⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

trinsantos

♫ ribs - lorde

liked by lavendarlover, huckledenny and 93 others

trinitysantos and they were roommates

lavendarlover oh my god they were roommates

huckledenny ive been replaced so quickly

-> lavendarlover come over and we can have a slumber party

-> franklangdon full grown adults btw

-> lavendarlover ew sorry you lack our whimsy

lavendarlover

♫ dont shut me down - abba

liked by emmienolan, drabbot and 79 others

lavendarlover roommate shenanigan's

huckledenny take me to church karaoke... i know what you are

-> trinsantos takes one to know one, boy

torijavadi ugh you guys look like your having so much fun!

-> lavendarlover i hope i never have to leave

-> trinsantos i mean, you dont..

trinsantos

♫ not a lot, just forever - adrienne lenker

liked by melking, emeryw an 80 others

trinsantos i think i could get used to having a live in chef

lavendarlover oh so thats all i am to you... damn okay

-> trinsantos girl

caymckay are we forgetting why she moved in in the first place...

-> drabbot yeah i dont think id be letting her anywhere near my oven...

-> lavendarlover THE SHADE!!!

lavendarlover

♫ silk chiffon - muna, phoebe bridgers

liked by trinsantos, ellispark and 98 others

lavendarlover love is in the air...

samiram omg who is this

-> samiram i cannot believe you didn't tell me!

huckledenny WHAT

torijavadi omg who is this mystery girl!!!!!!!!

-> emmienolan couldnt we just ask santos, since they live together

-> huckledenny omg wait...

trinsantos

♫ red wine supernova - chappell roan

liked by huckledenny, lavendarlover and 95 others

trinsantos is it bad if i say im glad the kitchen burned down?

lavendarlover oh definetly not

-> lavendarlover im sooo glad i burnt my apartment to a crisp xx

huckledenny omg i so knew it!

danaevanss happy for you girls x

lavendarlover omg yk what?

-> trinsantos what babe?

-> lavendarlover we're like meredith and derek from greys

-> lavendarlover if they were the same age and derek was a woman and a lesbian also meredith was a social worker

-> torijavadi so like... not at all?

Tristan Lamothe, your partner, your best friend, the person who has seen you cry over everything from a doubled twizzle to a broken nail to that one devastating episode of Heated Rivalry, is currently spread across your twin bed like he owns it. His skate bag is on the floor. His water bottle is on your nightstand. His phone is balanced on his chest, and he’s scrolling with the particular energy of someone who has absolutely nothing to do and plans to keep doing it indefinitely.

“You should download Hinge,” he says.

You don’t look up from your laptop.

“No.”

“I’m just saying-”

“Tristan.”

“It’s been redesigned. The interface is actually good now.”

“The answer was no in October, it was no in November, it was no when you made me sit through that entire TED Talk about modern dating, and it is no right now, in Milan, at the Olympics, where I am trying to work.”

He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on one hand, and gives you the look. You can feel it without seeing it. Ten years of partnership means you have memorized every single one of his expressions, including Look Number Seven, which is the one that says I love you but you are being genuinely unhinged about this.

“You’re watching practice footage,” he says.

“Yes.”

“We practiced four hours ago.”

“I’m aware.”

“Y/N.” He says your name like it has two extra syllables. A gift he has always had. “We are in Italy. We are at the Olympics. We are surrounded by, and I cannot stress this enough, some of the most genetically blessed athletes on the planet Earth, and you are watching your own twizzle on a laptop screen.”

“It’s not my twizzle, it’s my edge-”

“You are,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “determined to remain celibate for the rest of your natural life. Even my grandma is getting more action than you right now.”

You turn and look at him then. You can’t help it.

“Your grandma,” you say flatly, “is in a nursing home.”

He smirks. It is immediate and devastating and extremely annoying.

“She’s very popular with the male residents.”

You grab your pillow and scream into it.

The sound comes out muffled and long and deeply, genuinely cathartic, and when you lift your head, Tristan is grinning at the ceiling with the satisfaction of a man who has accomplished something meaningful.

“Feel better?”

“Marginally.”

“Good.” He sits up, crossing his legs, facing you properly now. This is his serious face, which means it’s even worse than the smirk. “Can I say the actual thing?”

“You’re going to regardless.”

“After the opening ceremony,” he begins.

“Tristan-”

“There was a Swedish snowboarder-”

“Tristan-”

“Making full bedroom eyes at you.” He holds up a hand to stop your protest. “Not ambiguous eyes. Not friendly eyes. Not ‘I appreciate you as a fellow Olympian’ eyes. Bedroom eyes. The man was basically building IKEA furniture with his stare.”

You close the laptop. Not because you’re giving in, but because this conversation has officially required your full attention and your edge correction can wait twenty minutes.

“I didn’t notice,” you say.

“That’s the problem.”

“That’s not a problem, that’s called being focused.”

“It’s called being willfully oblivious.” He tilts his head. “When’s the last time you went on a date?”

You open your mouth.

“And training dinners with me don’t count,” he adds.

You close your mouth.

He raises both eyebrows.

“Okay,” you say, pointing at him, “first of all, I’ve been busy-”

“You’ve been busy,” he repeats, in the voice he uses when he’s quoting you back to yourself in a way designed to make you feel foolish.

“We’ve been busy. The Grand Prix season, Nationals, Four Continents, and now this — Tristan, we’ve been on the ice six days a week since September, Scott has us on a training schedule that would make a Navy SEAL cry, and you want me to be downloading dating apps in the middle of all that?”

“I downloaded three dating apps during Grand Prix season.”

“And how did that go?”

“Incredibly well, actually, I’m still talking to the guy from Skate Canada-”

“That’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“Because you’re-” you gesture vaguely, “-you. You’re good at that. You’re charming and you know what you want and you just talk to people like it’s easy.”

Something shifts in his expression. He gets quieter, which for Tristan is significant, because Tristan’s baseline volume is set somewhere around theatrical.

“It’s easy for you too,” he says. “When you let it be.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you look at the closed laptop.

The thing about Tristan — the thing that nobody in the skating world quite understands when they look at your partnership from the outside, when they write their little articles and post their little edits set to whatever song is trending with the caption sorry but they’re OBVIOUSLY in love — is that he has known you longer and better than almost anyone alive. You have been on the ice together since you were nine years old, since you were two kids at the Gadbois Centre in Montreal being shuffled into ice dance because you were too chaotic for singles and too small for pairs, and somewhere in that first year you looked at each other across a spin and decided, wordlessly and permanently, to become the most important person in each other’s lives.

He’s been there for every edge. Every fall. Every silver medal that should have been gold. Every competition where the nerves ate you alive from the inside and you threw up in the bathroom at 5 AM and he sat on the floor next to you and didn’t say anything, just handed you a paper towel and a Werther’s Original from his jacket pocket, which is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you and it came from your gay best friend.

That is the state of your romantic life.

“I just,” you start.

“You just what?”

You rub the back of your neck. “I want the gold medal, Trist. That’s the thing I want. Tessa and Scott won it in 2018 and now Scott coaches us, and I think about that all the time. I think about what it would mean to bring that home. For Canada. For him. For us.” You glance up. “I don’t want to be distracted.”

Tristan is quiet for a beat.

“When Tessa and Scott won the gold medal in 2018, she was fully living her best life-”

“You don’t know that-”

“I’m choosing to believe it.”

“Tristan!”

“I’m just saying!” He holds his hands up. “Love and sport don’t have to be enemies. That’s a false binary that you’ve constructed to protect yourself and I think your therapist would agree with me.”

“My therapist would tell me that’s a projection.”

“Your therapist says everything is a projection.”

“She’s usually right!”

You’re both laughing now, the way you always end up laughing, the laughter arriving before you even fully understand why and dissolving whatever tension had been building. It’s the best thing about him. The most unfair thing about him too — it’s very hard to maintain a righteous position when Tristan Lamothe is in the room.

He flops back against your pillow, dramatically, like he’s been shot.

“Okay,” he says, to the ceiling. “I won’t make you download Hinge.”

“Thank you.”

