Chapter 23: Oh Yeah
The first thing Amber became aware of was warmth. A solid, undeniable line of heat along her back, from shoulder blades to calves. The second was weight. An arm slung heavy over her waist, a hand splayed possessively against her stomach. The third was the smell—hot skin, cheap hotel shampoo, and beneath it, something earthier, uniquely Y/n.
She kept her eyes closed, committing the sensation to memory. The press of Y/n’s knees behind hers. The soft puff of breath against the nape of her neck. Her own body felt loose, languid, muscles softened in a way twelve hours of sleep never accomplished. The strict, internal clock that usually screamed at her to get up, to train, to do, was silent.
From the other side of the village, the distant clatter of a food cart broke the stillness. A door slammed. The real world, with its schedules and expectations, was reasserting itself.
Behind her, Y/n stirred. The arm around her tightened momentarily, a sleepy, instinctive pull. Then Y/n mumbled something unintelligible into Amber’s hair, nuzzled once, and went still again. Amber smiled into her pillow.
Five more minutes. She could steal five more minutes.
But Y/n’s breathing changed, shifting from the deep rhythm of sleep to something lighter. Awareness. Amber felt the exact moment Y/n woke up fully—a slight stiffening, then a deliberate relaxation, fingers gently stroking the skin of Amber’s abdomen.
“Morning,” Y/n’s voice was gravelly with sleep, a vibration against Amber’s spine.
“Is it?” Amber whispered.
“Feels like it.”
Y/n shifted, rolling onto her back with a sigh, the contact breaking. The sudden coolness on Amber’s back felt like a loss. She turned over. Y/n was staring at the ceiling, one arm behind her head. Morning light cut through the slats of the blinds, painting stripes across the tattoos on her chest and the lean muscle of her stomach. She looked peaceful, but Amber could see the focus already gathering in her eyes.
“Finals today,” Y/n said, not looking at her. “Parallel Giant Slalom.”
“I know.” Amber propped herself up on an elbow. The sheet pooled at her waist. She didn’t pull it up.
Y/n turned her head. Her green eyes were clear now, taking Amber in—the messy blonde hair, the bare shoulders, the complete lack of Olympic-grade composure. A slow, soft smile spread across her face. “You look good like this.”
“Like what?”
“Rumpled. Unplanned.” Y/n reached out, twisting a strand of Amber’s hair around her finger. “My event’s at one. Last one of the Games. Whole damn world’ll be watching.” She said it as a fact, not a brag. “You gonna be there?”
The question was casual, but Amber heard the edge beneath it. Not a demand. An offering.
“Everyone will be there,” Amber said, stating the obvious.
“Not what I asked.”
Amber held her gaze. The fear was there, a cold little knot in her gut. Being seen with her, in that crowd, with all those cameras… it was a different kind of exposure. But the thought of not being there, of hiding in this room while Y/n faced her moment, was worse. “I’ll be there.”
The smile turned into a grin. “Good. Bring the cheer squad.”
Amber blinked. “What?”
“Your rink buddies. The tiny terrifying ones. Alysa and Isabeau.” Y/n sat up, the sheet falling away completely. She seemed utterly unselfconscious, stretching her arms over her head, vertebrae popping softly. “They’re hilarious. Tell them I need the loudest, most obnoxious support possible. It throws the Euros off their game.”
A laugh bubbled out of Amber, surprised and easy. The image of her meticulously polite, child-prodigy training mates being “obnoxious” was absurd. “I’ll… convey the request.”
Y/n swung her legs out of bed. She stood, a tall, powerful silhouette against the bright window. Amber watched her move—the unstudied grace, the confidence that had nothing to do with a scorecard. Y/n found her boxers and stepped into them, then pulled a worn t-shirt over her head. The simple domesticity of it caught in Amber’s throat.
As Y/n located her socks, Amber spoke, the words leaving her before she could shape them properly. “I’ll come with you.”
Y/n paused, one sock in hand. “To the race? I know, you just said—”
“To Salt Lake.”
The room went very quiet. The sounds from the village outside seemed to mute. Y/n turned slowly, her expression unreadable. “What?”
