Chapter 10: The Village After Dark
The noise hit Amber first. A wall of sound—pounding bass from a stereo balanced on milk crates, laughter sharp enough to cut glass, the percussive crack of pool balls. Then the smell: spilled beer, synthetic cheese powder, too many bodies in a room with windows that hadn’t been opened in a decade.
Alysa grabbed her wrist, pulling her through the doorway. “Told you they’d be going for it!”
The snowboard team had commandeered the common room. It was a catastrophe of celebration. A keg sat weeping on a table, surrounded by red plastic cups. Someone had taped a poster of a mountain over the “Quiet Hours” notice. On the worn pool table, a lean guy with Australian team colors was doing a handstand, to scattered applause.
Isabeau slipped past them, beelining for the snack table. “They have the good chips!”
Amber hovered just inside the door, her post-qualification euphoria tightening into a familiar coil of social anxiety. She’d changed out of her team tracksuit into jeans and a simple black sweater, but she still felt overly visible, like a spotlight was following her.
Then she saw her.
Y/n was across the room, leaning against the jukebox that wasn’t plugged in. She was in deep conversation with a tall Swedish skier, gesturing with a bottle of beer. She threw her head back and laughed at something, the cords of her neck stretching, the green of her eyes catching the flicker of the neon ‘Coors’ sign. She wore a faded Ramones t-shirt with the sleeves torn off, her tattoos on full display.
Amber’s chest did that thing again, that inconvenient squeeze.
“Go on,” Alysa whispered, giving her a gentle push. “We didn’t survive Marta’s wrath today to watch you commune with the doorframe.”
She took a breath and waded into the current. A few people nodded at her, offering smiles or raised cups. She managed tight smiles back. She was almost at the relative safety of the chip bowl when a hand touched her elbow.
“You made it.”
Y/n stood there, her grin easy. The Swedish skier was gone. “Wasn’t sure you party people did things like this.”
“We don’t,” Amber said, the words coming out more blunt than she intended. “I mean, not usually. Alysa and Isabeau insisted.”
“Well, I’m glad they did.” Y/n held out a fresh bottle of beer. “Here. Looks like you could use it.”
Amber took it. Their fingers didn’t brush this time; Y/n was careful. The gesture felt intentional.
“Congratulations, by the way. Finals.” Y/n clinked her bottle against Amber’s. “Saw the scores. You were a robot out there. In the best way.”
“A robot,” Amber repeated, taking a sip. The beer was bitter and cold.
“Precise. Unshakable.” Y/n’s gaze held hers. “It was impressive.”
A shout erupted from the pool table. The Australian had fallen. The room roared.
“Come on,” Y/n said, tilting her head toward a slightly less chaotic corner near a fogged-up window. “It’s marginally less loud over here.”
They settled on a lumpy couch that smelled vaguely of damp wool. The relative quiet was a relief. From here, the party looked like a silent film, all exaggerated gestures and muffled shouts.
“Your folks must be over the moon,” Y/n said, taking a long pull from her bottle.
Amber focused on a tear in the knee of her jeans. “My father flies in tomorrow. For the finals.”
“Ah.” The single syllable was heavy with understanding. “The main event.”
“He has a spreadsheet. Projected scores, technical deductions, potential competitor errors. It’s color-coded.”
Y/n whistled low. “That’s a lot of faith in spreadsheets. Ice is weird. It has moods.”
“Try telling him that.” The beer was making her tongue loose. “It’s not just about winning. It’s about winning the right way. The perfect way. The way he mapped out.”
“And what about your way?”
Amber looked up. Y/n wasn’t smiling anymore. Her expression was open, curious, devoid of judgment.
“My way is his way,” Amber said, the truth of it as bitter as the drink in her hand. “It has been since I was six. It works.”
“Does it?”
The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating. The bass from the stereo thumped through the couch springs. A girl laughed, a sound so carefree it felt like an artifact from another world.
“He’s not a monster,” Amber said, defending a ghost that wasn’t being attacked. “He just knows what it takes. He sacrificed a lot.”
“I believe you,” Y/n said softly. “My old man wanted a linebacker. Got me instead. Took him a decade to realize I wasn’t a failed version of what he wanted. I was a whole different sport entirely.” She shrugged, the movement rippling through her shoulders. “We talk now. It’s okay. But for a while there, every time I went home, I felt like I was showing up to the wrong house.”
Amber stared at her. This raw, unvarnished admission in the middle of a raucous party felt more intimate than any conversation she’d ever had in a quiet room. She could see it—a younger Y/n, all limbs and defiance, clashing with expectation.
“What did you do?” Amber asked.
“I kept showing up. As me. Eventually, he had to start seeing me.” Y/n turned to face her fully, one arm draped along the back of the couch. “So. Finals. Your dad’s spreadsheet. The world watching. What do you want, Amber? Not for him. Not for the federation. For you.”
The air left Amber’s lungs. No one had ever asked her that. Not like this. Coaches asked what elements she wanted in her program. Reporters asked if she wanted gold. Her father asked if she was prepared.
What did she want?
The answer that formed was immediate, shocking in its simplicity, and utterly embarrassing. It wasn’t about medals or technical scores.
She wanted the feeling she had on the ice during her best run today—that pure, unthinking flight. And she wanted this, right now: the messy safety of a dark corner, the weight of someone’s full attention, the terrifying freedom of a question with no right answer.
She couldn’t say any of it.
Her face flamed. She looked down, picking at the label on her beer bottle. “I want to skate clean,” she said, her voice barely audible over the music. It was the athlete’s catechism. A deflection.
Y/n was silent for a long moment. Amber could feel her looking, could feel that green gaze tracing the line of her profile. She didn’t push.
“Clean is good,” Y/n said finally, her tone neutral, accepting the retreat. “Clean is fucking beautiful to watch.”
The moment shattered. Alysa appeared, flushed and bright-eyed, dragging a protesting Canadian curler behind her. “Amber! They’re doing karaoke in the hallway! You have to hear this guy murder ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’!”
Amber stood up too fast, the beer sloshing in her bottle. Her heart was hammering, a frantic rhythm of escape. “I should… yeah.”
She chanced a glance back at Y/n, who gave her a small, unreadable smile and a nod. Go on.
Amber plunged back into the noise, letting the crowd absorb her. She laughed at something Isabeau said, took another sip of beer she no longer tasted. But she was aware, hyper-aware, of the quiet corner by the window. She felt the question still buzzing in her veins, unanswered, a live wire she’d stepped over but hadn’t cut.
What do you want?
She didn’t know. But for the first time, the not-knowing felt more dangerous, and more thrilling, than any jump she’d ever attempted.