“I am, however, going to need you to acknowledge that the Swedish snowboarder was real and that he was looking at you.”

“I acknowledge nothing.”

“His name is Erik. I found his Instagram.”

“Tristan, oh my God-”

“Ninety thousand followers, very consistent aesthetic-”

“I don’t care about his Instagram!”

“You should-”

“I’m closing my eyes and counting to ten,” you announce, and you do, pressing your palms over your face, and Tristan, behind your eyelids, makes the specific sound he makes when he’s trying not to laugh and losing badly.

When you open your eyes, he’s sitting up again, and he’s got the softer look now. The real one. The one that doesn’t have a number because you’ve never needed to categorize it — you just know it means I see you and I’m on your side even when I’m annoying you.

“You know I just want you to be happy, right?” He says.

“I know.”

“And you know that being happy and winning are not mutually exclusive things.”

“I know.” You lean back against the wall. “I just think I want to win first. And then be happy.”

He considers this for a long moment.

“That’s extremely backwards,” he says finally.

“I know that too.”

He nods. Accepts it. Lets it be.

That’s the other thing about Tristan — he pushes, but he never forces. He’s been that way since you were nine, when you fell on your first outside edge and cried and he crouched down on the ice next to you and said, with great seriousness, do you wanna try again or do you want to sit here for a minute, and you said sit here, and he sat there with you on the cold ice without complaint until you were ready to stand.

He’s still doing that.

“Scott wants us in by nine tomorrow,” he says, shifting back to logistics the way you both always do, the skating filling back in like water. “He sent a voice memo. He sounded intense.”

“He always sounds intense.”

“He sounded specifically intense. He said something about the Italians fixing the ice and it being slower and he wants to adjust the timing on the step sequence entry.”

You straighten up. “Which step sequence?”

“The midline.”

Your eyes go immediately to the closed laptop.

Tristan gives you a look.

“I’m not going to say it,” he says.

“You were going to say ‘I told you so.’”

“I was absolutely going to say that, yes.” He stands, stretching, reaching his arms above his head until his spine cracks in three separate places, which is a sound you have made peace with after ten years. He grabs his water bottle off your nightstand. “Get some sleep. Ice time’s early.”

“I know.”

He pauses at the door, hand on the frame, glancing back at you with the kind of casual over-the-shoulder look that would send the ice dance fandom into complete cardiac arrest if they could see it.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I think we’re going to win.”

Something in your chest goes quiet and warm.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He’s fully serious now, all the theatre dropped. Just Tristan. Your Tristan, who has been your partner through every fall and every spin for a decade, who knows your skating better than he knows his own because he’s that kind of person. “I think we’re the best team here. I think Scott knows it, I think the judges have known it all season, and I think you know it too even when you’re too scared to say it out loud.”

You don’t say anything.

“And,” he adds, the grin coming back as he knocks twice on the doorframe, “I think the Swedish snowboarder thinks so too, but that’s not relevant right now.”

“Tristan-”

“Goodnight!” He’s already gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and his laugh travels down the hallway and disappears.

The room is quiet.

You sit there on the floor for a moment, tennis ball in your hand, the laptop dark, the sounds of the Village muffled through the window — music from somewhere, voices in languages you can pick apart one by one, the particular busy hum of four thousand athletes living in compressed, temporary, electric proximity.

You think about 2018. Tessa and Scott, the ice in Pyeongchang, the gold they brought home. You think about Scott in the rink in Montreal, his voice carrying across the ice, the way he talks about that medal sometimes when he’s really trying to make a point — not like it was the end of something, but like it was the proof of something. That patience was possible. That the work paid off. That you could want a thing for a very long time and still have it arrive.

You think about the midline step sequence. Your left edge. Third rotation.

You open the laptop.

Just for five more minutes.

***

Macklin has been awake for approximately twenty-seven hours, and he is beginning to suspect that his eyeballs are going to fall out of his head.

San Jose to New York was seven hours. New York to Milan was another eight. Add in the time spent in JFK waiting for the rest of Team Canada to assemble — NHL players filtering in from their respective cities, the coaching staff doing headcounts like they’re on a middle school field trip, the equipment managers performing some kind of logistical miracle to get everyone’s gear onto the charter — and Macklin has officially crossed the threshold from “tired” into “possibly no longer a corporeal being.”

He’s wearing the Team Canada-issued Lululemon tracksuit, which is objectively very nice and also makes him feel like a walking advertisement. Red and white, the maple leaf embroidered over his heart, the fabric somehow both technical and cozy in a way that makes him want to sleep standing up. Which he might actually do. It’s hard to say at this point.

“You good, Celly?” Seth Jarvis asks, bumping Macklin’s shoulder as they file through the Olympic Village check-in process.

“Yeah,” Macklin says, which is a lie.

“You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“I’m not gonna pass out.”

“You look like a baby giraffe.”

“I don’t-” Macklin starts, and then he catches his reflection in one of the glass doors and realizes Seth is not entirely wrong. His legs feel vaguely theoretical. His spine is a suggestion.

Behind them, Brad Marchand is arguing with one of the volunteer organizers about room assignments, Tom Wilson is taking a selfie with the Olympic rings statue like it’s 2014, and Sidney Crosby is reading through some kind of informational packet with the focus of a man studying game film. The whole scene is deeply surreal, the kind of thing Macklin imagined a thousand times growing up and is now experiencing in real-time while his brain runs on fumes and airplane peanuts.

“They’re gonna put us in rooms soon,” Seth says, scrolling on his phone. “You gonna make it?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re swaying.”

“I’m not-”

“You are definitely swaying.”

Macklin plants his feet more firmly on the ground, which helps for approximately four seconds before his knees remember they’re tired too.

The check-in process is taking forever. There are clipboards. There are lanyards. There are about forty-seven different people in bright blue volunteer jackets saying things in Italian and English and occasionally French, all of which is blending together into a linguistic smoothie that Macklin’s brain is too exhausted to parse.

And then the doors open.

And you walk out.

The thing is, Macklin is genuinely not sure if you’re real.

You’re in a Team Canada jacket — the nice one, the puffer with the red and white colorblocking that all the athletes got — and black leggings and sneakers, your hair pulled back, a gym bag slung over your shoulder. You’re mid-conversation with the guy next to you, laughing at something he just said, your whole face bright with it, and Macklin’s brain, running on zero sleep and sheer force of will, does something it has never done before.

It just … stops.

Full system shutdown.

You’re the most beautiful person he has ever seen in his entire life, and he has been to galas and award shows and played hockey in front of sold-out arenas, and none of that prepared him for whatever is happening to his central nervous system right now.

You’re walking across the courtyard with the guy — tall, athletic, also in Team Canada gear, talking with his hands in that way people do when they’re telling a story they think is very funny. The two of you are completely at ease, the kind of comfortable body language that makes Macklin’s stomach do something complicated and unhappy, because of course you’re with someone, of course you are, why wouldn’t you be-

“Holy shit,” Seth says, very quietly, next to him.

Macklin doesn’t respond. He’s not sure he’s breathing.

Seth reaches over, puts one hand under Macklin’s jaw, and physically closes his mouth.

“You’re drooling,” Seth says.

“I’m not-”

“Definitely drooling.” Seth follows Macklin’s line of sight across the courtyard, to where you and the guy are now stopped near one of the bike racks, still talking. Seth lets out a low whistle. “Okay. I can’t even blame you for that one.”

“What’s happening?” Tom Wilson has appeared, because of course he has, because Macklin’s humiliation needs witnesses.

“Baby Celebrini’s having a moment,” Seth says.

“I’m not-”

“He’s very much having a moment.”

Tom looks. Tom grins. Tom has the specific energy of a man who has just discovered entertainment.

“Oh, this is good,” Tom says.

“It’s not-” Macklin tries.

“That’s a solid choice, kid,” Brad Marchand adds, materializing on Macklin’s other side like a chirping-based teleportation device. “Way out of your league, but solid.”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were absolutely-”

“Can everyone please-”

“Celly’s got a crush!” Tom announces, to approximately no one and everyone.

