Chapter 19 #2
The sound barely reaches me at first. Because Arabella is still looking up at me like she forgot the rest of the world exists.
And for one impossible second, everything feels simple. Just Arabella warm in my arms, breathing unevenly from adrenaline while happiness pours off her strongly enough that I swear I can feel it physically.
Somewhere behind us, photographers keep capturing every second.
Eventually one of Arabella's coaches starts trying to pull her toward interviews. Arabella immediately looks like she's considering faking her own death instead.
I laugh softly.
Arabella narrows her eyes. "I could still escape."
"On skates?"
"Yes."
"Honestly believable."
She snorts tiredly, and the sound lands.
People keep stopping her after that. Congratulations.
Questions. Photos. Through all of it, Arabella keeps drifting unconsciously back toward me.
Close enough that her shoulder brushes mine whenever somebody finishes talking to her.
Like her body already knows where she feels safest.
Eventually I guide her quietly toward one of the side hallways near the locker rooms while officials get distracted arguing over schedules. The second we step away from the crowd, Arabella exhales hard. The hallway is quieter. Dimmer. Just distant arena noise bleeding faintly through the walls.
Arabella leans back against the wall briefly and closes her eyes. "Tired?" I ask softly.
"Emotionally concussed."
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Arabella's mouth curves instantly at the sound. I step closer without thinking about it. Arabella relaxes the second I do. My hand slides lightly against her waist. She leans into me without hesitation. No tension. No uncertainty. Just trust.
Arabella tips her head back against the wall while looking up at me, still glowing faintly, still smiling in small bursts like she hasn't fully caught up to the fact that she won yet. "You were terrifyingly calm," she murmurs.
"I was ridiculously nervous."
"You looked calm."
I brush a loose strand of hair back from her face automatically. The movement stills both of us for a second. Arabella's eyes stay locked on mine afterward.
I lean in slowly. She doesn't pull back.
Her eyes close. I kiss her softly, slower than before, and feel the last of the adrenaline leaving her body in real time.
Her fingers stay loosely curled in the front of my hoodie.
I keep one hand against her jaw while the other stays at her waist, and neither of us is in any hurry.
When I pull back, I stay close enough that our foreheads are almost touching.
Arabella shifts until her forehead rests lightly against my shoulder. I hold her automatically, one hand against her back while the other slides slowly along her arm. For one impossible second everything feels safe. Private. Earned.
I close my eyes briefly.
The first warning sign is my phone vibrating repeatedly against my pocket.
I ignore it at first. Arabella is still tucked close against me while officials argue nearby about schedules and media rotations. Nothing outside this hallway feels particularly important right now.
Then the phone buzzes again.
And again.
Arabella lifts her head slightly. "You're popular today."
I pull the phone out reluctantly. Three texts. Two from teammates. One from my publicist. I open the first message.
Mason: dude.
Attached underneath is a photo. My stomach drops so hard it feels physical. It's us. Arabella in my arms beside the rink. My forehead pressed against hers. Her hands locked around my shoulders. The expression on my face nearly knocks the air out of me.
Because I don't look casual.
I don't even look controlled. I look completely fucking gone over her.
Mason: subtle as a heart attack btw.
Jesus Christ.
Arabella shifts slightly closer while I stare at the screen. Warm against me. Relaxed. Trusting enough that she does it without thinking first. The emotional whiplash almost hurts.
I open the second text. Screenshots. Social media is already detonating. Photos. Videos. Slow-motion clips of Arabella running toward me after the scores came up. Headlines forming in real time.
BLADE'S STAR LEFT WING CAUGHT IN EMOTIONAL POST-WIN MOMENT WITH FIGURE SKATING CHAMPION
CALDER HAYES AND ARABELLA VALE CONFIRM ROMANCE?
NATIONALS WIN TURNS INTO VIRAL RELATIONSHIP REVEAL
My chest tightens violently. Because suddenly the safest moment of my entire day doesn't belong to us anymore. It belongs to the internet.
Arabella notices the shift in my expression immediately. "What?"
I look up at her. Still flushed from adrenaline. Still leaning into me automatically. And fear spikes through me hard enough to make my pulse stumble.
Because now everyone can see this too. The way she reaches for me. The way I touch her. The fact that I look at her like she matters more than literally anything else around me.
Another notification lights up the screen. A sports commentator reposting one of the photos.
Looks like Calder Hayes found a new obsession
Something ugly twists through me. Because they don't understand. This isn't casual. It isn't publicity. It's the safest thing I've had in years. And now strangers are turning it into entertainment.
Arabella reaches automatically for my wrist. Grounding.
Familiar enough that she does it on instinct now.
But instead of calming me down, the touch makes everything worse.
Because suddenly all I can think about is what happens when the media really gets hold of this.
Questions. Speculation. Narratives built out of half-second clips and photos taken out of context.
Distraction headlines. Relationship scrutiny.
The private space we built together suddenly feels exposed in a way that physically hurts.
"You okay?" Arabella asks quietly.
Five minutes ago I was standing here thinking this hallway felt like home. Now it feels exposed from every direction. I lock my phone without answering. My pulse pounds hard beneath my skin. Because happiness became visible. And visible things can be taken away.
Arabella gets pulled into interviews while I stay slightly outside the crowd afterward.
Every camera flash suddenly feels hostile.
Not because they're pointed at me. Because they're pointed at us.
Arabella catches my eye once between questions and smiles automatically anyway.
Warmth hits me instantly before fear crashes in right behind it.
That's the problem.
No matter how badly panic keeps climbing up my spine, my body still reacts to her first. Relief. Attachment. Want.
Then fear follows.
Arabella worked too hard for this. Years of pain.
Pressure. Training through injuries. And now I can already picture commentators reducing her to somebody's girlfriend before they even talk about the actual performance.
The thought makes something ugly move through my stomach.
Because the terrifying part isn't embarrassment.
It's becoming something that hurts her. A distraction.
A complication. A public narrative she never asked for.
Before today, whatever existed between us belonged only to us. Coffee after practice. Her apartment. Quiet mornings. Shared exhaustion. Private. Safe. Now strangers are zooming in on forehead touches and the way she reaches for me automatically like it means they know something about us.
Because public scrutiny changes things.
Not all at once.
Slowly.
Pressure. Speculation. Outside opinions forcing their way into spaces that used to feel protected.
I don't actually care what headlines say about me. I care about losing this. The safety. The quiet. The way Arabella looks at me like being close to me lets her finally stop bracing against the world for a while.
I'm not afraid of people knowing about us.
I'm afraid of what happens to something this fragile once the entire world gets their hands on it.