The final pose arrived. I usually kept the distance precise, controlled, but tonight I closed it, bringing us one breath nearer while the final note faded into silence.
No smile, no bow, only stillness.
The music ended, and for a heartbeat nobody moved.
Then the entire arena rose to its feet.
The sound crashed over us, a wave of applause and shouting, while Mila’s hand remained tightly in mine.
They think they have witnessed the most romantic skate of the Olympics.
Wrong again. What they had witnessed was a man deciding, in real time, to stop belonging to something that had never truly seen him.
The applause rolled through the arena in waves, loud enough tovibrate through my chest while Mila and I skated toward the Kiss and Cry with our hands still clasped together. My lungs burned from the program. Sweat cooled rapidly against my skin beneath the arena lights, every muscle in my body trembling now that adrenaline had nowhere left to go.
For a few seconds I could barely process the noise around us. People were standing, whole sections of the crowd applauding while cameras tracked our movement across the rink.
Mila squeezed my hand once, hard, and I looked at her shining eyes. Relief crashed into me so sharply, it made my knees weak.
We had done it.
Whatever happened with the scores now, we had done the skate exactly the way we wanted.
We reached the boards where Sokolov waited—smiling. He looked almost human.
“That was the program,” he said roughly as Mila climbed off the ice first and fitted guards. Then he turned toward me, his hand landing hard against the back of my neck, not quite affection but as close as he got to it. “Well done.”
We sat down together in the Kiss and Cry while the audience continued applauding behind us. Mila stayed pressed close beside me, our shoulders touching, her fingers still tangled with mine as replay footage flashed across the giant screen overhead. The twist, the throw loop, the final pose. From a distance we looked exactly like what the commentators wanted us to be—a love story.
I almost laughed at the irony.
Instead I focused on Mila’s hand in mine and tried very hard not to look across the arena searching for Dean. I knew he would be watching me.
Mila caught her breath. “Now we need enough to beat the Americans.”
Japan were in first place with 231.24 overall after their extraordinary free skate. The Americans sat in second after scoring 142.94 for a total of 217.54.
Waiting was torture.
She leaned in closer, her voice low enough not to carry beyond the cameras. “You terrified me during the second throw.”
I couldn’t hold back my smile. “You landed it.”
“Yes, because apparently I have poor survival instincts.”
I huffed a soft laugh before the tension returned almost immediately.
The arena lights seemed painfully bright. My heartbeat had still not fully slowed from the program, but another pressure had already started building beneath it, anticipation mixed with exhaustion mixed with something far more dangerous that I refused to name yet.
The cameras moved closer.
Scores incoming.
Mila’s grip tightened hard enough to hurt.
Then the numbers appeared.
147.90.
