Chapter Fifteen
Roman
The arena is almost peaceful at this early hour.
No crowd. No music. Just the scrape of blades and the hollow echo of pucks hitting boards.
Practice skates are routine. That’s why I like them. I know what to expect and what’s to come.
I step onto the ice and let myself settle into it. The surface is much cleaner than it’ll be tonight—freshly cut, faint snow still lining the boards.
We don’t have a game tonight. I’m so grateful the figure skating and hockey games have been opposite because I’d be distracted if Nico was performing at the same time as I am.
I want to watch him win the gold. I want to see his face in real time when he realizes that he’s done the best and it paid off.
We start with light laps, then line rushes. Forwards cycling through the neutral zone. I pivot backward at the blue line, keeping my gap tight as one of our wingers comes at me half-speed.
“Angle him!” Coach calls.
I already am.
I guide him wide, stick inside, force him toward the boards. Even in a half-effort drill, details matter. Shoulder angle. Stick placement. Timing. The more you do it, the easier it becomes. It’s second nature at this point.
Everything in hockey is about timing and instinct.
The puck slides to the corner. I retrieve it, and shoulder-check Hersch. I always know who’s coming; it’s part of my job to be aware. I reverse it to McVoy, who is behind the net and waiting. It’s quick and sharp. A great play.
“Good,” he mutters as he sends it up the wall.
We reset and do it again.
Practices aren’t about contact. No one’s finishing hits or slamming into boards.
No one’s throwing weight. The last thing we want to do to our own teammates is send them out on an injury.
It’s about sharpening reads. Feeling the ice.
Seeing patterns before they form, so we’ll be on point for our games.
On the power-play drill, I take my usual spot on the penalty kill unit. We run through coverage. Clear hard when we get the puck to send it to the other end of the ice. We get it out of our zone, killing the time they have.
The puck comes across the blue line, and I step up early, intercept the pass before it fully crosses.
Coach points at me. “That’s it. Anticipate.”
I nod once and skate back to position.
Anticipate.
It’s what I always do.
You don’t chase the puck. You chase intention. You read hips. Shoulders. Eyes. Where weight shifts a fraction too early, so you know where they’re going, and if you know that… you can guess what they’re going to do.
We finish with quick shooting reps. I send a few wristers from the point, more to test lanes than to score. It’s rebound control for our goalie because he needs his practice, too. Blocking shots isn’t always easy, and each one has their weak points.
Sweat gathers at the back of my neck, but my breathing is steady. Controlled. My body feels good. Relaxed. Fully worked out. It’s a reminder of last night, and a quick thought of what Nico is doing right now.
I glance up at the empty stands without meaning to.
Tomorrow, they won’t be empty.
Tomorrow, I’ll know exactly where to look.
I push off toward the bench when Coach blows the whistle.
Practice ends the way it always does—sticks tapping boards, a few jokes tossed around, someone complaining about the smell in the locker room.
Routine, even with unfamiliar teammates. We’re making it work. We’re going to win this.
“You get a good night’s sleep last night or what?” Connor asks, slapping me on the back.
“What do you mean?” I ask as I unlace my skates.
“You’re fire out there. Sharper than usual.”
I shrug. “Guess so, then.”
It’s not that I want to keep Nico a secret, but I don’t need to gossip about what we’re doing. Connor wouldn’t tell anyone, but I still don’t need to share. There’s no need for him to know.
“How was your night?” I ask. “You’re looking a little tired.”
“Didn’t sleep great,” he says, pulling off his jersey. “Richtor had me up all night. Wouldn’t shut up!” He calls out the last part loud enough that Richtor, who is across the room, looks up and laughs.
Richtor is another one of our teammates back home.
Three Diamonds on the same Olympic team.
Connor and I are good friends because we play together on the ice, but he and Richtor have a different kind of friendship.
Something like brothers. They hang out a lot when we travel and even at home.
Connor gets his social side out with Richtor while his chill side is saved for me.
I’m not the partying type, and those two like to party sometimes.
“What’s the plan for tonight?” Connor asks. “You going to the figure skating performance?” He waggles his brows.
