Chapter 14: The Morning After the Gold
A fist hammered on Amber’s door, sharp and rapid.“Glenn!Up! Now!” It was Alysa’s voice, tinged with frantic excitement.Amber groaned, burying her face in the pillow. The rooftop cold still felt etched into her bones, a phantom chill compared to the warmth spreading through her chest when she thought of shared whiskey and a lazy wave goodbye.Sun sliced through the narrow blinds. She’d slept, deeply, without dreaming of missed jumps or her father’s stare.
The door banged open. Alysa and Isabeau stood there, already bundled in puffy USA jackets and ridiculous striped beanies. “Get dressed,” Isabeau commanded, tossing a wad of clothing at the bed.“Skells’ final is in forty minutes. The pipe.”
“I’m not on her team,” Amber mumbled, sitting up. Her medals lay on the nightstand, gleaming dully.They felt less heavy today.
“You’re breathing our air, you’re coming,” Alysa said, grabbing her arm and pulling.“The other girls choked.Bad. It’s just Skells now.For gold. You have to see this.”
Something about the urgency—the real, unvarnished need in Alysa’s face—cut through Amber’s fog. This wasn’t a polite invitation.This was a summons to witness something. She dressed quickly, the ghost of last night’s conversation a quiet hum in her veins.
The halfpipe was a carved trench of pure white, the morning sun hitting the far wall and leaving the near side in deep, blue shadow. The air was so cold it stung the inside of Amber’s nose, smelling of crushed ice and diesel from the grooming machines. A crowd, thicker than for any figure skating event she’d seen, lined the top, a noisy, stomping, beery tapestry of flags and painted faces.They pushed through to a spot near the USA coaches.The vibe was tense. A Canadian rider had just put down a monster score, a seamless flow of huge airs and technical grabs.The announcer’s voice boomed, bouncing off the snow. “…and that puts the pressure SQUARELY on the shoulders of the final rider… Y/n Skells of the United States!”
A murmur went through the American contingent. Amber felt it—the sharp, metallic taste of collective hope undercut by fear.Two other U.S. riders had already washed out, one catching an edge on landing, the other simply not going big enough. Gold was right there, hovering over the Canadian’s head.Then Y/n dropped in.There was no hesitation. She punched into the fall line, a lean, dark shape against the blinding white, and hit the first wall with a force that seemed to defy physics.She launched.It wasn’t a jump. It was a claim.
The first hit was a massive backside air, her board a full two feet above the coping, her body a coiled spring against the bright sky. She landed with a thwump that echoed, already setting up for the opposite wall. Amber wasn’t a snowboarding expert, but she knew air.She knew height.And this was different. This wasn’t just technique.It was… joy.A raw, predatory joy.
Y/n flowed down the pipe, a series of linked explosions. A towering McTwist, her body a corkscrewing blur.A lofty Crippler, grabbed with such casual style it looked easy. Each landing was solid, each takeoff bigger than the last. The crowd’s noise began as a roar and built into a sustained quake, a physical vibration in the snow under Amber’s boots.
On the final hit, Y/n went for a frontside 900. She spun, fast and clean, two and a half rotations, but as she came around, she seemed to hang, spotting the landing for a split second too long.Amber’s breath locked in her throat—the same old familiar clamp. She’s gonna under-rotate.But Y/n didn’t panic. She just… let the spin fade, landed it a bit sketchy, one hand slapping the snow for balance before she rode it out straight-legged and steady to the flat bottom.The score wouldn’t be perfect. The hand-down would cost her.The wait was agonizing. The crowd fell into a hushed, buzzing anticipation. Y/n stood alone down there, unstrapping her binding, her head bowed, her breath pluming in great gusts.She didn’t look at the scoreboard. She just… waited.The numbers flashed.It was enough.A ninety-four point three. A bare win.A gold medal.The American section erupted.Coaches hugged, teammates screamed. Alysa and Isabeau were jumping up and down, screaming themselves hoarse. Amber just stood there, a strange, full feeling swelling in her chest, pressing against her ribs. She watched Y/n finally look up, see the score, and slump forward, hands on her knees.Not in defeat. In release.
Then Y/n straightened, raised her board over her head with one hand, and let out a shout that cut through all the other noise—a pure, wordless blast of triumph.
As she made her way up the side, high-fiving a line of fans, an interviewer in a bright blue parkey swooped in, microphone shoved forward, camera light blinding.“Y/n! Y/n!Five consecutive golds across three freestyle events!Historic! What’s going through your mind?”
Y/n, still breathing hard, sweat beading on her temples under her helmet, smirked at the camera.She wiped her nose with the back of her glove. “My mind’s pretty empty, Dave.That’s the secret.” The crowd nearby laughed. She glanced over the interviewer’s shoulder, her eyes scanning the scrum of athletes and officials.They landed on Amber.
A slow, real smile replaced the smirk.
“But,” Y/n said, turning back to the mic, her voice dropping into a more serious register. “This one… this one’s for the women who make pretty look powerful. The ones who hold their breath so we can all exhale.” She paused, her green eyes finding Amber’s again and holding them. “This is for the Blade Angels.”
A fresh, louder cheer went up from the figure skaters clustered around Amber. Isabeau whooped.Alysa shoved Amber’s shoulder, grinning.
The interviewer blinked, confused by the niche reference. “The… Blade Angels?”
But Y/n was already moving, handing off her board to a tech, pushing past the microphone. She walked straight toward their group, her gaze fixed on Amber. The crowd parted for her, this tall, sweaty, tattooed champion smelling of snow and effort.She stopped in front of Amber. The noise seemed to fade, funneling away until it was just the two of them on a frozen mountainside.
“You swung,” Y/n said, her voice rough with exhaustion and victory.
Amber, her heart beating a frantic, unfamiliar rhythm against her medals, looked up at her. The controlled, perfect words of a champion interview died on her tongue.All that came out was the truth, simple and unadorned.
“So did you.”