Chapter 2: The Whiskey Confession
The ice had seeped into her bones. Even after a scalding shower, Amber felt the cold deep in her joints, a phantom ache that had less to do with temperature and more with the relentless, grinding pressure of the day. Her hotel room was too quiet, the hum of the mini-fridge somehow accusatory. The four walls felt like the boards of the rink, closing in.
She found herself in the hotel bar without really deciding to go. It was a sad little lounge off the main lobby, with a neon Olympic Village sign that buzzed and flickered over a pool table felt worn thin. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer and decades of cigarette smoke embedded in the carpet. A few other athletes huddled in booths, speaking in low, tired tones.
Amber took a stool at the empty end of the bar, ordered a whiskey neat because it sounded like something a person who wasn’t herself would do. She took a sip, the liquid fire a shock that did nothing to melt the internal chill. She just stared at the amber liquid, seeing the flawed landing in its depths.
“Glenn. You look like someone cancelled Christmas.”
Alysa Liu slid onto the stool beside her, a pint of something dark in her hand. Isabeau Levito was right behind her, a bright, concerned smile on her face.
“We’re going into the city,” Alysa said, as if it were a foregone conclusion. “You’re coming.”
“I’m not,” Amber said, taking another deliberate sip. “I have morning practice.”
“Which is in,” Isabeau checked her watch, “ten hours. You’ll be a corpse by then if you just sit here marinating in your own… whatever this is.” She gestured vaguely at Amber’s entire demeanor.
“It’s called focus.”
“It’s called being a drag,” Alysa corrected, cheerfully. “Come on. One drink that isn’t that depressing liquid torture. See some lights. Remember there’s a world that isn’t twenty meters by sixty.”
The pressure to refuse was automatic, a script written by years of discipline. But the memory of Y/n’s voice—a straitjacket—echoed. The silence of her room yawned behind her. She nodded once, a short, sharp motion. “One hour.”
The city was a blur of sound and light that felt alien. They found a pub with live music, a jangling folk band that was too loud. Amber nursed a beer, the noise washing over her. She watched Alysa and Isabeau laugh, their heads thrown back, completely unselfconscious. She felt like a taxidermied version of herself, propped up in the booth.
But slowly, the sheer normalcy of it began to wear a tiny hole in her tension. The music was terrible but energetic. The beer was cheap but cold. No one was judging her edge quality. For forty-five minutes, she almost forgot the triple axel.
That’s when the family approached. A man, a woman, and a little girl who couldn’t have been more than six, her eyes wide as satellites.
“Excuse me,” the mother said, hesitant. “Are you… Amber Glenn?”
The mask slid back into place effortlessly, a polite, practiced smile. “I am.”
The little girl stared, her mouth a perfect ‘o’. She clutched a stuffed dog to her chest. “You’re the sparkly lady on TV,” she whispered, then buried her face in her mother’s leg.
The father beamed. “Maddie here watches your tapes every day. She says she’s going to go to the Olympics, just like you.”
Something sharp and warm pricked behind Amber’s ribs. She looked at the girl, this tiny human who saw magic in the bladed torture she performed. “It’s very hard work,” Amber said softly, the official line.
Maddie peeked out. “Do you ever fall?”
The question was so blunt, so honest, it stripped away the PR answer. Amber saw the tenth fall of the day, the brutal slam into the ice. “Yes,” she said, her voice strangely thick. “A lot.”
“I fall all the time,” Maddie confided, as if sharing a secret.
Before Amber could form a response, a low groan sounded from behind the parents. “Brraaaaiiiins…”
Maddie shrieked, but it was a shriek of delight. She spun as a figure lurched into the light from a dark corridor near the restrooms, arms outstretched, green eyes wide and cartoonishly menacing. It was Y/n, her expression goofy and terrifying.
“Aunt Y/n!” Maddie launched herself, and Y/n caught her, swinging her up into the air, the zombie act dissolving into easy laughter.
“Gotcha, squirt!” Y/n settled the girl on her hip. She was dressed in ripped jeans and a flannel shirt tied around her waist, a beanie pulled low over her hair. She glanced at the parents, then at the table. Her eyes landed on Amber, and the easy smile didn’t falter, but something in it deepened, turned knowing. “Well. Fancy meeting the Church of Precision in the Temple of Cheap Beer.”
“Y/n, these are my friends,” Alysa said, grinning.
“Brother,” Y/n said, nodding at the man. “Sis-in-law. And this tiny terror is my niece, Maddie.” She bounced the girl, who giggled. “They’re in town for a couple days. Thought I’d show them a genuine cultural experience.” She gestured at the dingy pub.
The family greeted everyone, Maddie now utterly fixated on the other skaters. Y/n shifted her weight, her free hand going to the pocket of her jeans. Her eyes tracked back to Amber. “So. You survived your prayer session?”
“I landed the jump,” Amber said, the words out before she could filter them. It wasn’t a full truth, but it wasn’t a lie.
Y/n’s eyebrow lifted. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face. It wasn’t the easy, charismatic grin from the rink. This one was quieter, more real. “Yeah? Told you. A little controlled chaos.”
The brother clapped Y/n on the shoulder. “We should let these ladies get back to their night. Maddie, say goodbye.”
Maddie waved frantically. “Bye, sparkly lady! Bye, Aunt Y/n’s friends!”
As the family moved away, Y/n lingered for a second. Her gaze was a physical weight on Amber, cutting through the pub’s haze. “Whiskey, huh?” she said, noting the now-empty glass Amber had carried from the hotel bar. “Not very precision of you.”
Then she winked, turned, and disappeared into the crowd after her family, leaving a vortex of displaced air and confusion in her wake.
The noise of the pub rushed back in, louder than before. Alysa was talking excitedly about something. Isabeau was flagging down the waiter for the check.
Amber didn’t hear them. She felt scorched. The warm prickle from the little girl’s admiration was now a confused burn. She thought of Y/n’s effortless physicality, swinging the child up, the uncomplicated love in that room. She thought of the zombie groan, the complete lack of dignity. She thought of her own perfect, lonely spins in the silent rink.
“Another round?” Alysa asked.
“No,” Amber said, standing abruptly. Her voice was firmer than she felt. “I’m going back.”
But as they walked out into the cool night air, the image that stayed with her wasn’t of the ice. It was of Y/n’s quiet, knowing smile in the chaotic pub light, and the way she’d said controlled chaos like it was a secret they now shared. Back in her sterile hotel room, the silence felt different. It wasn’t just empty. It was waiting.