Chapter 6 Tian
SIX
Tian
Back at the hotel, Jack and I headed straight for our room.
The lobby was buzzing with late-night chatter, but we barely noticed as we were too wrapped up in each other.
In the elevator we pressed close, kissing long and lazily as the numbers ticked upward, every ding of the floor making my pulse race.
By the time we reached our level, his hand was already warm at the small of my back, guiding me down the hallway.
At the door, we paused for another kiss, deeper, lingering, before stumbling inside where the world narrowed down to just us.
And when we made love, it was slow and sweet.
But when it was done, despite the high of the day still buzzing in my veins, the air shifted. When he came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, as I was getting water from the refrigerator, he was quiet, sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face.
“You okay?” I asked, tugging my shirt over my head.
“Yeah, it’s been the most perfect day,” he said, glancing up at me as though he needed me to confirm it.
“Agreed,” I said, dropping down beside him. “Perfect.”
He lay back on the bed and stretched his limbs like a starfish.
I trailed my fingers along his thigh and paused when I noticed a pale scar cutting across his knee. “How’d you get this?” I asked softly.
Jack sighed, his hand coming down to brush over the mark, fingers lingering as if he could still feel the impact.
His shoulders hunched a little, the easy strength in his body giving way to something guarded.
I felt the heat of the scar under my fingertips, the raised line against his skin, and in that small touch I saw evidence of all the battles he’d fought to keep playing.
He looked away as he spoke, eyes distant, as if he were back on the ice reliving it, like it still ached.
“Training camp, years ago. Took a hit in practice, tore it up bad. Surgery, months of rehab. Thought it might be the end back then.” He glanced at me, eyes shadowed.
“But it wasn’t.” He huffed out a laugh without humor.
“I fought my way back. Still fighting, every day.”
Something about his tone made me pause. He sounded almost regretful, as if the memory still weighed on him even though he’d fought his way back.
For a second, I wondered if the scars on his body were etched into him in other ways too.
I held my tongue, sensing he was working up to something and not wanting to interrupt.
“Sometimes I’m just tired.”
“You work hard,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, but not just that. I forget I have enough money to retire on if I wanted, but sometimes…”
“What?” I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Some days… it feels like I’ve been ‘Captain O’Leary’ forever. Like that’s all I am. The captain. The guy who never breaks.” His shoulders sagged. “And I’m not twenty anymore. Hell, some mornings my knees remind me I’m closer to the end than the start.”
I leaned down and kissed his hair, trying to lighten what he was saying. “You still skate circles around half the league.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered.
I brushed it off then, but later those words stuck, burrowing under my skin.
I was just coming into my highs—the medals, the chance to maybe make Team USA for the Olympics, the adulation, the new money from sponsors—while he was already talking like his life in sport was winding down.
It underlined how different our journeys were, me just climbing the mountain while he was looking down from the other side, wondering how much longer he could keep going.
To fill the silence, I admitted something myself. “It’s lonely out there sometimes. People think all the travel and sponsors are glamorous. They don’t see the airports at three a.m. or the hotels where you don’t know anyone. Feels like I’m always moving, never home.”
“You’re young enough to thrive on it, Tian,” he said quietly. “I’m just… gah… old.”
“You’re not old,” I shot back, brushing my thumb over his cheek. “You just hit your prime earlier than I did, and now you get to think about what’s next.”
“I don’t know what’s next,” he admitted. “I have two years left on my contract, and I… do I even have that in me? Some mornings I wonder.” He let out a shaky laugh. “And then I think, fuck yes I do. It’s just—it takes more work now. More time to keep up. More energy to see things through.”
“Do you think we’ll see each other after this?
” The words came out halting, my throat dry.
My palms were damp, and I couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
Part of me wanted to bite the question back, afraid of hearing no, afraid of seeing pity on his face.
But I needed to know, even if the answer gutted me.
“Would you want to? I mean, I could visit Harrisburg, and when you play Denver you could look me up… y’know.
” Jeez, I couldn’t even put it into words.
“Part of me wants to,” Jack murmured. “But we can’t.”
“We can’t?”
“We said we’d have the two weeks; it’s for the best.”
I wanted to argue; I thought I saw hesitation in his expression. Maybe he wanted to argue with himself, but then I nodded, my chest tight. “I get that.”
His gaze went soft for a moment, but then he shook his head. “I mean, what even would it look like back in the real world? It wouldn’t be bike rides and sunsets and dancing, it would be… ships passing in the night.” He frowned at his analogy, and it made me smile.
“I know.”
