin.
I pulled her into a hug, resting my forehead against her temple for a second before stepping back again.
“Get some sleep,” I said quietly. “Twenty-four hours before we have to do it all over again.”
She nodded, her eyes fixed on my face. “But if you need me…”
“I know.”
She tilted her head. “Will you see him tonight?”
He’d already messaged, asking me that same question.
I wanted to see him. That was the simplest version of the truth.
And tonight it felt dangerous.
My throat tightened.
“If I see him,” I said carefully, “I won’t be able to pretend everything is fine.”
Mila’s face changed instantly, her eyes warm with compassion.
That was the other problem with Dean. He never let me hide successfully for long, not because he pushed, but because he noticed every hesitation, every silence. I could give a controlled answer that would sound convincing to everyone else, but that would never fool him.
I looked away toward the darkened corridor. “I don’t trust myself tonight,” I admitted.
The words were the most honest thing I’d said all day.
Mila stepped closer again, her voice gentle. “Luka…”
“If he asks me what’s wrong,” I interjected, “I think I might finally tell the truth.”
Mila reached for my hand and squeezed once. Her smile was sad. “Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
I huffed. “Maybe not.”
But standing there outside my room with tomorrow’s free skate waiting like the edge of a cliff, the thought of saying everything aloud felt less like freedom and more like stepping barefoot onto breaking ice.
I expelled a long breath. “Goodnight, Mila.”
“Goodnight, Luka.”
I waited until she disappeared into her room at the end of the corridor before unlocking my own door.
I stepped inside and closed it. The click sounded unnaturally loud.
The bedside lamp was still on. Light spilled across the carpet, catching on the unopened water bottles lined neatly across the desk.
I removed my phone from my pocket and placed it on the table.
Then I shrugged out of my jacket and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting against my knees.
My body ached pleasantly from the skate, but my mind refused to quiet.
Too many things pressed at me simultaneously: the upcoming free skate, the federation scrutiny, the look on Sokolov’s face in the Kiss and Cry whenever my attention drifted for even a second too long.
I closed my eyes, opening them when vibration broke the silence. I glanced at my phone.
Home.
I stared at the screen, and for one irrational second, I considered letting it ring.
Dean would have ignored the call.
I couldn’t.
Some habits are carved too deeply.
I answered.
“Luka.” My mother sounded calm, composed. “We watched your performance.”
I straightened instinctively, years of conditioning moving through me before thought had a chance to catch up. “Yes?”
“You looked very professional.”
Not happy, not extraordinary.
Professional.
“Thank you,” I said in a low voice.
A pause followed, and I could hear the faint rustle of movement on the other end of the line before my father took the phone.
“There’s been some commentary internationally,” he said.
No comment about the skate.
I exhaled through my nose and stared at my reflection in the darkened window across the room. “I’m aware.”
“Nothing concrete,” he added quickly. “Only interpretation.”
The federation’s favorite word whenever truth became inconvenient.
“They’re reading into your demeanor,” my mother said after taking the phone back.
“And your associations,” my father called out.
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Yes.” I swallowed.
“Your federation has already flagged the coverage,” my father continued. “They’re in contact with our committee.”
Of course they were. They would be discussing strategies, optics. Everything handled, contained…
“You don’t need to engage with any of it,” my mother said gently. “They’ll issue statements if necessary.”
Statements. Anything except honesty.
“I understand,” I replied.
“Good,” my father said. “The priority now is continuity.”
Another word that meant obedience without having to say it. What they meant was stability, predictability, the preservation of the version of me everyone already understood.
I looked again at my reflection in the dark window, at my composure.
Do I know how to look any other way anymore?
My heartbeat raced.
“There’s something I should tell you.” The words felt heavy in my mouth, like contraband I had carried too long.
My mother responded immediately. “This isn’t the right moment,” she said in a smooth tone. “Let’s keep things uncomplicated until after the Games.”
“Anything unrelated to performance can wait,” my father agreed. “We don’t need unnecessary distractions right now.”
Distractions. Risk factors to be managed until competition concluded successfully.
My chest tightened. “I’m not talking about performance.”
“That’s exactly why it can wait.” My mother’s voice was still soft, still kind, which somehow made it worse. “You’ve worked too hard to jeopardize focus now.”
I swallowed hard past the lump in my throat. “Do you want to know if I’m all right? Do you care?” Words I had not intended to sound so blunt.
The silence that followed lasted a second or two.
“Of course we care,” my mother said quickly.
“But?”
God, I was so tired.
My father answered this time. “What matters right now is that you remain steady.”
That final word settled over the conversation like a lid closing.
“You represent more than yourself,” he continued. “You always have.”
I nodded even though they could not see me. “Yes, I know.”
“And that’s why we’re proud of you,” my mother added. “You’ve never made things difficult.”
The words hit harder than criticism would have, because she meant them lovingly. That was the tragedy of it. They loved me. I had never doubted that. But their love existed alongside conditions so deeply woven into all of us that none of us even named them aloud anymore.
Be disciplined.
Be careful.
Be legible.
Be the version of yourself the world already understands.
“I’ll call after the free skate,” my father said. “Once everything settles.”
As though my life were an administrative complication temporarily interrupting competition season.
“Try to sleep,” my mother said, her tone gentle. “You always perform better when you’re rested.” Then the call ended.
I set the phone down.
Nobody on that call had intended cruelty. My parents loved me the same way they loved Velkarya itself: fiercely, sincerely, and within structures they no longer questioned.
And suddenly I understood.
This was not rejection, but merely postponement without end.
There would always be another competition. Another season. Another reason to wait until things became less complicated.
After Worlds.
After the Olympic cycle.
After retirement.
After everyone stopped looking.
Later, later, later, until eventually silence became a life.
My throat tightened again.
For years I had mistaken silence for safety because everyone around me spoke about sacrifice as though it were virtue. Endure discomfort. Protect stability. Don’t create unnecessary difficulty.
But sitting alone in that room, I finally understood the cost of that logic.
If I stayed inside it forever, I would spend the rest of my life becoming smaller.
More careful. More obedient. Easier to explain, until eventually there was nothing left worth explaining at all.
I stood and crossed toward the window.
Milan stretched out in the distance, all gold light and moving traffic. Somewhere in this building, Dean breathed the same cold night air, loving me openly in all the quiet ways that mattered most.
And suddenly the room felt too small, too airless.
I pressed one hand against the glass.
Somewhere in this building, Dean was still awake.
The city lights blurred slightly.
Silence had never protected me.
It had only protected everyone else from discomfort.