Luka
The arena lightsdimmed section by section as the final warm-up group cleared the ice, leaving the surface below washed in silver and blue.
Beside me, Mila adjusted the sleeves of her team jacket before folding her arms across her chest. Since practice that morning we had spoken mostly in fragments, neither of us especially interested in reopening conversations that had already left bruises.
Marek had already skated, cleanly, technically solid, but without momentum or attack. Even before the scores appeared, I could see from the set of his shoulders that he understood exactly where he stood. Sixth place flashed beside his name a moment later, far enough from the podium to make the rest of the competition academic unless half the field imploded.
The crowd shifted restlessly as the next skater was announced.
Ethan Miller.
The American crowd erupted immediately as Ethan burst ontothe ice with a grin sharp enough to cut glass, feeding shamelessly off the noise as he skated toward center ice.
And suddenly I noticed the flags.
There were US flags everywhere, but there were also Pride flags, scattered through the audience in flashes of color. Some were small enough to wrap around wrists, while others draped openly across shoulders or were painted across cheeks. One spectator near the boards had braided rainbow ribbons through their hair.
I stared longer than I meant to.
Mila followed my gaze into the crowd before looking back at the ice.
“He notices them too,” she said, pointing to Ethan.
He had just skated past one section where a group of fans waved rainbow flags overhead, and his grin widened in recognition.
The envy hit fast and ugly, not because Ethan was freer than me personally, but because he moved through the world assuming freedom belonged to him in the first place. That difference sat in his posture, in the easy confidence with which he occupied space. Nobody had taught him to edit himself before entering a room.
Ethan’s music exploded through the arena, fast and aggressive, and he launched immediately into his opening quad-triple combination with reckless confidence that somehow held together through sheer force of personality. The crowd loved him, responding with shouts of joy.
When he finished to thunderous applause, Ethan pointed both finger guns toward the audience before catching himself just short of a full dance move at center ice.
Mila laughed beside me. “Americans are strange.”
I leaned in and whispered, “Or maybe they are simply freer than we have ever been allowed to imagine.”
The final warm-up group gathered at the entrance tunnel.
And then I saw Dean.
He wore a dark blue costume that sparkled under the lights, his shoulders loose in a way that had become familiar to me. His focusappeared outward, although I caught a glimpse of the strain underneath.
Of course I saw it. I had put it there.
The announcer’s voice rolled through the arena. “And now, representing the United States of America… Dean Foster.”
The applause echoed off the walls and the high ceiling.
Dean pushed away from the boards and skated into the center spotlight as the opening piano notes ofExperiencefilled the arena. The music unfolded slowly, restrained at first, carrying quiet emotional weight beneath its simplicity. Dean stood motionless, and I forgot to breathe for a second.
Then he moved.
The first quad landed with brutal precision, clean enough that the audience reacted before he even completed the running edge out of it.
Mila expelled a breath beside me. “Good.”
She was right, it was very good, but I could see the control was tighter. This was not the expansive freedom of his team free skate.
His triple Axel soared, huge and confident, and the landing drew another roar from the American crowd.