“I don’t-” Macklin’s face is on fire. His face is absolutely on fire, he can feel it, the red creeping up his neck and into his cheeks, and he’s going to murder his teammates, he’s going to actually commit a crime. “I just—she’s—I’m jet-lagged.”

“Uh-huh,” Seth says.

“I am! I’m hallucinating.”

“You think you’re hallucinating a whole person?”

“It’s possible!”

“It’s not possible,” Brad says. “She’s very real. And very much with that guy, looks like.”

Macklin’s stomach does the complicated thing again.

Across the courtyard, you’ve said something that makes the guy double over laughing, and you shove his shoulder, grinning, and the two of you start walking again, toward one of the other Canadian buildings.

“Yeah,” Macklin says, trying to sound normal and casual and like his entire life hasn’t just been upended by a thirty-second glimpse of a stranger. “Yeah, no, I figured.”

“Macklin.”

It’s Sidney Crosby.

Everyone shuts up immediately, which is what happens when Sidney Crosby says your name, because Sidney Crosby is Sidney Crosby and also the team captain and also possibly the best hockey player alive, and Macklin has spent the last two days trying very hard not to weird him out by staring.

Sid steps into the little circle they’ve formed, hands in the pockets of his Team Canada jacket, expression calm.

“We’re here to win,” Sid says.

“Yes sir,” Macklin says immediately.

“But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy the experience.”

Macklin blinks.

Sid nods toward you, across the courtyard, where you’re now stopped again, the guy gesturing animatedly about something.

“You should go introduce yourself,” Sid says.

Macklin’s brain short-circuits for the second time in three minutes.

“I—what?”

“Just go say hi.”

“I can’t-”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s-” Macklin gestures helplessly in your direction. “She’s clearly with that guy.”

There is a pause.

And then, very unfortunately, several of Macklin’s teammates start laughing.

Not all of them. Sid’s not laughing. But Seth is. Tom is. Mitch Marner is actively wheezing. Even some of the guys who’d been focused on check-in have tuned into the conversation and are now grinning in a way that makes Macklin want to sink directly into the Italian pavement.

“What?” Macklin says.

“Oh buddy,” Seth says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“What?”

Tom is actually wiping his eyes. “You’re serious right now.”

“About what?”

“Mack,” Mitch says, trying to pull himself together and failing. “That guy is very gay.”

Macklin looks back across the courtyard.

You and the guy are walking again, his arm looped through yours now in a way that Macklin had interpreted as romantic approximately ninety seconds ago and is now realizing might be something else entirely.

“How do you-” Macklin starts.

“The vibes, kid,” Tom says.

“The vibes?”

“Trust us on this one,” Seth says. “That is not her boyfriend.”

“You don’t know that-”

“I would bet actual money on it.”

“Me too,” Mitch says.

“Me three,” Tom adds.

Macklin looks at Sid, who shrugs.

“They’re probably right,” Sid says.

“You can’t just-” Macklin runs a hand through his hair, which is definitely doing something unhinged right now after twenty-seven hours of travel and zero showers. “You can’t just assume someone’s gay because of vibes.”

“You can when the vibes are that strong,” Tom says.

“Okay but even if-” Macklin takes a breath. Tries to locate a coherent thought. Fails. “Even if he’s not her boyfriend, I can’t just walk over there.”

“Why not?” Sid asks.

“Because I look like-” Macklin gestures at himself. “I’ve been awake for a full day, I’m wearing a tracksuit, I probably smell like airplane-”

“You definitely smell like airplane,” Seth confirms.

“Not helping.”

“Just being honest.”

“And also,” Macklin continues, “I don’t even know who she is. I can’t just walk up to a random person and—what, introduce myself? That’s insane.”

“That’s literally what people do,” Brad says.

“At normal places! Not at the Olympics!”

“Especially at the Olympics,” Tom says. “Do you know how many Olympic Village hookups happen?”

“I don’t want to-” Macklin stops. Regroups. “I’m not trying to hook up with anyone, I’m trying to win a gold medal.”

“You can do both,” Tom says cheerfully.

“I really don’t think-”

“Mack.” Sid again, cutting through the noise with the kind of calm authority that makes Macklin’s spine straighten automatically. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I’m really not-”

“You are.” Sid’s almost smiling now, which is deeply unfair. “It’s the Olympics. Everyone’s nervous. Everyone’s excited. Just go say hi. Worst case, she’s not interested. Best case …” He shrugs. “You make a friend.”

“A friend,” Macklin repeats.

“Or more than a friend,” Seth adds.

“Seth-”

“I’m just saying!”

Macklin looks back across the courtyard, but you’re gone. You and the guy — the maybe-gay guy, according to the vibes council — have disappeared into one of the buildings, and the moment has passed, and Macklin feels a strange combination of relief and disappointment that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

“She’s gone,” he says.

“She’s in the Village,” Brad points out. “You’ll see her again.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Tom says. “It’s not that big. And you’re both Team Canada. You’ll run into each other.”

“And when you do,” Seth says, grinning, “you’re going to actually talk to her like a normal human person.”

“I talk like a normal human person.”

“You talk like a guy who’s had too much media training.”

“I’ve had no media training-”

“Explains a lot actually,” Brad mutters.

One of the organizers calls for the Canadian hockey team, and the group starts moving toward the check-in desks, the conversation dissolving into the general noise of athletes and luggage and people trying to figure out where they’re supposed to be.

Macklin follows, his brain still approximately three steps behind his body.

He’s not sure what just happened. He saw a girl. A beautiful girl. A girl who made his entire cardiovascular system forget how to function. And now he’s being actively encouraged by Sidney Crosby to introduce himself, which feels like some kind of alternate universe situation that he hasn’t fully processed.

“You good?” Sid asks, falling into step next to him.

“Yeah,” Macklin says. “Just tired.”

“Get some sleep,” Sid says. “We’ve got practice tomorrow morning. And try not to stress about the girl.”

“I’m not-”

Sid gives him a look.

“Okay,” Macklin admits. “Maybe a little.”

“It’s the Olympics,” Sid says. “Everyone’s a little stressed about something.” He pauses. “But for what it’s worth? You really should talk to her. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes Macklin think Sid is speaking from experience, but before he can ask, they’re at the check-in desk and someone’s handing Macklin a folder with his room assignment and a map of the Village and approximately twelve different informational packets about things he’s too tired to read.

***

His room is small and clean and has two twin beds, which means he has a roommate, which turns out to be Seth because the universe has a sense of humor.

“Don’t worry,” Seth says, dropping his bag on the bed by the window. “I won’t tell the whole team you’re in love.”

“I’m not in love-”

“You’re in something.”

“I saw her for thirty seconds.”

“Powerful thirty seconds.”

Macklin sits down on his bed and puts his head in his hands.

“I’m so tired,” he says.

“Then sleep.”

“I can’t. My brain won’t stop.”

“Thinking about the girl?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” He looks up. “Do you actually think that guy was gay?”

Seth considers this. “Yeah, honestly. The arm-loop thing? The energy? I’d put money on it.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s single.”

“It doesn’t mean she’s not.”

Macklin flops backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The ceiling is white. The ceiling is boring. The ceiling is not a beautiful girl in a Team Canada jacket who smiled like sunlight.

“This is stupid,” he says.

“It’s not stupid.”

“I don’t even know her name.”

“So find out.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, ask literally any other Canadian athlete? It’s not a covert operation, Mack. She’s on the team. Someone knows who she is.”

Macklin turns his head to look at Seth, who’s now unpacking his toiletries with the efficiency of someone who has traveled to approximately one million hockey tournaments.

“You think I should actually do this,” Macklin says.

“I think you’d be dumb not to.” Seth tosses a travel-sized shampoo bottle into his bag. “Look, I get it. You’re focused on hockey. That’s good. That’s what you’re supposed to do. But dude, you’re nineteen years old at the Olympics. You’re allowed to talk to a pretty girl.”

“What if she thinks I’m weird?”

“Then she thinks you’re weird. You survive. You move on.”

“What if I completely embarrass myself?”

