Chapter 37 #3
We stood still as the anthems played, my head held high as music floated up to the rafters and flashes burst bright enough to bleach the edges of my vision white.
I stared ahead and thought about every sacrifice that had brought me here. Every interview where I lied. Every hand I shook. Every official smile.
Every warning spoken softly enough to sound like concern.
Next to me, Mila shifted enough that our sleeves brushed, and I realized she was watching me, as if she’d been waiting for this moment.
For what came next.
My chest tightened.
She knows.
Maybe she had always known.
The anthem finished, and the applause swelled, rolled, crested, until at last it began to thin. Medals glinted under the lights. I stood on the second step of the podium, my shoulders square, my expression composed…
My heart hammering now.
I didn’t look at the crowd, but at Mila.
She gave me a small nod.
I sucked in a deep breath, then stepped down from the podium, taking my time.
A murmur rippled through the crowd as I veered off from the designated route and headed toward the boards, towards the American team.
An official called after me. I kept walking.
Confusion rolled through the arena almost immediately. I could hear it spreading section by section, people standing, pointing, trying to understand what they were seeing.
Ahead of me, Dean had gone completely still.
The closer I got, the louder the noise became.
“Where’s he going?”
“Who’s he heading for?”
“Wait...”
Someone near the boards gasped.
Dean straightened, and I watched as his expression went from confusion to stunned realization. His eyes widened.
I smiled, and I knew when it finally hit him.
Yes, Dean. I’m coming for you.
And suddenly the atmosphere changed.
It was impossible to pinpoint the exact second it happened, but realization moved through the crowd like a wave gathering strength. People were rising to their feet. Phones appeared everywhere. Cameras followed me, their operators scrambling to keep up.
A roar began building somewhere high in the stands, and I could almost taste the anticipation in the air.
“Oh my God.”
“No way.”
“He’s going to—”
The sentence never finished.
At last, I stopped in front of him, close enough to see the fine sheen of sweat at his temple, to feel warmth radiating off him through layers of fabric.
Dean didn’t move, but gazed at me, his eyes still wide, waiting the way he always had.
I could hear my pulse in my ears. Every instinct trained into me over years screamed to stop, turn away, laugh it off—survive.
I was suddenly so tired of surviving.
I stepped closer to the gate, and he nodded, moving there too. Then I lifted my hands and cupped Dean’s face.
The reaction was instantaneous. A collective scream tore through the arena, as thousands of people suddenly got it.
Dean drew in a sharp breath.
Then I kissed him, slow and deliberate.
There would be no room afterward for journalists to reframe this into misunderstanding or friendship or emotional excess brought on by Olympic adrenaline.
I kissed him openly beneath arena lights with cameras pointed at us from every direction, the roar around us becoming almost physical, crashing over the ice in waves.
This is who I choose.
Cheers erupted through the stands, raw and deafening. Applause crashed like thunder.
Somewhere high above us, pride flags whipped through the air. Someone screamed, joyful and sharp enough to cut straight through the roar.
“Go, Luka, go!” I recognized Ethan’s voice in a heartbeat. “Holy shit, they’re replaying it on the big screen!”
“Yay, Dean!” That was Noah.
Cameras flashed wildly now as Dean’s breath stuttered against my mouth.
Then he kissed me back, one hand sliding hard against my waist as if he needed physical proof that I was really standing there, really choosing this in public where neither of us could take it back later, and relief tore through me so violently my knees nearly buckled beneath the force of it.
When we finally pulled apart, I rested my forehead against his, eyes closed as I fought to burn this moment into my memory.
Dean laughed under his breath, a shaky sound of disbelief, his hand on my waist, steady and so real.
The noise only grew louder, and I knew that somewhere in that arena, Sokolov was probably cursing me.
I didn’t care. For the first time, I truly didn’t care.
All I felt was Dean’s hand against my side, his warmth surrounding me.
“You sure?” he murmured, the words meant only for me.
I smiled. “Yes, I’m sure.” I hoped I looked as fearless as I sounded in my head.
I glanced toward the podium where Mila stood, waiting for me, while the arena still roared. She caught my eye and flashed me a proud smile.
“You ready for what comes next?” Dean asked in that same low voice.
“If you’re with me, then yes.” I held out my hand. “Are you?”
Dean took my hand. “Damn straight I am.”
I couldn’t suppress my burst of laughter. “Except I think you just proved you’re not.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear as he whispered, “I love you, Luka Davorin.”
“Love you, Dean Foster.”
He kissed my forehead.
Somewhere beyond us the arena erupted again.
This time I laughed.