Chapter 3 The arrangement

Lucia's POV

I woke the next morning to my phone vibrating so violently against the bedside table that, for a few confused seconds, I thought someone was breaking into my apartment.

I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head.

The phone kept buzzing.

"Go away."

It buzzed again.

I reached out blindly, knocked my water bottle onto the floor, cursed when it rolled under the bed, and finally got hold of the phone.

The screen was a disaster. Messages, missed calls, social media mentions, and news alerts. My team's group chat had over two hundred messages, and my family had apparently decided that one win meant I now owed every aunt and cousin a personal reply before breakfast.

I stared at it, confused, until I remembered why.

The Olympics.

A smile crept across my face.

I was going to the Olympics.

Holy shit.

I dropped back onto the pillow and let the words settle. Sunlight stretched across my ceiling. Somewhere below my window, a delivery truck rumbled past, completely unaware that my life had changed.

I opened the news app.

LUCIA DELGADO IS HEADED TO THE OLYMPICS.

At least they spelled my name right.

There were photos from yesterday's match, including one where I was screaming with my racket over my head and another where I was laughing, face red, while signs bobbed behind me.

I looked terrible, but I loved it.

Then the phone buzzed again. Amy.

“Get down to the sports center immediately. You have a meeting with the Olympics committee.”

I sat up.

Immediately?

No congratulations. No good morning. No how are you feeling after the biggest win of your life?

That was never a good sign.

“Why?” I typed.

Three dots appeared almost at once.

“Olympics.”

“I know I'm going to the Olympics. You were literally there when we found out.”

“Lucia. Please just come.”

I stared at the message.

Amy didn't say please unless something was wrong.

I threw off the blanket and went looking for my shoes.

---

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the sports center parking lot in black training pants, a fitted white shirt, and the sneakers I'd grabbed without thinking.

Amy was waiting near the entrance, arms crossed, and sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She looked far too calm for someone who'd summoned me like I was a kid sent to the principal's office.

I shut the car door. "What did I do?"

"Nothing."

"Then who did?"

"No one." She started walking. "Marcus asked for the meeting. He wanted to be in the room."

I stopped.

"Marcus asked for it? Without telling me?"

"Apparently."

"What if he's finally decided to kill me? Yesterday I told him his drills were designed by Satan."

"You tell him that every week."

"Exactly. Maybe he's had enough."

She didn't laugh, and that scared me more than the text had.

Inside, the familiar smell of rubber flooring, sweat, and disinfectant hit me. I'd spent so many years in buildings like this that the smell had become comfort. Home. A few athletes called out as we passed.

"Congratulations, Lucia!"

"You're going to kill it!"

I smiled and waved, but my stomach had begun to knot.

Amy opened the conference room door.

Marcus was already inside, along with Dr. Elena. Both of them looked up and smiled at me.

That made it worse.

Then I noticed the other three people at the table, official lanyards, leather folders, and a tray of untouched pastries.

I slowed. "Oh."

Everyone stood.

"Lucia, congratulations again," said the man at the head of the table, shaking my hand. "Daniel Foster, with the national Olympic committee. You've earned this."

"Thank you."

He introduced the woman beside him as Helen Carter, head of athlete development. The third official, a young man with a laptop, only nodded.

I sat. My palms had gone damp against my knees.

Mr. Foster talked for a few minutes about the next few months: a centralized training camp, media obligations, medical assessments, travel. It was a lot. More than I'd imagined.

Then he folded his hands.

"There's one other matter."

I looked at Marcus. He didn't look surprised.

"The committee is very pleased with your progress," Mr. Foster said. "But the Games are different. The pressure isn't only about winning a match. You're representing your country, and every performance will be watched."

I nodded. I understood that. I'd watched athletes crumble on that stage, and I'd watched others rise past anything anyone expected.

"So what are you saying?"

"We want to make some changes to your preparation."

"I already have a coach."

"And we're not replacing him. Marcus remains your primary coach. Your technical training stays under his direction."

Some of the tension left my shoulders.

"Good."

"We'd like to bring in someone additional," Ms. Carter said. "Someone with extensive Olympic experience. Someone who understands the psychological demands of competing at that level."

"Who?"

The room went quiet.