“Then you completely embarrass yourself. Again — you survive, you move on.”

“You’re very calm about this.”

“I’m very realistic about this.” Seth sits down on his own bed, facing Macklin. “You know what you’re gonna regret? Not trying. You know what you’re not gonna regret? Introducing yourself to someone and it not working out. That’s just data. That’s just life.”

Macklin stares at him.

“When did you become wise?” He asks.

“I’ve always been wise. You’ve just been too busy being a first-overall pick to notice.”

“That’s fair.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Outside, the sounds of the Olympic Village filter through the window — voices in half a dozen languages, someone’s music playing, the particular buzz of a few thousand people living in temporary, concentrated proximity.

“Get some sleep,” Seth says finally. “Practice is early. And if we run into her tomorrow, you’re saying hi.”

“We’re not gonna run into her-”

“It’s the Olympic Village. It’s like a small town. We’re absolutely gonna run into her.”

Macklin closes his eyes.

He’s not sure if Seth is right. But he’s also not sure if Seth is wrong.

And somewhere in the space between those two uncertainties, with the weight of twenty-seven hours of travel pressing down on him and the strange electric possibility of the Olympics humming just outside his window, Macklin falls asleep still wearing his Team Canada tracksuit, and dreams of a girl whose name he doesn’t know.

***

Your favorite program ever was Tessa and Scott’s Moulin Rouge free dance from the 2018 Olympics.

You were eleven years old, sitting cross-legged on the carpet in your parents’ living room in Montreal at some ungodly hour of the morning because of the time difference, and you watched them skate and you cried. Just openly cried, tears running down your face, because it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. The passion, the storytelling, the way they moved like one person split into two bodies. Your mom came downstairs and found you still sitting there after it was over, the TV on the post-skate commentary, your face wet.

“That,” you said, pointing at the screen, “is what I want to do.”

Your mom smiled. “Then you’ll do it.”

Eight years later, you’re standing at the boards of the Milano Ice Skating Arena, thirty minutes before the free dance event begins, and you think you might throw up.

“You’re not going to throw up,” Tristan says, reading your mind with the precision of someone who has known you for a decade.

“I might.”

“You’re not.”

“I really, genuinely might.”

He reaches over and squeezes your hand. His fingers are cold. Yours are colder.

“We’ve done this a thousand times,” he says quietly.

“Not at the Olympics.”

“Same ice. Same program. Same us.”

You look at him. He’s in his costume already — black pants, a white shirt that will get progressively more torn-looking as the program goes on, the design deliberately distressed. Orpheus, climbing out of the underworld. The poet who looked back.

You’re in black too. A dress that looks simple until you move, and then it catches the light in fragments. Eurydice. The girl who loved him. The girl who died.

The program is Wait for Me from Hadestown, the musical, a cover version that your choreographer found on someone’s YouTube channel and that you immediately knew was perfect. It’s heartbreaking. It doesn’t have a happy ending. Orpheus looks back and Eurydice is lost and the whole thing is devastating and beautiful and when you and Tristan skated it for Scott for the first time, full-out, at the Ice Academy back in September, he cried.

Actually cried.

You’d never seen Scott Moir cry before.

“That’s the one,” he said, wiping his eyes, not embarrassed at all. “That’s your Olympic program.”

And now it’s time to skate it.

“Fournier Beaudry and Cizeron skated clean,” you say, because your brain is spiraling and it needs something to hold onto, even if that something is anxiety. The French team went right before you, and they were good. They’re always good. They also happen to be sexual assault apologists, so fuck them, but they were technically very good.

“We’re better,” Tristan says.

“Are we?”

“Yes.” He turns you to face him, both hands on your shoulders, his expression serious in the way it only gets when he’s about to say something true. “We are better. We’ve been better all season. You know it. I know it. Scott knows it.” He pauses. “And more importantly, this program is ours. It’s not theirs. They can’t skate this story. Only we can.”

You take a breath.

The arena is packed. You can hear the crowd, the particular sound of thousands of people in an enclosed space, the hum of anticipation. There are Canadian flags everywhere. You saw your parents in the stands during warmup, your dad with the flag painted on his face, your mom crying already and you haven’t even skated yet.

Scott is at the boards, headset on, talking to the tech team. He catches your eye and nods once. It’s enough.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Tristan grins. “Let’s go break some hearts.”

***

The thing about ice dance is that it’s not just skating.

It’s storytelling. It’s acting. It’s taking four minutes of music and turning it into something that makes people feel things, something that stays with them long after you’ve left the ice.

And this program is everything.

The opening notes are quiet. Almost hesitant. You’re standing at center ice, Tristan behind you, his hand on your shoulder. Eurydice and Orpheus, before everything went wrong.

The music builds.

You move.

The first lift is a rotational, Tristan holding you as you spiral above him, and you can feel the ice underneath, the edges sharp and certain, the muscle memory of a thousand practice runs taking over. You land and the twizzles start — synchronized, fast, the kind of technical element that the judges love and that looks effortless but requires every ounce of focus you have.

The step sequence comes at the two-minute mark. The midline sequence, the one you’ve been obsessing over, the one where your left edge kept betraying you in practice. But not now. Now it’s perfect. Now you and Tristan are moving as one, the music swelling, the story unfolding.

Orpheus is leading Eurydice out of the underworld.

He’s not supposed to look back.

The second lift is a straight-line, Tristan carrying you across the ice, and you can see the judges in your peripheral vision, their faces focused, their pens moving. You land and immediately go into the circular step sequence, the hardest one, the one where you’re moving in opposite directions and have to maintain exact spacing and timing and twizzles.

You hit every beat.

The music shifts.

This is the part where it breaks.

Orpheus looks back.

The choreography here is devastating. Tristan reaches for you and you’re just out of reach. You reach back and he’s moving away. It’s a chase that can’t be won, a love that can’t be saved, and you’re skating it like your life depends on it because in this moment, it does.

The final lift is a reverse rotational. You’re above Tristan, spinning, and then you’re sliding down, your hand reaching for his face, and the music is fading and you’re on your knees on the ice and he’s standing above you and the last note ends and- 

Silence.

For one heartbeat, the arena is completely silent.

And then it erupts.

You’re crying before you even stand up.

Tristan pulls you to your feet and you’re both shaking, holding onto each other, and the crowd is on their feet and the noise is deafening and you can see Scott at the boards and he’s crying again, openly, his hands pressed to his face.

“Holy shit,” Tristan says into your ear.

“Did we-”

“We just won the Olympics.”

“We don’t know that-”

“We just won the fucking Olympics.”

You’re still crying. The crowd is still screaming. Someone throws a stuffed animal onto the ice — a beaver wearing a tiny Canadian flag — and Tristan skates over to pick it up, holding it above his head like a trophy.

“Oh my god,” you say.

“I told you,” Tristan says, and he’s crying now too, both of you just standing there sobbing in your costumes while the arena loses its mind around you.

Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

***

The actual medal ceremony happens later, but the aftermath is immediate and overwhelming.

The mixed zone is chaos. Every Canadian reporter wants a comment. Someone from CBC is crying. The Olympic Broadcasting Service wants you to describe the program and you can barely speak. Tristan does most of the talking, which is good, because Tristan is good at talking and you are currently a non-verbal puddle of emotions.

“It’s a story about love and loss,” Tristan is saying into a microphone, your hand still gripped in his. “About how sometimes loving someone isn’t enough. And I think that’s something everyone can relate to, whether you’ve been in that situation or not. We wanted to tell that story honestly.”

“And skating it at the Olympics?” The reporter asks.

“It’s unreal,” you manage, finding your voice. “This is everything we’ve worked for. Everything we’ve dreamed about since we were nine years old. To do it here, with this program, with my best friend-” Your voice breaks. “Sorry. I’m going to cry again.”

“Don’t apologize,” the reporter says, and she’s smiling. “Congratulations. Canada is so proud of you both.”

***

By the time you get back to the Village, it’s late afternoon and your phone has approximately six thousand notifications.

You’re still in your Team Canada tracksuit, medal around your neck because you haven’t taken it off, and you’re walking through the Village with Tristan and Scott, who insisted on escorting you back like you might evaporate if he lets you out of his sight.