“That’s why this can’t go anywhere, Tian. Look, I’m not trying to be negative, and I don’t want to sound miserable, but I need to be honest. I have to go back and work hard on myself—my body, my game. And you’re so close to making Team USA, you’re at the top of your game.”
“From your lips,” I muttered.
“You can’t let yourself get distracted, not now. I needed this reset with you, but when the season starts, it’s everything. And I know you’ll be just as busy, chasing comps and medals. We’d barely see each other. That’s not fair to either of us.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but his reasoning was sound. He wasn’t pushing me away because he didn’t care; he was trying to be realistic. Still, it stung.
I swallowed hard, my voice cracking as I blurted, eyes fixed anywhere but on him too desperate and too raw to hold it back, “It’s lonely out there sometimes. Even with all the travel, all the sponsorship perks… it’s lonely. It’d be nice to have a friend that—”
Jack cut in quickly, almost too quickly. “—that what? Meets up every so often to hook up, then leaves?”
The words hit me like a punch. I flinched, hurt sharp in my chest. “I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean… shit.”
There was regret in his eyes, but the damage was done. My throat worked around words I couldn’t quite form, the air heavy between us.
“I get it,” I said, even if every part of me hated agreeing.
I curled into his side, pressing my face against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
He wrapped an arm around me, his lips brushing the top of my hair, and I kissed the warm skin at his throat.
We clung to each other as if we could stop the night from ending.
But underneath the sweetness of the kisses and the warmth of his embrace, I knew the truth—that when morning came, we’d be heading in different directions, pretending it was all okay.
The next morning, I woke first and spent the longest time staring at Jack’s face, weighing everything in my head—gold medals and glory on one side, the man in front of me on the other.
My mind spun through possible futures: standing on Olympic podiums, sponsors cheering my name, or walking away from everything I’d battled through to build a life with him.
Neither path was easy, and the ache in my chest told me both mattered more than I wanted to admit.
The early sun filtered through the gauzy curtains at the windows, laying shadows across his skin, catching on the rough stubble of his jaw.
There was utter peace in his expression as he slept, the kind that made my chest ache with wanting to freeze this moment forever.
wondering if the chance at Olympic gold, at success, was worth more than this.
More than what?
My rational side kicked in—I absolutely hated my rational side.
We’d shared sex and connection filled with fun and laughter, capturing idyllic moments that weren’t part of normal life.
Yet here I was, making it seem like more than it could ever be, and I knew I was blowing it out of proportion. I knew what we needed to do.
My parents had sacrificed so much to get me to the level I was at—early mornings driving me to the slopes, scraping together money for equipment and travel, holding their breath every time I fell hard and got back up again.
I’d given up everything to be here too: friendships, normal school life, a chance at anything resembling stability.
And now I was lying here thinking what? That a two-week fling, however perfect, was worth more than all of that?
The thought twisted in my gut, made me feel selfish and reckless, but also desperate because some small, dangerous part of me whispered maybe it was.
I wanted this.
I couldn’t have this.
I shouldn’t want this.
Jack stirred, then woke and smiled at me, the smile wavering as the realization of the end of this hit him as hard as it hit me.
“Shower?” he asked. We brushed our teeth, kissed between mouthfuls of toothpaste, held hands, touched every chance we got, as if we could make up for all the time we were about to lose.
In the shower, it started with a gentle kiss, the hot spray pounding over our shoulders and trickling down our skin.
The steam clung to us, the tiles slick beneath our feet, and the scent of soap and heat filled the small space.
Water ran down his chest and over mine as our mouths met, slippery skin pressed tight, every sensation heightened by the warmth surrounding us.
Then his hands slid over my shoulders, down my back, pulling me close until our bodies lined up.
It wasn’t frantic this time, not desperate—just slow, quiet goodbyes written in skin and steam.
I pressed into him, frotting against his thigh as he rocked against me, every movement matched, every sigh caught in a kiss.
My fingers tangled in his wet hair, his lips brushing over mine, over my jaw, down my throat.
The heat built gradually, tender and inevitable, until we both shuddered, clinging to each other as if the water might wash us apart.
When it was over, we stayed wrapped together, foreheads touching, trading gentle kisses under the spray, neither of us willing to let go first.
We dried off slowly, deliberately, as though dragging out the minutes could somehow stall time itself.
He handed me a towel with a crooked smile, and I smoothed it over his shoulders, memorizing the curve of muscle beneath my palms. Even then we kept touching—brushing fingers, lingering glances in the mirror—as if letting go would make the goodbye too real.
Every small gesture carried weight, each kiss to damp skin a promise neither of us dared speak aloud.
It was goodbye.