Chapter 34 Gold #2
“You think this was a con?” Luka said, and his voice carried the casual, conversational, let-me-educate-you register that preceded his most devastating verbal dismantlings.
“You can go check the official government records. As of the opening ceremony, we’re officially a pack.
On paper. Legally registered. If you missed the memo getting lost in the social media coverage, that’s a personal oversight, not an institutional one. ”
I turned to him. Sharply. My storm-gray eyes widening with the genuine, unperformed surprise of a woman who had just received information that her own pack had not disclosed.
“Wait—what?”
Luka smiled. Not the smirk. The real one—the warm, full, reaching-his-eyes expression that he reserved for moments where the truth he was delivering exceeded the recipient’s expectations and the delivery was a gift rather than a briefing.
“We had a conversation. All four of us. The night before the opening ceremony, while you were reviewing the schedule with Foxwood.” His green eyes held mine with the steady, unapologetic, I-made-this-decision-and-I-would-make-it-again directness that characterized every significant action he’d taken since the day he’d arrived at Olympia Academy.
“We realized this would be our only window to prove we were serious. Not to the world. Not to the judges. To you.”
He paused. The beat carrying the weight of the disclosure that was coming.
“Also—you may not have known this, but a certain ex-pack Alpha had submitted a formal review request challenging your pack credentials immediately after we won the first segment.” His eyes flicked to Garrison, whose expression had transitioned from dismissive to rigid.
“We were approached in the staging area while you were in the dressing room with Foxwood. The IOC compliance office required us to produce a verified pack certificate confirming legalized status before your scores could be ratified for the medal round.”
The implication detonated in my awareness like a depth charge—the shockwave traveling through every layer of comprehension simultaneously, each level processing the information at a different speed and arriving at the same conclusion through different routes: if they hadn’t legalized the pack before the segments, I would have been disqualified.
My scores invalidated. My performance erased from the record.
The gold that was currently being carried toward me on a velvet tray by an IOC volunteer would have been awarded to someone else—and the man who had filed the challenge would have achieved, through bureaucratic weaponry, the same destruction he’d achieved five years ago through physical sabotage.
Garrison’s threatening jealousy. Deployed not through a sabotaged throw this time but through a regulation challenge. Different weapon. Same intent. Same target.
I looked at Garrison.
Slowly. The rotation of my head carrying the deliberate, controlled, I-am-choosing-to-look-at-you-now energy of a woman whose ignorance-as-armor strategy had just been rendered unnecessary by the disclosure that the man in front of her had attempted to disqualify her through bureaucratic channels on the morning of her Olympic debut.
“So you were that threatened by my shine,” I said, and my voice carried the quiet, level, devastatingly calm register that I reserved for moments where the anger exceeded the volume and the delivery required the inverse relationship between the two—the softer the voice, the larger the fury, “that you tried to do everything to destroy my spark. Huh?”
He frowned. The expression attempting to be dismissive and achieving, instead, the specific, caught, composure-under-strain configuration of a man whose contingency plans were being dismantled in real time. “It was never that serious.”
Luka’s voice arrived beside me. Warm. Lethal.
“It must have been. For you to go above and beyond to try to ruin our Omega’s chances at winning the gold she wholeheartedly deserved.
” His green eyes were locked on Garrison with the focused, analytical, I-am-reading-your-every-microexpression intensity of a goaltender tracking a shooter’s release point.
“But I guess you’ve forgotten the premise of Olympia Academy.
It’s not merely to sculpt Olympic champions.
It’s to cultivate an environment where genuine connections can flourish.
Or in this case—” he glanced at me, the look carrying a warmth that the preceding sentence’s steel had not contained, “re-flourish. Despite everything you orchestrated to keep us apart.”
The announcer’s voice crackled through the speaker system—the ceremonial, protocol-governed, this-is-official tone that the medal presentation required.
Then the tone shifted.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have an update to the rankings.”