“Yes.”
“Cool. Me too.”
“You are?”
“Yeah, I got tickets last minute. You wanna grab lunch with us and then we can head over?”
“Sounds good.”
He goes to the showers, and I finish getting my gear off before doing the same. Connor has shown a lot of interest in watching the other athletes, but figure skating? Didn’t think he’d make this a priority.
When I check my phone, I see one text from Nico. I open it, and bite back the groan. It’s a photo of his hard dick, covered by his sweatpants. The text tells me he’s thinking about me. I smirk as I head to the bathroom and take a selfie with my shirt off and send it back.
I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me last night, like I was something special. The way he ran his hands down my body like somehow, to him, I was perfect.
That sort of feeling is addicting.
And also a little scary.
The arena is different tonight. Charged with electric energy. This is so much more than it was for the team events.
I sit in the athlete section, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on the tunnel where he’ll come from. Connor is beside me, looking around like he’s trying to find someone that maybe isn’t here. Normally the behavior would make me antsy, but I’m too focused to care about what he’s doing.
When Nico is announced, Canadian flags raise in the stands. Red everywhere. Cameras flash. People cheer. He doesn’t look overwhelmed as he skates onto the ice. He looks calm and ready.
The music starts up a moment later, Nico standing center ice, arms out and posing like a precious doll.
It’s quiet and soft, until it starts to pick up—and that’s when he goes.
Picking up speed around the boards. Turning and skating backwards, doing his choreography perfectly.
Not a single wasted movement. He bends slightly, launching up and spinning more than should be humanly possible.
It’s the quad. I know that one now. I’ve been studying and learning.
Four rotations. Fast. Compact. He lands deep, steady; his blades carving a clean arc out and around.
The crowd explodes.
I don’t. I nod once, rubbing my hands together in anticipation. He completed one jump. He has more to go. I don’t doubt he will do perfectly, but mistakes happen and I’m still worried. I want this for him. I want him to win.
Another jump, this one shorter. There’s no wobble with his landing, and he goes straight into another element, some jump combo. Two rotations. Back on his feet. Another jump. Three rotations. Seamless. No hesitation. Perfection. Clean.
Nico deserves the gold. He deserves this.
There’s a step sequence next, almost like dance moves. His shoulder movements hit the beats, while his feet confidently move him across the ice. He knows the arena like the back of his hand. I bet he could skate blindly and still win a medal.
His time is coming to an end; I can tell by the way the music is playing. He does his final pass across the ice. One final triple axel. He lands clean, and the crowd goes wild because they know. They know that he just won that damn medal with a performance like that.
The music ends and he hits the final position, chest rising, eyes bright as he looks out at the crowd with that beautiful, bright smile across his face.
Everyone in the arena is on their feet.
I am too this time, even though I don’t remember standing.
Nico looks toward the athlete section. Not searching wildly. Just checking.
Our eyes meet.
He knows.
I know.
Neither of us does anything, we just watch. Look. Share some silent conversation. He drops his arms and skates off the ice, his team roaring with excitement.
The score takes forever. The technical panel is reviewing something. The judges tap at screens, and I am about to scream if they don’t hurry up. I’m on the edge of my seat, holding my breath.
When Nico’s score comes up, it’s high enough that I don’t need to understand the whys or hows.
He’s ahead by a lot.
The commentators are already saying it, and he doesn’t need to hear them. Because he knows too. I see the look on his face. Not surprise but validation.
He’s taking the gold.
I’ve won games that mattered. Never a Stanley, and it’s my first time here, but I’ve won a lot of important games in my life.
This is different.
I see it written all over Nico’s face and I feel it deep in my bones. Not just for him, but for me too. Because if Nico can win the gold. So can I—so can my team.
I’ve watched Nico skate in an empty practice rink and I was enthralled.
I’ve watched him laugh when he fell out of a spin and I couldn’t look away.
I’ve watched him in my bed and felt like it’s where he belonged.
And now I’m watching him become an Olympic champion… something very few people get to see.
When he looks up again, I smile.
He laughs, his eyes bright, and all I can think is I can’t wait to kiss him later.