Marcus studied the table. Amy became very interested in her phone.

I looked from face to face. "Why does everyone look like that?"

Nobody answered.

Mr. Foster slid a folder across the table. A name was printed on the front.

I didn't read it. I looked at him.

"Who?"

"Jeremiah Scherbatsky."

Everything inside me stopped.

For a second, I honestly thought I'd misheard.

"What?"

"Jeremiah Scherbatsky," he repeated, smiling. "We knew you'd be thrilled."

Thrilled?

My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

My hand had gone cold around the edge of the table. I could hear the air conditioner, the scrape of a chair somewhere, and my own pulse thudding in my ears.

Jeremiah fucking Scherbatsky.

The Breeze.

The man I'd finally met at nineteen, only to have him look straight through me.

The man I'd watched fall.

I'd known he'd gone into coaching after his career ended, and I'd made sure never to learn where.

"Jeremiah Scherbatsky," I said slowly. "That Jeremiah Scherbatsky?"

"Yes."

Marcus finally looked up. "Lucia, you're asking like you don't know who he is."

"I'm just making sure we mean the same man."

Amy covered her mouth.

"Don't," I said.

She lowered her hand, but I could still see the smile she was fighting.

"After his accident," Mr. Foster continued, "Jeremiah underwent extensive treatment, but he was unable to return to professional competition. He moved into coaching and athlete development, and over the past few years he's worked with elite athletes preparing for international events."

I knew all of that. Everyone knew. One of the greatest players in history, and one terrible movement had ended the career he'd built his life around.

"His role wouldn't touch your technique," Ms. Carter added. "He'll focus on competition preparation, pressure management, decision-making, and the mental demands of the Olympic stage."

"You're bringing in a retired player to coach my mind?"

"He's not simply a retired player. He's an Olympic champion who spent years competing under extraordinary pressure."

I opened my mouth to argue, but I couldn't. Because she had a point.

I fucking hated that she had a point.

“He also asked to watch tapes of your matches before he agreed," she added.

I didn't know what to do with that. Of everything I'd expected to hear, it wasn't that.

"I don't need him," I said.

Marcus sighed.

I turned on him. "You knew?"

"I knew the committee was considering bringing someone in." He replied.

"And you didn't tell me?" I asked.

"I wanted to wait until it was official."

"Why?"

"Because I knew you'd react exactly like this."

"Like what?"

"Stubborn," he replied curtly, as if stating a well-known fact.

"I'm not stubborn."

Amy coughed and I looked at her. She suddenly found the ceiling fascinating.

Marcus leaned forward. "Nobody's saying you're not good enough. But you're going to the Olympics, and when the pressure climbs, you sometimes stop trusting yourself."

"That happened once."

"Twice."

"Three times," Elena said gently.

I stared at her. "You're supposed to be on my side."

"I am."

"Then stop counting."

She smiled.

I dropped back into my chair and folded my arms. Ten-all flashed behind my eyes. That tiny shift. That half second when I'd stopped trusting my feet.

They weren't wrong. That was the worst part. But of all the coaches in the world, of all the people they could have chosen, they'd chosen him.

The man I'd once worshipped. The man who'd made me feel like nothing without saying a single word.

I swallowed.

"Has he agreed?"

"Yes," Mr. Foster said.

My stomach dropped.

"When does he start?"

Mr. Foster checked the schedule in front of him.

"Tomorrow. He'll join the training camp in the morning."

"Tomorrow?"

Amy nodded.

I looked around the table. Nobody was laughing. Nobody was joking. Even the pastries looked solemn.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"We're not," Marcus said.

I sank slowly into my seat.

Five years ago, I'd wanted nothing more than for Jeremiah Scherbatsky to notice me.

Now I couldn't think of anything worse.

Except…

A thought slid in, slow and sharp.

He wouldn't remember me. Of course he wouldn't. Why would he?

Fine. Let him come.

He didn't know I'd spent five years becoming the one thing he couldn't walk past.

He wanted a disciplined national asset. He'd get Lucia Delgado. I'd question every drill and argue every call.

And I wasn't going to tell him. Not until I'd made him regret every second he'd looked straight through me.

I smiled.

Good luck, Breeze.