Chapter 22: The Weight of Gold
The walk back to the athletes’ village was a sensory blur. The night air bit at Amber’s flushed cheeks, a counterpoint to the slow-burning warmth that had taken root deep in her stomach. Her lips felt different—slightly swollen, intensely aware. The taste of Y/n, of cold and sweat and something uniquely sharp like mint, lingered.
Her room was a sanctuary of quiet order, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy she’d just left. The only light came from the neon glow of a souvenir poster and the digital clock on the nightstand. She dropped her keys on the desk, the clatter too loud in the silence. For a long moment, she just stood in the middle of the small space, hearing the echo of the crowd, seeing the green of Y/n’s eyes in the dark.
She shrugged out of her parka, then sat on the edge of the tightly-made bed. From her bag, she pulled out the two gold medals. Her own, from the individual ladies’ event, was cool and familiar in her palm. The other, Y/n’s, she had practically begged off a team assistant, claiming she’d get it to her later. It felt different. Heavier, or maybe it was just the weight of the night it represented.
She held them both, the cold metal links pooled in her hands. Two identical prizes for two utterly different kinds of winning. Her reflection in the dark window was ghostly, a pale smudge with messy blonde hair.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A single text lit up the screen.
Y/n: You okay?
The simplicity of it undid her. Not ‘that was amazing’ or ‘what happens now.’ Just you okay. Amber’s hands were trembling. She typed a reply, deleted it. Typed another. Her mind, usually so precise with words, was a scrambled mess of sensation and fear. She stared at the glowing screen, then typed three words and hit send before she could rethink.
Amber: Come here.
She placed the phone face down. The wait was an agony of seconds, each one stretching out. She heard the muffled sounds of the village—a distant cheer, a door slamming, the hum of a vending machine. Every footstep in the hall outside made her breath catch.
Then, a soft, definite knock. Not tentative. Just present.
Amber crossed the room, her socks silent on the thin carpet. She opened the door.
Y/n stood there, still in her team jacket, a faint dusting of fresh snow on her shoulders. Her hair was damp, her cheeks wind-burned. She smelled like the outside, like cold nylon and the faint, clean scent of the hotel soap from the mixed zone showers. She didn’t smile, just searched Amber’s face, her green eyes dark and quiet.
Amber stepped back, letting her in.
The door clicked shut, sealing them into the low light. Y/n toed off her boots, leaving them by the door, melting snow beading on the floor.
“You kept my medal hostage,” Y/n said, her voice a rough rasp. She nodded toward the two gold discs gleaming on the bed.
“Collateral,” Amber said, the word barely audible.
Y/n took a step forward, then another, closing the distance. This proximity was different than by the fence. It was intimate, charged with the unspoken reality of the closed door. Amber could see the faint pulse in Y/n’s throat, the dark ink of a tattoo peeking from her collar.
Amber reached for her. It wasn’t a graceful move, not one of her choreographed extensions. It was a need. Her hands found the coarse fabric of the team jacket, fisted in it, and pulled Y/n to her.
The second kiss was nothing like the first.
It was slow. Deliberate. A question and an answer all at once. Y/n’s mouth was warm now, and she yielded for a moment, letting Amber set the pace, before responding with a deep, unhurried intensity that made Amber’s knees weaken. One of Y/n’s hands came up to cradle the side of Amber’s neck, her thumb stroking the frantic pulse point there.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing unevenly. Y/n rested her forehead against Amber’s, her eyes closed.
“Tell me to stop anytime,” Y/n murmured, her lips brushing Amber’s as she spoke.
Amber’s answer was to kiss her again, her hands sliding under the jacket, pushing it off Y/n’s shoulders. It fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Her own shirt felt like a prison. She pulled back, just enough to grab the hem and pull it over her head in one swift motion, dropping it.
The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin. Y/n’s gaze dropped, taking her in, not with the judgmental scrutiny of a judge or a camera, but with a raw, appreciative focus that felt more exposing than being naked. Her hands followed her eyes, palms smoothing up Amber’s ribs, tracing the defined lines of her abdomen honed by a lifetime of discipline.