“My flight’s not for four days. To Toronto.” Amber’s voice was calm, steadier than she felt. “I’ll change it. I’ll fly with you to Salt Lake. For the qualifier.”
Y/n just stared at her. The easy-going mask was gone, replaced by something raw and startled. “You’re serious.”
“One move at a time, right?” Amber quoted her back, her heart hammering. “This is my next move.”
A slow, dawning wonder broke across Y/n’s face. She dropped the sock, crossed the room in two strides, and sat on the edge of the bed. She cupped Amber’s face in her hands, her thumbs brushing Amber’s cheekbones. Her touch was warm, slightly rough. “You sure? That’s a big fucking move, Amber.”
“I’m sure.” And in that moment, she was. The cold knot dissolved, replaced by a terrifying, exhilarating certainty.
Y/n kissed her. It wasn’t hungry or desperate like the night before. It was a seal. A promise. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright. “Okay. Okay, yeah.” She laughed, a short, disbelieving sound. “My hotel’s a dump. And I have to train. You’ll be bored.”
“I’ll watch.”
Y/n kissed her again, harder this time. Then she stood, grabbing her other sock. “I gotta go. Pre-race meeting, then gear check.” She finished dressing quickly, shoving her feet into her boots but not bothering to lace them. She hoisted her packed duffel from by the door.
At the threshold, she looked back. Amber was still sitting in the tangled sheets, feeling the imprint of her hands. “Don’t forget,” Y/n said, her voice dropping into that low, intimate register that was for Amber alone. “Bring the tiny terrorists. And wear something warm. It’s cold on the mountain.” She winked. “See you at the gate.”
She was gone. The door clicked shut, leaving Amber alone with the silence and the stripes of sunlight and the colossal, irreversible thing she had just done.
For a long time, she didn’t move. The reality of it settled over her, layer by layer. Changing a flight. Telling her coach. Her parents. Explaining why the newly-crowned Olympic champion wasn’t coming straight home for the press tour. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, her fingers hovering over the screen.
She didn’t call anyone. Instead, she got out of bed. The two gold medals, forgotten on the floor, glinted in the light. She picked them up, separating them. She hung her own on the bedpost. The other, Y/n’s, she held for a moment, the metal warming in her palm. Then she placed it carefully in the side pocket of her own gym bag, a talisman for the journey ahead.
The shower water was scalding hot. She stood under it, letting it pound the remaining stiffness from her muscles, washing away the scent of the night. But it lingered anyway, a ghost on her skin.
She dressed with automatic precision: thermal layers, jeans, a thick sweater. She braided her hair into a single, severe plait. The familiar routine was a comfort. When she looked in the mirror, she saw Amber Glenn, Olympic gold medalist. The eyes staring back were the same icy blue. But something behind them was different. Unmoored. Alive.
She picked up her phone. Scrolled to a group text with Alysa and Isabeau.
Amber: Men’s Parallel GS finals at one. Meeting at the spectator gate at 12:30. Wear something loud.
The reply was almost instantaneous.
Alysa: ?
Isabeau: Who is this and what have you done with Amber?
Amber: Just be there.
She pocketed the phone, slung her bag over her shoulder, and took a final look around the room. The neat bed. The silent boombox. The poster of a champion from another era.
She walked out, closing the door on the sanctuary. The hallway was bustling now, athletes heading to breakfast, to last-minute training, to buses. She moved through them, a current of focused energy. Her world had been a sealed bubble of ice and music and perfect, solitary angles.
Now, she was heading for a noisy, cold mountainside, to watch a beautiful, reckless person she barely knew risk everything on a sheet of ice and snow. And then she was going to get on a plane.
Her phone buzzed again. Not the group chat. Her mother.
Call me when you have a moment, sweetheart. The network wants to confirm your interview slots for Tuesday. So proud of you!
Amber stared at the message. She typed a single word.
Amber: Soon.
She kept walking, toward the transport that would take her up the mountain. The air outside was biting, crystal clear. She could already hear, in the distance, the roar of a crowd.