I feel that old pride.The kind that makes my shoulders square.She’s mine.
I remember last night: sand in our hair, heat under our skin, the hiss of the shower after the beach.Her mouth tasted like salt and tequila.Her body pressed against the tile until she shooed me out so she could “do her nighttime routine.”Forty-five minutes of products I can’t pronounce.I’d fallen asleep before she came to bed.
This morning started with cameras.
She gave me the shorts to wear and told me to make sure the logo was in the shot, perched on the balcony, golden light spilling across her.“Just one of you, babe.Casual.Like you’re not posing.I want it to feel authentic.”
I leaned on the railing, squinting into the sun, trying to look effortless while she adjusted angles and filters.
She captioned it‘Off-season, on cloud nine ????’ before breakfast.
And for the first time, the thought slipped through me:
It would be authentic if I went home instead of being here.
It startled me.I blamed the heat, the exhaustion, the way my body still ached for the ice.This is what I wanted, right?I had to remember that.The sun, the luxury, the woman everyone stares at.Proof that I made it.
She spots me watching her and waves me over, phone always in her hand.I push off the bar, walk straight into the glare, and kiss her hard enough to draw cheers from the loungers.Her fingers dig lightly into my shoulders; her laugh vibrates against my mouth.
When I pull back, I grab a handful of her hair at the base of her neck, just to keep her close a second longer.She smells like coconut and something expensive.
She leans in, lips brushing my ear.
“Don’t you dare ruin my hair.”
I chuckle, pretending it doesn’t sting.“Wouldn’t dream of it, Brielle.”
She smiles for the camera again, radiant, untouchable.Everyone’s looking at us, the golden couple, the captain and the brand.
And I tell myself this is everything.
That the heat, the noise, the spotlight...this is the dream.
But somewhere under all that sun, I can still feel the ice calling.
Cold, clean, honest.
—
The clang of plates is a rhythm that calms me.
Metal on metal.Sweat and determination.The steady burn that reminds me I’m built for this.
Half the team’s in here.Everyone’s loose, laughing, trying to sweat off the off-season indulgence.
I rack the bar and drop into a set of squats when Anders calls across the room, voice full of that shit-eating grin.
“Hey, Captain!You see the interview your girl gave last night?”
A few heads swivel.I keep my eyes forward.“Which one?”
He shrugs with a look on his face that says'how the fuck would I know' “The gala thing, red dress, perfect lighting.The reporter asked when you two are finally tying the knot.She said, he pitches his voice higher while sticking a hip out,‘Oh, you’ll know soon enough.’The press ate that shit up.You’re toast, man.She’s got your whole life planned out like her content calendar.”
Laughter ricochets off the concrete walls.Someone adds, “Don’t forget the hashtag, #SponsoredByLove.”
I re-rack the bar, grab a towel, and shrug like it’s nothing.“Isn’t that part of it?You know, brand alignment, media visibility.Comes with the job.”
The older guys go quiet for half a beat.Then Reeves, the one everyone listens to, wipes sweat off his brow and shakes his head.