“Christ, you’re beautiful,” Y/n breathed, the words sounding almost involuntary.
Amber gasped as those cool, calloused fingers found the clasp of her bra, fumbling for a second before it released. Then Y/n’s hands were on her bare back, pulling her close, skin to skin. The sensation was electric, overwhelming. The lean, hard planes of Y/n’s torso, the raised lines of ink, the sheer different-ness of her body was a revelation Amber felt in her bones.
They stumbled toward the bed, a clumsy, hungry tangle of limbs. Knees bumped. Y/n laughed, a soft, warm sound against Amber’s throat. “Easy, Glenn. We’ve got time.”
But Amber didn’t want easy. She wanted the stumble. She wanted to fall. She pushed Y/n back onto the mattress, following her down, their legs intertwining. The remaining clothes were shed in a series of impatient tugs and kicks, fabric landing on the floor beside the forgotten medals, which chimed softly against each other.
Then there was only skin, and heat, and the low hum of the village at night. Y/n’s mouth was at her collarbone, her jaw, the swell of her breast. Her hands mapped Amber’s body with a confident tenderness that unraveled every last bit of Amber’s control. This wasn’t performance. There was no panel of judges, no technical score. There was only feeling, a flood of it, too long dammed up.
Amber, in turn, explored with a skater’s curiosity for edges and balance, for finding the rhythm in another’s breath. She traced the swirling tattoos, learned the landscape of scars from old board impacts, felt the powerful muscles of Y/n’s thighs tense under her palms. When her fingers finally, tentatively, brushed lower, tracing the line of Y/n’s hip, she felt her hesitate.
Amber stilled. “Okay?”
Y/n looked up at her, her expression open, unguarded. “Yeah. Just… you sure?”
Instead of answering, Amber kissed her, pouring every ounce of her decision into it. Her hand drifted lower, encountering the soft hair, the unmistakable, different shape. She felt Y/n’s breath hitch, a tremor running through her. Amber’s own heart was a wild thing in her chest, but her touch was gentle, curious, accepting. It was just Y/n. It was natural. It was right.
The last of Y/n’s tension melted away. She guided Amber’s hand, her own touch firm and sure, showing her what she liked, until Amber found a rhythm that made Y/n’s head press back into the pillow, a low groan escaping her lips.
Later, wrapped in the thin village sheets with Y/n’s arm a solid weight across her stomach, Amber stared at the ceiling. The room was quiet save for their breathing. The boombox was silent. The world outside felt very far away.
Y/n stirred, nuzzling into the space between Amber’s shoulder and neck. Her voice was thick with near-sleep. “So that’s what you wanted.”
Amber turned her head, her lips brushing Y/n’s messy hair. “Part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
“This,” Amber whispered, tightening her arm around Y/n. “Just this. For a while.”
Y/n was silent for so long Amber thought she’d fallen asleep. Then she spoke, her words muffled against Amber’s skin. “The Games end in three days.”
“I know.”
“My flight to Salt Lake is on the fifth. For the X-Games qualifier.”
“I know.” Amber had memorized all the departures.
Another silence, deeper this time. The unspoken question hung between them, vast and intimidating as the first jump on a new course.
Y/n’s hand slid up, her fingers lightly tracing the line of Amber’s jaw. “You’re thinking too loud.”
“I don’t know how to do this,” Amber admitted, the confession floating into the dark.
Y/n propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at her. In the faint light, her eyes were soft. “Yeah, you do. You just did. One move at a time.” She smiled, a lazy, genuine thing. “No five-year plan required.”
Amber reached up, tracing the curve of Y/n’s eyebrow. “What if I fall?”
“You already did,” Y/n said, leaning down to kiss her, slow and deep. “On the bunny slope. Remember?” She pulled back just enough to speak, her breath warm. “Now you just have to learn how to ride it out.”