“I need you both to eat something,” Scott says. It’s possibly the fifteenth time he’s said this in the last hour.

“We will,” Tristan promises.

“Actual food. With protein and vegetables. Not just whatever pizza they’re giving out at the dining hall.”

“The dining hall has actual food-”

“Tristan.”

“Okay, yes, we will eat real food.”

Your phone buzzes. Again. You glance at it.

The program has gone viral.

Not just viral in a skating-fan way. Viral in a everyone on the internet is losing their minds way.

There are clips everywhere. Twitter, Instagram, TikTok. People are editing it to different angles. People are crying in quote tweets. Someone made a version with the original Hadestown cast recording overlaid and it has four million views.

“This is insane,” you say, scrolling.

“Don’t read the comments,” Scott warns.

“I’m reading the comments.”

“Don’t-”

“Someone said they’ve watched it twenty times and they’re still crying.”

“Okay, that one you can read.”

Tristan leans over your shoulder, reading. “Oh my god, someone made a comparison video with the Moulin Rouge program.”

You stop walking.

“What?”

“Look.” He takes your phone, taps on the link.

It’s a split-screen video. Tessa and Scott on one side, you and Tristan on the other. The caption reads the evolution of Canadian ice dance excellence.

You watch for thirty seconds before you have to stop because you’re crying again.

“They’re comparing us to you,” you say.

“There’s no need to compare,” Scott says quietly. “You’re the next generation. And we’re so proud.”

He’s probably right. Tessa sent you a voice note earlier that you haven’t been able to listen to yet because you know you’ll completely fall apart.

“Come on,” Scott says, steering you both toward your building. “Food. Rest. The media tour continues and I need you both functional.”

***

Three buildings away, Macklin is lying on his bed in his Olympic Village room, scrolling through his phone, when the video appears on his timeline.

He’s supposed to be resting. Canada plays their first preliminary game tomorrow, and Coach wants everyone at 100%, which means naps and hydration and definitely not doom-scrolling social media. But Macklin is nineteen and his brain doesn’t turn off just because someone tells it to, so here he is.

The video autoplays.

Canadian ice dancers win GOLD with heartbreaking Hadestown program.

Macklin almost scrolls past it. He’s never been particularly into figure skating — he respects it, obviously, it’s incredibly athletic, but it’s not something he actively follows.

But then he sees the thumbnail.

It’s you.

Mid-performance, mid-lift, your head thrown back, your partner holding you above him, and even in a frozen frame you look devastating.

Macklin taps on the video.

The program starts.

For four minutes and three seconds, Macklin forgets to breathe.

It’s not just that you’re beautiful, although you are, even more so than you were in the courtyard yesterday. It’s not just that you’re an incredible skater, although that’s obvious within the first ten seconds.

It’s the story.

He’s never seen someone act on ice like that. He’s never seen two people move together with that kind of precision and emotion and trust. The lifts are insane — the technical difficulty is something even he, a non-figure-skater, can recognize — but it’s the way you and your partner tell the story that completely destroys him.

The reaching. The almost-touching. The moment at the end where you’re on your knees and your partner is standing above you and you reach up for his face and the music ends and-

“Fuck,” Macklin says, out loud, to his empty room.

He watches it again.

And then again.

By the fourth watch-through, Seth walks in.

“You good?” Seth asks, dropping his gym bag on the floor.

“Yeah,” Macklin says, not looking up.

“You’ve been watching that video for fifteen minutes.”

“No I haven’t.”

“Sure, and I’m Wayne Gretzky.”

Macklin finally looks up. Seth is grinning.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Seth says. “The girl from yesterday.”

“I don’t-”

“That’s definitely her.”

Macklin closes his phone. Opens it. Looks at the screen again. Your face, frozen mid-performance, is devastating even in stillness.

“She just won a gold medal,” Macklin says.

“I’m aware.”

“In ice dance.”

“Also aware.”

“She’s-” Macklin struggles for words. “Did you watch it?”

“Not yet.”

“Watch it.”

Seth raises an eyebrow but takes his phone out, pulling up the video. Macklin watches Seth’s face as he watches the program. Watches him go from casually interested to genuinely absorbed.

When it’s over, Seth looks up.

“Okay,” Seth says. “That was fucking incredible.”

“Right?”

“Like, genuinely one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen.”

“Right?”

“And you’re in love with her.”

“I’m not-” Macklin stops. Regroups. “I don’t know her.”

“You want to know her.”

“That’s different.”

“Not really.” Seth sits on his bed, facing Macklin. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Wrong answer.”

“She just won an Olympic gold medal. I can’t just—what, walk up to her and introduce myself? That’s insane.”

“Why is that insane?”

“Because she’s-” Macklin gestures at his phone, where the video is still paused. “She’s that. And I’m just some hockey player.”

“You’re literally on Team Canada at the Olympics.”

“So are twenty-two other guys.”

“Yeah, but you’re also nineteen, single, and actively losing your mind over her, so I feel like that gives you a unique position.”

Macklin flops backward on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t even know her name,” he says.

“So find out.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Google? Instagram? Ask literally any other Canadian athlete?” Seth pauses. “Or you could just, I don’t know, talk to her when you see her.”

“I’m not gonna see her.”

“You saw her yesterday.”

“That was a coincidence.”

“And coincidences can happen twice.”

Seth disappears into the bathroom, and Macklin is left alone with his phone and the video and the steadily growing certainty that his life is about to get very complicated in a way he’s not remotely prepared for.

He watches the program one more time.

At the end, when you’re on your knees and the music fades and the crowd erupts, the camera catches your face for just a second. You’re crying. You’re devastated. You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I’m so fucked,” Macklin says, to no one.

His phone doesn’t respond, but the video autoplays again, and he lets it.

***

The thing about winning an Olympic gold medal is that no one tells you about the media obligations.

You’d think someone would mention it. You’d think, at some point during the ten years of training and competing and slowly climbing the international ranks, someone would sit you down and say, “Hey, if you win, you’re going to spend the next eighteen hours talking to every single media outlet in Canada and also several from countries you’ve never even been to.”

But no one does.

So you spend the entire day after your free dance doing interviews.

CBC wants you for an hour. TSN wants you for forty-five minutes. The Olympic Broadcasting Service wants a sit-down with both you and Tristan. Someone from Radio-Canada needs a quote. The Toronto Star wants a phone interview. Instagram wants you to film a Reel. TikTok wants you to do a trend. Your agent calls and says that three separate brands want to talk about endorsement deals and can you please just send her a list of times you’re available in the next week, and you very politely tell her that you’re at the Olympics and you’ll get back to her when you’re not actively living in a temporary village in Italy.

By Friday afternoon, you’re exhausted.

You’re also still wearing your gold medal.

You’ve basically only taken it off to shower, and even then you hung it on the bathroom door hook so you could see it the entire time. Tristan has been doing the same thing. You ran into him in the hallway this morning and he was in a bathrobe and slides and his medal, and neither of you acknowledged how insane that was because it didn’t feel insane. It felt correct.

“Okay,” Tristan says, appearing in your doorway at 4 PM with the specific energy of someone who has A Plan. “We’re going to the hockey game.”

You look up from your laptop, where you’ve been attempting to answer emails and mostly just staring at photos of yourself on the podium.

“What hockey game?”

“Canada versus Switzerland. Men’s prelims. Starts at three.”

You blink. “We have tickets?”

“We have credentials. We’re Olympic athletes.” He says this like it’s obvious, which, fair. “We’re Canadians. With a gold medal. We can go wherever we want.”

“That’s not how it works-”

“That’s totally how it works.” He grins. “Come on. When’s the next time we’re going to get to watch Crosby and McDavid and MacKinnon all play together? On the same team? For Canada?”

He has a point.

You’re from London, Ontario, which means you’re a Maple Leafs fan by birth and by curse, which means that most of the players on Team Canada are people you spend the regular season actively rooting against. McDavid’s an Oiler. MacKinnon’s an Av. Crosby’s a Penguin. You love them as Canadian hockey players, but during the season they’re the enemy.

