21. Chris #2
“And don’t forget it.” She winked. “This is you.”
The room she pointed to had clearly earned its name. Green velvet curtains hung over the large lead-lined windows and around the four-post bed. The walls were papered in pale green, and a plush green carpet covered the ancient hardwood underfoot.
“A few other guests have arrived; everyone staying over is in this wing,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” She turned to go. “But if you need a dance partner later, find me at the reception.” She bounced away with a wink over her shoulder, leaving Chris bemused and a bit overwhelmed by the opulence surrounding him.
“Should I worry about competition?” A drawl sounded from the doorway, and Chris whirled around to see Isaiah leaning against the doorframe where Darius’s sister had exited moments ago.
“Isaiah,” he breathed. He drank in the sight of him in a purple dinner suit that coordinated perfectly with his violet hair. It looked like he’d lined his eyes with kohl, and his pink lips shone just slightly in the light. He was a fucking vision.
Isaiah stepped into the room where Chris stood frozen, halfway to hanging his suit in the tall armoire.
He took the garment bag from his hands gently and placed it inside, then pulled Chris into a kiss that rearranged the wild thoughts that had been rushing through his head over the past week, slotting everything into place.
“I’ve got to check on Elliot, but promise me a dance later?” Isaiah asked.
“Anything,” Chris breathed.
“Can’t mess with the suit now.” Isaiah smirked. “But maybe we can put this four-poster to the test.”
Chris groaned. “Yes…fuck, please, Isaiah.” Chris found himself leaning into the other man, seeking his warmth.
Isaiah wrapped his arms around his waist. “I like the room. A little on the nose though.” He laughed. “I’m just across the hall. I think Darius may be more perceptive than he lets on.”
Chris dove in for another sloppy kiss.
“I’ll find you after the ceremony,” Isaiah promised as he pulled away gently. And then he was gone, leaving Chris alone to rush into his suit and book it out to the garden where a stunning arbour of trailing white flowers and firs stood, awaiting the ceremony.
Isaiah was up at the front with Darius, who was acting as Jackson’s best man.
The last of the guests filtered in and he let himself stare unabashedly at Isaiah.
A string quartet struck up what Chris was pretty confident was a Britney Spears song as Jackson and Elliot walked down the aisle hand in hand, the grins on their faces so wide that they melted any remaining hint of cynicism in his heart.
The ceremony was short but heartfelt. The pair recited their own vows to each other, bringing a tear to Chris’s eye and momentarily managing to distract him from his laser focus on Isaiah.
They were so good together, and it was a testament to how perfect the moment was that Chris even managed to survive mentions of their Olympic kiss without dying in a pool of shame.
He couldn’t help but laugh when, instead of a traditional send-off with confetti on their way out, Darius and Isaiah held out a red ribbon for the grooms to race through and break together.
Chris followed as the whole group was directed to a large white tent where drinks and canapés were already circulating.
He dodged Kelly, the sports psychologist he’d never called, and found himself chatting briefly with Seb, the team’s physio, and his husband, Nathan.
By the time Chris had a drink in his hand and the sun had dipped low enough to throw gold flashes through the canvas walls of the marquee, he realised he was actually enjoying himself.
It didn’t last. People greeted him easily enough—not just friends and old teammates, but distant connections from the circuit who smiled a little too carefully and asked the same safe questions about “what was next.” The whispers were there if he listened for them.
He caught the half-turned heads, the murmurs of “is that him?” threaded through the clink of glassware and bursts of laughter.
His ban was almost over and he was tired of being a cautionary tale.
Chris desperately wanted Isaiah to be right.
The idea that everyone would forget, that he’d paid his dues was one he found himself clinging to.
As if summoned, Isaiah found him again before he’d even finished his first drink, materialising at his elbow and putting a hand on the small of his back, warm and grounding.
“You’re doing that thing,” Isaiah murmured, mouth barely moving. “Like at the club.”
Chris glanced sideways. “What thing?”
“The scanning-the-room-like-you’re-about-to-be-ambushed thing.”
Chris huffed a laugh. “Occupational hazard.”
Isaiah’s fingers pressed into his side, subtle but sure.