The arena’s ambient noise dropped. The specific, collective, something-unexpected-is-happening recalibration of thousands of people whose attention had been divided between the medal ceremony and their phones and who were now redirecting their full cognitive bandwidth toward the speakers.
“Canada has been disqualified from the final rankings.”
The sentence detonated across the arena like a puck hitting glass at full velocity—the impact sudden, the reverberations spreading outward in concentric waves of gasps, murmurs, and the specific, open-mouthed, did-they-just-say-what-I-think-they-said silence that preceded the crowd’s processing of information that exceeded their established expectations for the evening’s proceedings.
“As a result, the revised standings are as follows: Russia will assume third place. Japan will still hold second.”
Garrison’s expression collapsed. The composure—the manufactured, camera-ready, sociopath’s-polish exterior that he’d maintained through the bronze placement and the conversation and Luka’s verbal dismantling—disintegrated with the structural totality of a facade whose supports had been simultaneously removed.
His jaw dropped. His eyes widened. The body language transitioning from controlled to chaotic with the specific, rapid, this-was-not-in-my-calculations urgency of a man whose strategic mind had been running scenarios and had not included this one.
“What?” The word left his mouth at a volume that exceeded the ceremonial context by approximately three registers. “This is a joke. No fucking way.”
The announcers continued. The broadcast voice carrying the measured, institutional, we-are-reading-from-an-official-statement cadence that distinguished verified information from speculation.
“It has been reported that Garrison Hale has been found in violation of competition integrity regulations. Due to these findings, he will be disqualified from the current event. His partner is additionally under investigation for Alpha-Omega forgery in their pack certification agreement. May the designated officers please escort them from the competition area.”
The arena’s response was seismic. Gasps first—the sharp, involuntary inhalations of hundreds of people processing a disqualification announcement in real time.
Then the boos. Low at first, building in volume and conviction as the crowd’s collective moral compass oriented itself toward the disclosed violation and produced the specific, sustained, you-have-offended-our-sense-of-fair-play vocalization that audiences reserved for cheaters, divers, and athletes whose transgressions insulted the institution they were supposed to represent.
Garrison was fuming. The composure fully abandoned. His body language carrying the rigid, cornered, every-escape-route-has-been-eliminated tension of a man whose carefully constructed position was being dismantled by institutional machinery he could not manipulate, redirect, or intimidate.
“This has to be a fucking joke,” he repeated, the words carrying less conviction and more desperation with each iteration, the verbal output of a man whose vocabulary was contracting as his options narrowed.
Officers in Olympic security uniforms materialized at the periphery.
Two of them. Professional. Composed. Moving toward Garrison and his partner with the measured, we-have-a-job-and-we’re-doing-it stride that security personnel employed when the situation was public, the cameras were recording, and the subject of their attention was displaying the early indicators of non-compliance.
I watched him go.
Watched the man who had dropped me being escorted from Olympic ice by security officers while hundreds of people expressed their displeasure at a volume that the arena’s acoustic engineers had not designed the building to sustain.
Watched the manufactured composure fail and the real man emerge—the petty, controlling, threatened-by-brilliance Alpha who had destroyed my career because my shine had exceeded his tolerance for proximity to a light he couldn’t claim as his own.
The announcers continued. The broadcast proceeding with the measured, professional, the-show-must-go-on momentum that Olympic coverage maintained regardless of the drama occurring at ice level.
“The tip leading to the investigation was submitted by a well-known retired coach whose identity will be protected for privacy and security purposes. The IOC wishes to emphasize that competition integrity will be rigorously enforced for the remainder of the Winter Games to ensure authenticity across all events.”
A retired coach.
The phrase lodged in my awareness with the specific, snagging, that-detail-matters quality of a puzzle piece whose significance exceeded its size.
A retired coach. Well-known. Whose identity was being protected.
Who had submitted the tip that had triggered the investigation that had produced the disqualification that was currently being enforced by two security officers on Olympic ice.