But right now?

Right now they’re all wearing the same maple leaf you are.

“Okay,” you say, closing your laptop. “Let’s go watch some hockey.”

***

The arena is smaller than you expected, which somehow makes it better.

You and Tristan get there early, credentials around your necks, and find seats in the Canadian section about fifteen rows up from the ice. The place is already filling in — a mix of Canadian fans in red and white, Swiss fans in their jerseys, and a general population of Olympics attendees who just want to watch good hockey.

Someone three rows behind you screams when they see you.

“OH MY GOD, YOU’RE THE ICE DANCERS!”

You turn around. It’s a woman, maybe mid-thirties, in a Canada jersey and a toque that says EH in large letters.

“Hi,” you say, smiling.

“Can I get a photo?” She’s already pulling out her phone. “My daughter is eight and she wants to be an ice dancer because of you two. She’s been watching your program on repeat for two days.”

Your chest does something warm and complicated.

“Of course,” Tristan says, and you both lean back so she can get the angle, and she takes about fifteen photos and thanks you profusely and tells you you’re an inspiration and you’re going to cry again, you can feel it building.

“Don’t cry at the hockey game,” Tristan mutters as you sit back down.

“I’m not crying.”

“You’re about to cry.”

“I’m not-”

The woman’s daughter is going to be an ice dancer because of you.

Okay, you’re crying a little.

Tristan hands you a tissue from his jacket pocket without comment, and you love him for approximately the nine-thousandth time.

The teams come out for warmups.

The crowd gets loud.

You watch as Team Canada files onto the ice  —  Crosby, McDavid, MacKinnon, Makar, all of them, the entire ridiculous collection of generational talent that somehow ended up on one roster. It’s absurd. It’s beautiful. It’s the kind of thing that hasn’t happened since 2014 and feels like a miracle.

“This is so cool,” you say.

“Right?” Tristan is grinning, his phone out, taking a video. “I’m sending this to my dad. He’s gonna lose his mind.”

You watch the players warm up. Watch them take shots on the goalie, skate lazy circles, the ease of professional athletes who have done this ten thousand times and somehow make it look effortless.

And then you see him.

Number 17.

Macklin Celebrini.

You know who he is, obviously. You’re a hockey fan. You watched him get drafted first overall to the Sharks. You’ve seen his highlights. You know he’s supposed to be the Next Big Thing, the future of the franchise, all of that.

But knowing who someone is and seeing them in person are two very different things.

He’s young. That’s the first thing you notice. He’s your age, or close to it, and he moves on the ice with the kind of confidence that comes from being very, very good at something from a very young age. He takes a shot. It goes bar-down. He grins at whoever’s in net — you can’t see the number from here — and skates back to the line.

“He’s good,” Tristan says, following your gaze.

“He’s nineteen.”

“So are you.”

“I’m not playing Olympic hockey at nineteen.”

“You just won an Olympic gold medal in ice dance at nineteen, so I’d say it’s a fair trade.”

***

Canada dominates.

It’s not even close.

By the end of the first period it’s 2-1 thanks to McDavid and Harley, who are playing like men possessed. The Swiss are good — they’re Olympic-level athletes, they’re all good — but they’re not this.

You’re on your feet more than you’re sitting.

Tristan keeps elbowing you every time you scream, which is often, because you’ve discovered that watching hockey when you’re allowed to cheer for all the players instead of agonizing over your Leafs’ defensive breakdowns is significantly more fun.

“This is amazing!” You yell over the crowd noise after Canada gets a powerplay a minute into the second period.

“You’re insane!” Tristan yells back, but he’s grinning.

“I’M PATRIOTIC!”

“YOU’RE UNHINGED!”

Less than three minutes later, just after the powerplay ends, MacKinnon sets up the most beautiful breakout pass you’ve ever seen, and it ends up on Celebrini’s stick at the blue line. He cuts inside, dekes around a Swiss defender like the guy isn’t even there, and slides it five-hole on the goalie.

The goal horn sounds.

The crowd erupts.

You scream so loud your throat hurts.

“THAT’S HOW IT’S DONE!” You’re yelling, to no one and everyone. “THAT’S A GOAL! THAT’S A FUCKING GOAL!”

Tristan is laughing so hard he’s doubled over.

“You need to calm down,” he wheezes.

“I WILL NOT CALM DOWN! DID YOU SEE THAT DEKE?”

“Everyone in Milan saw that deke-”

“THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU’RE FIRST OVERALL!”

On the ice, Celebrini is being mobbed by his teammates. He’s grinning, the kind of pure joy that comes from scoring at the Olympics, and even from fifteen rows up you can see how young he looks. How genuinely thrilled.

It’s a good goal.

It’s a great goal.

Canada goes into the third period up 3-1, and you’re hoarse from screaming.

The final score is 5-1.

Canada was never in danger. Switzerland played hard, but this Canadian team is something else — the kind of collection of talent that makes you remember why you love hockey, why you grew up watching it, why you spent your childhood skating on frozen ponds in Ontario and dreaming about moments exactly like this.

The final horn sounds.

The Canadian players celebrate on the ice, the easy confidence of a team that knows they’re going through to the next round and isn’t worried about it.

You’re still standing, cheering, your voice basically gone.

“That was so fun,” you say, or try to say. It comes out as a croak.

“You’ve lost your voice,” Tristan observes.

“Worth it.”

“You screamed for two and a half hours straight.”

“WORTH IT.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before you lose your vocal cords entirely.”

But the crowd is slow-moving, everyone standing and talking and taking photos, and you’re in no rush. You’ve got nowhere to be. Your part of the Olympics is done. You won. You can stand in an arena in Milan and bask in the fact that you’re an Olympic gold medalist watching your country play hockey.

On the ice, the players are starting to leave, skating toward the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms.

The tunnel isn’t directly connected to the rink, which means they have to skate along the boards and then walk up a slight incline, past the first few rows of seats. A bunch of young fans — kids, mostly, in Canadian jerseys — have pressed up against the railing, and the players are slowing down to high-five them as they pass.

It’s sweet.

Crosby stops to sign something. McDavid ruffles a kid’s hair through the glass. Makar tosses a puck, and a girl who can’t be older than seven catches it and immediately bursts into tears.

You’re watching all of this with the specific warmth of someone who loves sports and loves watching athletes be good to fans, when you notice that one of the players has stopped moving entirely.

Number 17.

Celebrini.

He’s just … standing there.

Staring directly at you.

It takes you a second to realize he’s looking at you specifically.

At first you think maybe he’s looking past you, at someone in the rows behind, but no. His eyes are locked on yours, and he’s not moving, and it’s honestly kind of creepy? But also kind of flattering? But mostly creepy?

You do the only thing you can think to do.

You wave.

Slowly.

Awkwardly.

A little half-wave that you immediately regret because what are you, twelve?

Macklin blinks.

It’s the first time he’s blinked in what feels like a full minute, and the movement seems to reset something in his brain, because his mouth opens like he’s about to say something-

And then one of his teammates — you think it’s Seth Jarvis, based on the number — physically pushes him from behind.

“MOVE, CELLY!” Jarvis yells, loud enough that you can hear it from fifteen rows up.

Macklin stumbles forward, still looking back at you, and nearly trips over his own skates. Another teammate — definitely Crosby, you’d recognize that stride anywhere — grabs his shoulder and steers him toward the tunnel, and the entire group disappears into the corridor.

You’re left standing there, hand still half-raised in a wave, your brain trying to process what just happened.

“What,” Tristan says slowly, “was that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did he just … stare at you?”

“I think so?”

“For like a full minute?”

“At least.”

“That was-”

“Creepy?”

“I was going to say intense, but sure, creepy works.”

You lower your hand, which is still frozen in mid-wave like you’re a malfunctioning robot.

In front of you, an elderly woman in a Swiss jersey who you hadn’t particularly noticed before turns around in her seat.

She’s got white hair and glasses and the kind of face that makes you think of grandmothers and warm cookies, and she’s smiling at you with an expression you can’t quite read.