I see you. Then he was being pulled away again, intercepted by Darius, by Jamie, by Jacob and Malek, who grinned like they knew something everyone else didn’t.
Isaiah was luminous among them, purple suit catching the light, laughter easy and bright, and yet he kept orbiting back, brushing past Chris, murmuring something low, a promise of later threaded through every glance.
The speeches came and went. Isaiah’s was perfect.
He was warm, sharp, and just irreverent enough to make the tent ripple with laughter.
Chris watched him talk about chosen family and endurance and love that didn’t ask permission, and felt that familiar, dangerous swell in his chest. Want.
Pride. Something that felt perilously like hope.
Cocktail hour blurred into photographs. Someone called for an Olympic team shot, and Chris found himself swept into it before he could overthink it. Anders clapped a hand on his shoulder like no time had passed at all.
“Good to see you,” Anders said quietly, smile fixed for the camera. His eyes softened, just a fraction. “You holding up?”
“Yeah,” Chris said. And he meant it. Mostly.
Anders nodded. “I’m looking forward to your comeback, kid.”
The music shifted. A man in a grey suit started to approach, a look in his eyes that told Chris this was not a conversation he wanted to be part of.
Selena appeared at his side like she’d been conjured, eyes dancing.
“You owe me a dance, Mr. Green,” she said, already tugging him toward the floor.
“Quick, before my brother starts another speech.”
Chris laughed and let himself be pulled in. He was acutely aware of Isaiah watching from across the tent, jaw tight, eyes flashing like lightning. Chris turned into it deliberately, spun Selena, and leaned in close as she laughed.
“Oh, you are evil,” she murmured, clocking it instantly.
“You offered,” Chris said innocently.
She grinned wider. “I did.”
When Isaiah cut in a song later, hand firm at Chris’s waist, the air between them was charged enough to hum.
“You enjoying yourself?” Isaiah asked, voice low.
“Immensely,” Chris said. “You?”
Isaiah’s smile was sharp. “Always.” He spun out of Chris’s grasp. “Get a drink with me?”
They didn’t quite make it to the bar.
Chris noticed the shift before he saw the cause—the way Isaiah’s body went rigid, the way his eyes fixed on something over Chris’s shoulder.
When Chris turned, his stomach dropped. He didn’t need to be told to know who the couple who just entered were.
He could see it in their colouring, in the cut of their cheekbones and the confident set to their shoulders.
The way Carl stormed towards them the second they entered, leaving his conversation with Coach Anders and the retired Coach Ellison mid-sentence with fury written on his face confirmed it.
They didn’t belong here. Not in this place, not at this celebration. Isaiah’s parents stood near the edge of the tent, their expressions pinched with disapproval and something like entitlement. Chris felt Isaiah’s hand fall away from his.
Where the fuck was security?
Isaiah was shaking, but he took a step forward, moving swiftly towards them. Chris followed, steady at his side.
“Why are you here?” Isaiah asked softly as he stood in front of them. Chris could easily see the resemblance, but their eyes held no light, none of the joy that typically shone through Isaiah’s.
“It’s a family wedding,” his father replied.
Isaiah’s eyes hardened. He reached for Chris’s hand, gripping it hard as if steadying himself. Chris saw the couple track the movement with their eyes and squeezed back.
“That’s not a word that means much to you these days, so I don’t see why you’ve bothered.” Isaiah’s tone was nonchalant, but his death grip on Chris’s hand told him just how affected he really was.
“Isaiah,” his mother said. And even the way she pronounced his name made Chris twitch. “Be reasonable. You made your choice.”
“I made my choice?” Isaiah sounded distant, like he was somewhere else entirely. Chris squeezed his hand again.
“You really believe that, don’t you?” he said, eyes hardening. “You should leave. There’s no place for you here. You aren’t welcome in this home.”
Isaiah’s words landed. His father looked thunderous and his mother glared.
“Now see here, boy—” Isaiah’s father stepped forward, but in that moment, Carl, Anders, and the duke himself all moved forward. Later, Chris might realise they had held back deliberately to give Isaiah a chance at closure, but in the moment he was only grateful that they’d stepped in.