Chapter 24: The Empty Gate
The cold wasn’t like the rink. This was a wet, invasive chill that seeped through Amber’s sweater and made the bones in her hands ache. The spectator gate was a churning mess of color and noise, a bottleneck of excitement under a flat, gray sky. Spice Girls wailed from someone’s oversized boombox, the sugary chorus clashing with the sharp bark of coaches and the static crackle of walkie-talkies.
“I still don’t understand our mandate,” Isabeau said, huddled into her puffy jacket. At sixteen, she looked like a disapproving owl. “Loud how?”
“Obnoxiously,” Amber said, her eyes scanning the crowd. She spotted Alysa waving two small American flags bought from a vendor. “She said it throws the Euros off.”
“Psychological warfare,” Alysa nodded, serious. “I can do that.”
Then Amber saw them. A knot of people off to the side, less frantic than the rest. Two broad-shouldered men who looked like older, softer versions of Y/n, one with a toddler on his shoulders. A woman with the same piercing green eyes, holding a little girl’s hand. The same little girl from the bar, the one who’d asked for a drawing.
As if sensing her stare, the woman looked over. Recognition flickered. She smiled and waved them over.
“Friends of yours?” Isabeau murmured, her politeness automatic.
“Sort of,” Amber said, and led them through the press of bodies.
“You made it,” the woman said as they approached. Her voice was warm, laced with the same easy confidence as Y/n’s. “I’m Marley. That’s my husband, Rob.” She pointed to the man with the toddler. “And our hurricane, Chloe.” The little girl peered from behind her mother’s legs.
The other brother, introduced as Dave, gave Amber a short, assessing nod that wasn’t unfriendly. “She said you might come.”
She. The pronoun hummed in the air between them, loaded with a shared understanding. Amber felt a flush creep up her neck. “I said I would.”
Chloe finally detached herself, her gaze locked on Amber. She walked right up and tugged on the sleeve of Amber’s sweater without preamble. “You drawed me the swirly,” she stated.
“I did.”
“You here to cheer for Auntie Y/n?” Chloe asked, her voice cutting through the crowd’s din.
The question was so simple, so direct. Amber’s usual defenses—the polished, media-trained answers—dissolved. In front of Y/n’s family, in the middle of this chaotic gate, there was only truth. “Yeah,” Amber said, her voice softer than she intended. “I am.”
Chloe beamed, as if this was the only correct answer, and grabbed Amber’s hand. Her tiny fingers were icy. “You can stand with me. I know all the words to the anthem.”
Marley laughed, a rich, throaty sound. “You’ve been adopted. Hope you’re ready.”
The gate opened then with a metallic shriek, and the crowd surged. It was a tidal pull of bodies, a collective forward lunge. Amber gripped Chloe’s hand tightly, letting the current carry them through the turnstiles and out onto the open pathway that led to the slalom course. Alysa and Isabeau were swept along beside her, eyes wide.
The mountain opened up before them, a brutal, beautiful expanse of white carved with two parallel ribbons of icy blue. The grandstands were already a roaring mosaic of nations. The air was thinner here, sharper, smelling of snow and diesel from the snowcats.
They found a spot along the fence, not far from the finish corral. The atmosphere was a different kind of tension than a skating arena. Less hushed reverence, more raw, shouting energy. Announcements boomed in French, then English. Racers in vivid suits, helmets like insect eyes, slid into the start gates high above.
Y/n was in red, white, and blue, but her suit was sleeveless, defiance against the cold, her tattoos on full display. Even from this distance, her posture was unmistakable—a loose, ready crouch, bouncing slightly on her toes. Amber’s own competitive mind clicked into analysis. The course was steep, the gates set tight in the middle section. It was a technician’s course, not just a bomber’s hill.
“That’s her!” Chloe yelled, jumping and pointing.
The start beacon flashed. Y/n exploded out of the gate.
It wasn’t graceful. It was violent physics. A controlled fall, a brutal negotiation of gravity and edge. Her board chattered against the ice, spraying a plume of crystals as she carved into the first turn. She was taller than her Austrian opponent, less compact, but she used her leverage, driving her shoulders down the fall line.
Amber stopped breathing.
She watched, not as a spectator, but as an athlete. She saw the micro-adjustments, the recovery from a near-skid, the relentless attack. The crowd noise became a wall of sound—cheers, cowbells, a unified gasp when Y/n took a gate so tight her hip nearly brushed the snow.
“Come on, come on,” Amber whispered, her knuckles white on the cold fence.
The final six gates were a blur of red and blue. The Austrian was fast, technically pristine. But Y/n was fearless. She took a line no one else had dared, a straight-line sprint between the second-to-last gates, sacrificing control for pure, terrifying speed.
It was the difference.
She shot across the finish line a half-board ahead. The timing screen flashed. USA.
The roar was instant, deafening. Chloe was screaming, jumping so hard Amber had to hold her up. Alysa and Isabeau were actually yelling, flags whirling. Marley was hugging Rob, crying and laughing.
Y/n skidded to a stop, spraying snow into the corral. She ripped off her helmet. Her hair was plastered to her head with sweat, her face flushed with effort and dizzying triumph. She turned, her eyes immediately scanning the crowd near the finish.
They found Amber. Held.
Y/n’s triumphant scream melted into a wide, blinding grin. She pounded her chest once, right over her heart, and pointed directly at their spot.
Chloe was still in Amber’s arms, a warm, wriggling weight. Amber held her tighter, the victory echoing in her own hollow places. This win was different. It was loud and messy and shared with strangers who felt like they might be something else. The gold medal in her bag, the one Y/n had tossed to her, felt like a key. This chaos, this family, this fearless person staring right at her—this was the lock it was meant to open.
Down in the corral, Y/n was being swallowed by officials and cameras. But she kept looking back, over the shoulders of the press, her gaze a tangible line through the cold air.
Amber didn’t look away. She just held the little girl close, the cheers vibrating through both of them, and knew, with absolute clarity, that she was already on that plane.