“Excuse me, dear,” she says. Her accent is Swiss-German, her English careful and precise.

“Yes?” You manage.

“That boy,” she says, nodding toward the tunnel where the Canadian team disappeared. “The one who was staring at you.”

“Um. Yes?”

“That’s how my husband looked at me the first time he saw me.” She’s still smiling, and there’s something deeply knowing in her expression. “We’ve been married for sixty-two years.”

You stare at her.

Your brain has officially short-circuited.

“I—what—I don’t-” you stammer.

“Just thought you should know,” the woman says pleasantly, and then she turns back around like she hasn’t just dropped a conversational bomb directly into your lap.

You look at Tristan.

Tristan looks at you.

“Did that just happen?” You ask.

“That absolutely just happened.”

“A Swiss grandmother just told me that a hockey player I’ve never spoken to looked at me the way her husband looked at her.”

“Yep.”

“And they’ve been married for sixty-two years.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do I do with that information?”

“I genuinely have no idea.”

You sit down.

Stand up.

Sit down again.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay. That was—he was probably just—maybe he recognized us? From the ice dance? Maybe he was just, I don’t know, trying to place where he knew us from?”

“Y/N.”

“And the staring was just him thinking, like, ‘oh, those are the ice dancers,’ and he got distracted-”

“Y/N.”

“What?”

Tristan gives you a look. “That man was not thinking about ice dance.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that. That was not a ‘oh, I recognize you from the skating’ stare. That was a ‘I have lost all higher brain function’ stare.”

“That’s-” you start, and then you stop, because you don’t actually have a counterargument.

Because Tristan’s right.

That wasn’t a casual recognition stare.

That was something else entirely.

“This is insane,” you say.

“This is amazing,” Tristan corrects. “This is a romantic comedy happening in real time.”

“This is me having a panic attack in an Olympic hockey arena.”

“Why not both?”

“Tristan!”

He’s grinning now, full-force, the kind of grin that means he’s about to say something that will make your life significantly more complicated.

“Don’t,” you warn.

“I’m just saying-”

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t say it.”

“He’s very cute.”

“TRISTAN.”

“He is! Objectively! And he just stared at you like you hung the moon!”

“He stared at me like a creep!”

“Potato, potahto.”

You put your face in your hands.

The crowd around you is thinning out, people filing toward the exits, but you’re still sitting there having a crisis while Tristan enjoys himself immensely.

“Okay,” you say finally, looking up. “Okay. Nothing happened. A hockey player looked at me weird. That’s it. That’s the whole story. We’re going to go back to the Village, eat some pasta, sleep for twelve hours, and forget this ever happened.”

“Sure,” Tristan says, in the tone of voice that means he absolutely does not believe you.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are. That’s what makes it so funny.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.” He stands, stretching. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before you spiral any harder.”

You follow him out of the arena, past the crowds and the vendors and the general chaos of a post-game Olympic venue, and the entire time you’re trying very hard not to think about the way Macklin Celebrini looked at you.

Like you were the only person in the arena.

Like he’d forgotten how to blink.

Like — and this is the part that’s really messing with you — like the Swiss grandmother was right.

“This is fine,” you mutter as you walk.

“Totally fine,” Tristan agrees, not even trying to hide his smile.

“Nothing is going to come of this.”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“I’m an Olympic gold medalist. I’m focused. I’m professional.”

“You’re in denial.”

“I’m realistic.”

Tristan doesn’t respond, just links his arm through yours as you walk back toward the Village, and you let him, because he’s your best friend and he’s put up with ten years of your nonsense and if he wants to think a random hockey player’s weird staring means something, you can let him have that.

Even if you’re absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent not thinking about it.

At all.

Not even a little bit.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s a text from your mom. Watched the hockey game! Canada looked great! Also someone filmed you in the stands and it’s going viral. You’re very enthusiastic. Love you!

Below it is a link to a TikTok.

You click on it.

It’s you. Screaming at the top of your lungs when Celebrini scored, your gold medal swinging around your neck, your face pure joy.

The caption reads Ice dance gold medalist Y/N Y/L/N is all of us watching Team Canada.

It has 250,000 likes.

“Oh no,” you say.

“What?” Tristan leans over to look.

He sees the video.

He starts laughing so hard he has to stop walking.

“I’m going to kill you,” you tell him.

“Worth it,” he wheezes.

Your phone buzzes again.

Another notification.

This one from Instagram.

You don’t want to look.

You look anyway.

It’s a video from someone in the arena. A different angle.

This one shows Macklin Celebrini stopping in his tracks and staring directly at where you’re sitting in the stands. Why did Celebrini just FREEZE???

The comments are already speculating.

“I’m deleting my social media,” you announce.

“You’re absolutely not,” Tristan says, still laughing.

“I’m moving to a remote cabin in the woods.”

“You hate bugs.”

“I’ll learn to love them.”

Your phone buzzes a third time.

You ignore it.

You’re going to ignore everything for the next twelve hours.

You’re going to go back to the Village, eat pasta, sleep, and when you wake up, this will all have blown over and you’ll be back to being a normal Olympic gold medalist whose biggest concern is whether or not to do a post-Olympic tour.

That’s the plan.

It’s a good plan.

It’s definitely going to work.

Right?

***

Sidney Crosby has won three Stanley Cups, two Olympic gold medals, and approximately every individual hockey award that exists.

He is widely considered one of the greatest players of all time.

He is a leader, a professional, a person who takes his responsibilities seriously and conducts himself with dignity both on and off the ice.

Which is why, when he physically pulls Mitch Marner into a storage closet in the Olympic Village at 9 PM on a Friday night, Mitch is understandably confused.

“Uh,” Mitch says, as Sid closes the door behind them. “Sid? What’s-”

“I need you to do something for me,” Sid says.

The closet is small. There are mops. There’s a bucket. There’s a very strong smell of industrial cleaner. Mitch is pressed up against a shelf of paper towels, and Sid is blocking the door, and this is, objectively, insane.

“Okay,” Mitch says slowly. “Could we do this thing not in a closet?”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s sensitive.”

“What’s sensitive?”

“Celebrini.”

Mitch blinks. “What about Celebrini?”

“He saw a girl.”

There is a long pause.

“I’m sorry,” Mitch says. “You pulled me into a closet to tell me that a nineteen-year-old saw a girl?”

“Not just any girl.” Sid is very serious. Too serious. The kind of serious that Mitch usually associates with game seven overtime situations, not whatever this is. “The ice dancer. The one who won gold. Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Okay?”

“He’s in love with her.”

“He doesn’t know her.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Sid-”

“Mitch.” Sid puts both hands on Mitch’s shoulders, which is somehow more alarming than the closet situation. “I watched this kid see her at the hockey game tonight, and he stopped walking. Just completely shut down. Jarvis had to physically push him to get him moving again.”

“So he thinks she’s pretty-”

“It was more than that.” Sid’s eyes are intense. “I’ve been in this sport for twenty years. I know what it looks like when someone gets hit by something they’re not ready for. And that kid got hit.”

Mitch stares at him.

“Are you,” Mitch says carefully, “having a midlife crisis?”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“That’s literally midlife-”

“I’m trying to help a teammate.”

“By pulling me into a closet.”

“Yes.”

“To talk about his crush.”

“Yes.”

Mitch takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Let’s say I believe you. Let’s say Mack is, I don’t know, experiencing some kind of Olympic Village rom-com situation. What does that have to do with me?”

“You played for the Leafs.”

“I’m aware.”

“Morgan Rielly is still on the Leafs.”

“Also aware.”

“Morgan Rielly is married to Tessa Virtue.”

“Yes, and-” Mitch stops. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Sid, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m completely serious.”

“You want me to call Morgan so that Morgan can get Tessa to—what, play matchmaker?”

“Not Tessa. Scott.”

“Scott?”

“Scott Moir. He coaches Y/N and her partner. If anyone can get her in a room with Mack, it’s him.”

Mitch stares at Sid for a long moment.

“This is the most insane thing you’ve ever asked me to do,” Mitch says.

“Is it?”

“Yes! We’re Olympic athletes! We’re supposed to be focused on hockey!”

“We won 5-1. We have a day before our next game. We can multitask.”

“This isn’t multitasking, this is-” Mitch stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “Does Mack even know you’re doing this?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Does he want help?”

“He’s nineteen and terrified. Of course he wants help. He just doesn’t know he wants help.”

“That’s not how consent works-”

“Mitch.” Sid’s voice goes softer. “I’m not asking you to force anything. I’m asking you to create an opportunity. That’s it. If they meet and nothing happens, fine. But if they meet and something does happen …” He shrugs. “Don’t you think they deserve that chance?”

Mitch looks at Sid.

Sid looks back, completely earnest.

“You’re genuinely invested in this,” Mitch says.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because-” Sid pauses, and for a second he looks almost vulnerable, which is deeply weird on Sidney Crosby. “Because we spend our whole lives focused on hockey. On winning. On being the best. And that’s important. That’s what we’re here for. But sometimes-” He stops. Starts again. “Sometimes you meet someone and it matters. And you should at least get the chance to see if it could be something.”

There’s a weight to the way he says it that makes Mitch think Sid is talking about more than just Macklin.

“Okay,” Mitch says finally. “Okay. I’ll call Morgan.”

Sid grins. “Thank you.”

“But if this blows up in our faces, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair.”

They emerge from the closet to find Tom Wilson leaning against the opposite wall, eating an apple.

“You two have a nice chat?” Tom asks innocently.

“Fuck off,” Mitch mutters.

Tom’s laugh follows them down the hallway.

────୨ৎ────

red flag number one.

it’s a 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒 morning like any other. you park your car in the student parking lot and enter the school for another 𝖽𝖺𝗒 of ignoring class work to waste time with your girlfriends. you enter the gates and look to your right, where 𝖾𝗂𝗃𝗂𝗋𝗈𝗎 always hung out with his homeboys. usually, he’d look up from his conversation, catch you in his eye, grow a huge smile brighter than the sun, and 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 over with a side hug and a “ayeee, mornin’ ma!”

usually.

you enter the school, look to your right. you see his head of redhead hair in his group of friends. he looks up, surveys the area, glances over you with a jolt, and dips his head back into the group.

what the fuck?

“chill out, y/n,” mina says coolly after a vivid retelling in your first period. “he probably didn’t see you.”

you’re appalled.

“mina. we made eye contact. i know he saw me!!”

she laughs softly, shushing her and directing her attention to the teacher at the front. “we got a test next week, lock in, girl.”

and… what?!

are you insane or is everyone else insane??

red flag number two.

the two of you have one class together: chemistry. and while you were assigned different lab partners, you often 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 a way to converse and flirt during class. you sat at your desk waiting for the bell to ring, applying lipgloss in your phone camera. you hear his voice bidding his friends goodbye in the hall, and figure you can play the ignoring game too.

you keep your eyes fixed on your phone as he comes in… sits down.

what?

he starts up a conversation with his lab partner. you can’t hear exactly what he says as 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗋𝖾 across the classroom, but… he didn’t even spare you a glance. not even one sorry look in 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 direction.

just yesterday the two of you were in his car with the windows down singing along to your favorite songs.

there was twang in your heart. what’s going on?

the day went on, red flags three, four and five steadily revealed themselves, and you were damn near about to break down in the middle of your final class. no random 𝗍𝗂𝗄𝗍𝗈𝗄𝗌 in the middle of the day, no one walking her to her classes, no play fighting at lunch. you wanted to throw up. was he ghosting you? did you do something? did he do something and this was him feeling guilty?

you were so sure about this one.

not to mention your friends were absolutely no help. you tried venting about it at lunch and they just brushed it off! today was turning out to be one of the worst of the year, and you wanted nothing more to fall into your bed and let the pillows suffocate you.

the final bell rung, and you couldn’t have packed up your stuff faster.

you’𝗋𝖾 speeding to the front gate, a heavy，painful lump in throat and tear𝗌 only kept from falling by the will of your mascara staying in tact.

by your car, you 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 a commotion, a big group of people. ’jesus christ, what now?’

you borderline stomp to your parking spot, about ready to curse some people out, when you begin to 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗓𝖾 a few— all?? of the teens in the huddle. you could hardly process that fact right now, 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝖺𝗌 your emotional regulation about to reach an all time low.

mina and kyoka emerge, and you stomach down the distaste you currently hold for them.

“what the fuck is going on,” you ask, voice more wobbly than you intended. you really couldn’t do this right now.

the two girls look to each other than back to you. “close you eyes,” kyoka said.

“i’m really not in the mood—“ you try to get out, but mina gives an “uht uht”, eyeing you to just go along with it.

you close your eyes. the sooner you get whatever this is over with the sooner you can go home.

the two girls guide you through what you can only assume is the crowd by the rustles and murmurs. you come to a stop, and you grumble, “y’all better not be playing with me.” there’s a few chuckles.

and then… a track you know all too well hits your ears.

baby i want a chance… to get you closer next to me…

your blind fold lifts, and there is 𝖾𝗂𝗃𝗂𝗋𝗈𝗎 before you, holding a microphone and a grin far too wide. he’s changed his clothes— from his casual school attire, he’s now in a button down and 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌, his red dreads up in a ponytail and… did he even touch up his lineup??

you 𝗁𝖺𝖽 to laugh- despite the overwhelming urge to collapse in tears 𝖺𝗍 finally see those eye and smile directed at you. you hadn’t realized how much it meant until you thought it was lost.

said， 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅， “i’ll be patient and slow,” ‘cause i got time, shit, maybe forever

from behind his back he pulls a bouquet of flowers, offering them and his hand to you. you take them, and he pulls you into a slow dance, continuing on with the song.

tell me what i gotta do… to move a little closer to you…

you wrap your arms around his neck, lost in his eyes, forgetting everything happening around you. “what is this, 𝖾𝗂𝗃𝗂𝗋𝗈𝗎?” you chuckle, though your eyes fill with tears.

“just a lil something i put together,” he answered, voice so soft and gentle－ oh you could listen to it all day.

he swings you out, spinning you back into his chest, you both facing the crowd

but i’ll give you the world… i’ll give you the world

from the crowd of their closest friends, you now fully realize, come Denki and Hanta, a poster stretched between the two, both with the dumbest grins on their face.

“𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝?” it read.

the tears are falling before you can even observe the rest of the poster. “Oh… eijirou,” you whisper.

he comes from around you, going to stand by his poster.

“i want to give you the world, y/n. please— let me?” he says, dropping the mic so his words are only heard by you.

you can only nod your head, words in short supply. you stumble forward, crash into his arms, nodding against his chest— surely smearing your makeup all over his nice shirt. oh well, you’ll definitely be buying him many more.

he chuckles, directing your gaze to his eyes, “is that a yes, ma?”

“yes!! yes- oh my god- yes, baby yes—!“ you cut yourself off, grabbing his face and kissing him with all the love you could muster in your body. he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in and fulfilling the kiss with passion. the group of teens around you cheer, and you’re quiet sure all of them have their phones out to record. oh well.

~

the sunset over the ocean horizon was a sight to behold, but no sight could compare to the brown of his eyes.

“ah, it was killing me to ignore you today,” eijirou voiced, your head on his shoulder in the trunk of his car, his hand on the side of your thigh. after school that same friday, he told you to hurry up and get ready for a date night— their first official date. they went to a nice dinner, drove around with the windows down, then finally found a good place to park, music playing softly in the back.

“killing you?” you question with a laugh. “oh baby, you should’ve seen me.”

“ahh don’t remind me!” he whined, throwing his head back. you chuckle at his childishness, though your heart only swells with adoration. “trust me ma, the last thing i’d ever want to do to you is ignore you. forgive?”

you look up at him, he looks down at you. the smiles comes over you both in tandem. you give him a small peck. “forgiven.” you climb onto his lap, kiss him again. “but, you gotta make it up to me.”

he laughs, leaning back to be supported by the car seat. “i will, baby, i will. forever.”

—————

AN: